Today is the anniversary of the atomic bombing of Hiroshima in 1945.
‘Hiroshima Child’ by Nazim Hikmet
“I come and stand at every door
But none can hear my silent tread
I knock and yet remain unseen
For I am dead for I am dead
I’m only seven though I died
In Hiroshima long ago
I’m seven now as I was then
When children die they do not grow
My hair was scorched by swirling flame
My eyes grew dim my eyes grew blind
Death came and turned my bones to dust
And that was scattered by the wind
I need no fruit I need no rice
I need no sweets nor even bread
I ask for nothing for myself
For I am dead for I am dead
All that I need is that for peace
You fight today you fight today
So that the children of this world
Can live and grow and laugh and play”

“The battles that count aren’t the ones for gold medals. The struggles within yourself – the invisible, inevitable battles inside all of us – that’s where it’s at…
Find the good. It’s all around you. Find it, showcase it and you’ll start believing it.”
Jesse Owens, winner of four gold medals at the 1936 Berlin Olympic games, who won the 200m in the world record time of 20.7 seconds on this day.

“Love is a reciprocal feeling. Just as water will mirror the face that peers into it similarly love is a reflection of hearts. Rhythm is the basis of life, not steady forward progress. The forces of creation, destruction, and preservation have a whirling, dynamic interaction. We must learn not to disassociate the airy flower from the earthy root, for the flower that is cut off from its root fades, and its seeds are barren, whereas the root, secure in mother earth, can produce flower after flower and bring their fruit to maturity.”
The Zohar (Kabbalah), first printed on this day in 1558

“To worship is to stand in awe under a heaven of stars,
before a flower, a leaf in sunlight, or a grain of sand.
To worship is to be silent, receptive, before a tree astir with the wind,
or the passing of a cloud.
To worship is to work with dedication and skill;
it is to pause from work and listen to a strain of music.
To worship is to sing with the singing beauty of the earth;
it is to listen through a storm to the still small voice within.”
Jacob Trapp (1899 – 1992), Unitarian Universalist minister

Welcome Morning by Anne Sexton (1928 – 1974),
“There is joy
in all:
in the hair I brush each morning,
in the Cannon towel, newly washed,
that I rub my body with each morning,
in the chapel of eggs I cook
each morning,
in the outcry from the kettle
that heats my coffee
each morning,
in the spoon and the chair
that cry “hello there, Anne”
each morning,
in the godhead of the table
that I set my silver, plate, cup upon
each morning.
All this is God,
right here in my pea-green house
each morning
and I mean,
though often forget,
to give thanks,
to faint down by the kitchen table
in a prayer of rejoicing
as the holy birds at the kitchen window
peck into their marriage of seeds.
So while I think of it,
let me paint a thank-you on my palm
for this God, this laughter of the morning,
lest it go unspoken.
The Joy that isn’t shared, I’ve heard,
dies young.”

Prayer to the Earth Goddess by Danu Forest,
“Goddess of this sacred earth be before me, goddess behind me,
Goddess of the green fields and the golden, be over me and beneath me,
Goddess of the dun earth and the green shoots be within me and without me,
Goddess of the mothers and the children lead me,
Cast your protection over me, guide me and bless me, grant me your tender care.”

“The wise person begins each day as a small child. Every cell of his being is dedicated to learning wisdom, and so from every person he finds some wisdom to learn. Each day, he rises to great heights of wisdom. And yet, the next morning, he begins all over again, as a small child, in wonder.”
Rabbi Tzvi Freeman

From the Bhagavad Gita,

“He is the source of light in all luminous objects.
He is beyond the darkness of matter and is unmanifested.
He is knowledge, He is the object of knowledge, and He is the goal of knowledge.
He is situated in everyone’s heart.”

From The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien, published on this day in 1954,
“The road must be trod, but it will be very hard. And neither strength nor wisdom will carry us far upon it. This quest may be attempted by the weak with as much hope as the strong. Yet it is oft the course of deeds that move the wheels of the world: Small hands do them because they must, while the eyes of the great are elsewhere.”

On this day in 1586 Sir Thomas Harriot introduced potatoes to Europe on his return to England from America.
Prayer and Potatoes by Tim Sandles,
“An old lady sat in her old arm-chair
With wrinkled visage and dishevelled hair
And hunger-worn features;
For a few days and for weeks her only fare,
As she sat there in her old arm-chair,
Had been potatoes.
But now they were gone; of bad and good
Not one was left for the old lady’s food
Of those potatoes;
And she sighed and said “What shall I do?
Where shall I send, and to whom shall go
For more potatoes”?
And she thought of the vicar over the way,
The vicar so ready to worship and pray,
Whose cellar was full of potatoes.
And she said; “I will send for the vicar to come:
He’ll not mind much to give some
Of such a store of potatoes.
And the vicar came as fast as he could,
Thinking to do the old lady some good,
But never for once of potatoes:
He asked her at once what was her chief want,
And she, simple soul, expecting a grant,
Immediately answered “potatoes.”
But the vicar’s religion didn’t lie that way;
He was more accustomed to preachy and to pray,
Than to give of his hoarded potatoes:
So, not hearing, of course, what the old lady said,
He rose to pray, with uncovered head,
But she only thought of potatoes.
He prayed for patience, and wisdom and grace,
But when he prayed “Lord give her peace,”
She audibly sighed, “Give potatoes;”
And at the end of each prayer which he said,
He heard, or thought that he heard in its stead,
The same request for potatoes.
The vicar was troubled; knew not what to do;
‘Twas very embarrassing to have her act so
About “those carnal potatoes.”
So, ending his prayer, he started for home;
But, as the door closed behind him, he heard a deep groan,
“O give to the hungry potatoes!”
And that groan followed him all the way home;
In the midst of the night it haunted his room-
“O give to the hungry potatoes!”
He could bear it no longer; arose and dressed,
From his well-filled cellar taking in haste
A bag of his best potatoes.
Again he went to the widow’s lone hut;
Her sleepless eyes she had not yet shut;
But there she sat in that old arm chair,
With the same wan features, the same sad air,
And entering in he poured on the floor
A bushel or more of his goodly store
Of choicest potatoes.
The widow’s heart leapt up with joy;
Her face was haggard and wan no more.
“Now,” said the vicar, “shall we pray?”
“Yes,” said the widow; “now you may.”
And he kneeled him down on the sandy floor,
Where he had poured his goodly store,
And such a prayer the vicar prayed
As never before his lips essayed;
No longer embarrassed, but free and full
He poured out the voice of a liberal soul,
And the widow responded aloud “amen!”
But said no more of potatoes.
And would you, who hear this simple tale,
Pray for the poor, and praying “prevail,”
Then preface your words with alms and good deeds:
Search out the poor, their wants and their needs:
Pray for peace, and grace, and spiritual food,
For wisdom, and guidance for all these are good,
But don’t forget the potatoes.”