Conscious Cities Index

Field · A commonplace book

Things held close.

A slow scroll of poems, haiku, koans, witticisms, and photographs from the road. The instrument of the Index measures cities for nature, culture, and well-being. These are the things that taught the instrument what to measure for.

A commonplace book — poems, haiku, koans, photographs, the occasional witticism. Read one. Or read them all. There is no order. There is no hurry.

Leisure

What is this life if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs

And stare as long as sheep or cows.

No time to see, when woods we pass,

Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,

Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

No time to turn at Beauty's glance,

And watch her feet, how they can dance.

No time to wait till her mouth can

Enrich that smile her eyes began.

A poor life this if, full of care,

We have no time to stand and stare.

— W. H. Davies · Poetry by Heart
Punts at rest on the Cherwell, framed by tall trees and an open sky.
Cherwell, punts at rest · summer

An old silent pond.

A frog jumps into the pond —

splash! Silence again.

— Matsuo Bashō
Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water. After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.
— Zen
A wide low waterfall tumbling over mossy stone, ducks gathered in the pool below.
Blenheim cascade · summer

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

I wandered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills,

When all at once I saw a crowd,

A host, of golden daffodils;

Beside the lake, beneath the trees,

Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine

And twinkle on the milky way,

They stretched in never-ending line

Along the margin of a bay:

Ten thousand saw I at a glance,

Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they

Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:

A poet could not but be gay,

In such a jocund company:

I gazed — and gazed — but little thought

What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie

In vacant or in pensive mood,

They flash upon that inward eye

Which is the bliss of solitude;

And then my heart with pleasure fills,

And dances with the daffodils.

— William Wordsworth · Poetry Foundation
A figure walking ahead down a narrow path cut through tall summer grass, under a bright cloud-dappled sky.
A path through the wheat · summer

The light of a candle

is transferred to another candle —

spring twilight.

— Yosa Buson
"Nothing happens next. This is it."
— Gahan Wilson
A muddy footpath winding through dense green hedgerow under an overcast sky.
A green lane, anywhere · summer

Breath

Are you looking for me? I am in the next seat.

My shoulder is against yours.

You will not find me in stupas, not in Indian shrine rooms,

nor in synagogues, nor in cathedrals:

not in masses, nor kirtans, not in legs winding around your own neck,

nor in eating nothing but vegetables.

When you really look for me, you will see me instantly —

you will find me in the tiniest house of time.

Kabir says: Student, tell me, what is God?

He is the breath inside the breath.

— Kabir · allpoetry.com
A young willow tree leaning over an empty bench in a misted green meadow.
A willow, a bench, no one in particular · autumn
Two hands clap and there is a sound. What is the sound of one hand?
— Hakuin Ekaku

First autumn morning —

the mirror I stare into

shows my father's face.

— Murakami Kijo
Two figures and a golden dog walking together across a frost-bright winter garden.
Winter, two walkers, a dog · January
"You wander from room to room, searching for the diamond necklace that is already around your neck."
— Rumi

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair for the world grows in me

and I wake in the night at the least sound

in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake

rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things

who do not tax their lives with forethought

of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars

waiting with their light. For a time

I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

— Wendell Berry
A vast ploughed field stretching to a low horizon under a wide cloud-streaked sky, a small figure walking in the middle distance.
A small figure, a large field · February
If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him.
— Linji
An empty walled lane in spring, the word SLOW painted in large white letters on the road, blossom overhead.
Slow · April

Sitting quietly,

doing nothing, spring comes,

and the grass grows by itself.

— Zenrin Kushū
A great copper beech in full leaf, viewed from below, its canopy filling the frame against a pale sky.
A copper beech, holding the street · May
A young sapling staked alone in a wide green meadow, woodland on the horizon under a sky of summer clouds.
A sapling, a meadow, a sky · May

And then, look up.

The instrument measures cities. But the city sits on a planet, and the planet sits in a dark. To know the value of one is to know the scale of the other.

A flowering bush in silhouette under a deep black sky thick with stars, the faint band of the Milky Way overhead.
A bush, a sky, the galaxy behind it
The Milky Way rising behind a treeline, a warm orange glow of distant town-light along the horizon, sky alive with stars.
Town-light, star-light

The winter moon —

a temple bell sunk to the bottom

of the cold sea.

— Yosa Buson
The Milky Way rising vertically through a dark sky, a tree silhouette at the base of the frame.
The galactic core, rising
A dense field of stars filling the frame, the faint dust of the Milky Way diffuse across the centre.
Ten thousand suns, none of them ours
Galactic core bright on the right, dense star field across the rest of the frame, a tree leaning in from the right edge.
A galaxy, leaning in
We are a way for the cosmos to know itself.
— Carl Sagan
A long exposure of the Milky Way as a soft pink-grey band cutting vertically through a star-strewn sky.
A river of stars
The galactic core glowing centre-frame above a low silhouette of trees, warm horizon light beneath.
The core, low over the trees
A misted Milky Way, faint pink-grey through low cloud, a single tree silhouetted at the bottom edge.
Through mist, still there
Silence is the language of God; all else is poor translation.
— Rumi
A blue-toned star field above a low treeline, faint horizon glow, calmer than the others.
Blue night, no wind
An almost-empty dark sky with a single bright star high in the frame and a soft cloud of distant light at the bottom-left edge.
One star, mostly dark
Trees silhouetted against a starry sky with the Milky Way visible above and warm ground-light glowing at the horizon.
Earthlight, starlight
A quieter star-field with subtle blue tones, a tree-line silhouetted along the bottom edge of the frame.
Blue hour of the universe

And then, in 1990, a small spacecraft turned around and took our picture from six billion kilometres away.

"Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us."
Pale Blue Dot · Carl Sagan · 1994

Read it again tomorrow. Different things will be there.