Ozymandias

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear —
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.’

Percy Bysshe Shelley

CultFit Sunset


Bon Courage

Why are the woods so alluring? A forest appears

to a young girl one morning as she combs

the dreams out of   her hair. The trees rustle

and whisper, shimmer and hiss. The forest

opens and closes, a door loose on its hinges,

banging in a strong wind. Everything in the dim

kitchen: the basin, the jug, the skillet, the churn,

snickers scornfully. In this way a maiden

is driven toward the dangers of a forest,

but the forest is our subject, not this young girl.

She’s glad to lie down with trees towering all around.

A certain euphoria sets in. She feels molecular,

bedeviled, senses someone gently pulling her hair,

tingles with kisses she won’t receive for years.

Three felled trees, a sort of chorus, narrate

her thoughts, or rather channel theirs through her,

or rather subject her to their peculiar verbal

restlessness …    our deepening need for non-being intones

the largest and most decayed tree, mid-sentence.

I’m not one of you squeaks the shattered sapling,

blackened by lightning. Their words become metallic

spangles shivering the air. Will I forget the way home?

the third blurts. Why do I feel like I’m hiding in a giant’s nostril?

the oldest prone pine wants to know. Are we being   freed

from matter? the sapling asks. Insects are well-intentioned,

offers the third tree, by way of consolation. Will it grow

impossible to think a thought through to its end? gasps the sapling,

adding in a panicky voice, I’m becoming spongy! The girl

feels her hands attach to some distant body. She rises

to leave, relieved these trees are not talking about her.

Amy Gerstler

CultFit Twirl


Morning Classic(s)

It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are-

As a little dude, I grew up doing what I was supposed to do (this is my side of the story), when I was supposed to do it, following a largely unconscious – persistent script about what it meant to live one’s life. Not just play but excel at sports, go to school and become edumacated, start a rewarding and vibrant career, get married to the woman of my dreams (this happened) and have a few kid(s) for good measure

As a self-described “athlete“, I did a lot of running, picking up heavy things and moving them around, competing at all costs, ignoring injuries, bragging about results, sticking within the status quo like many of the blogs we will read today However a string of serious injuries in my mid 30’s made me rethink everything I had thought about both competing and what I was doing with my life more broadly.

At the same time I had discovered seva, karma yoga, mindfulness, rediscovered my love for cycling and enjoying nature. As I began to play – not compete outdoors, my friends and family would often say “let’s ride here, swing a kettlebell if we like or maybe a spot of yoga?” and most importantly: Smile, Laugh and have Fun. And that’s all I’d want.

Being authentic hasn’t come easily to me, and I’m still working on it, although it’s changed how I think about this inspiring world we call home.

Notes:

Being open to new paths, new ways of doing things, formulating new perspectives, creating your own melodies: these are the “things” that life has truly taught me, and continue(s) to teach me to this wonderful day.

CultFit View


Bless Air’s

… gift of sweetness, Honey

from the bees, inspired by clover,
marigold, eucalyptus, thyme,
the hundred perfumes of the wind.
Bless the beekeeper

who chooses for her hives
a site near water, violet beds, no yew,
no echo. Let the light lilt, leak, green
or gold, pigment for queens,
and joy be inexplicable but there
in harmony of willowherb and stream,
of summer heat and breeze,
each bee’s body
at its brilliant flower, lover-stunned,
strumming on fragrance, smitten.

For this,
let gardens grow, where beelines end,
sighing in roses, saffron blooms, buddleia;
where bees pray on their knees, sing, praise
in pear trees, plum trees; bees
are the batteries of orchards, gardens, guard them.

– Carol Ann Duffy

CultFit Meadow


The Amaranth

is an imaginary flower that never fades.
The amaranth is blue with black petals,
it’s yellow with red petals,
it’s enormous and grows into the shape
of a girl’s house,
the seeds nestle high in the closet
where she hid a boy.
The boy and his bike flee
the girl’s parents from the tip
of the leaves, green summer light
behind the veins.
The amaranth is an imaginary flower
in the shape of a girl’s house
dispensing gin and tonics
from its thorns, a succulent.
This makes the boy’s bike steer
off-course all summer, following
the girl in her marvelous car,
the drunken bike.
He was a small part of summer,
he was summer’s tongue.

Matthew Rohrer

CultFit Flower