The Houston Chronicle recognized outstanding nurses during a luncheon on May 2, 2023. Each year, the Houston Chronicle honors the top nurses across Greater Houston during their Salute to Nurses event. In 2023, 200 recipients were selected through a public nomination — included are seven UT Physicians employees. Kenne was recognized as one of the Top 15 this year.
Men ask the way to Cold Mountain Cold Mountain: there’s no through trail. In summer, ice doesn’t melt The rising sun blurs in swirling fog. How did I make it? My heart’s not the same as ypurs. If your heart was like mine You’d get it and be right here.
— from Riprap and Cold Mountain Poems by Gary Snyder
Facepainting (The Woodlands Art Festival, April 2008) — Image by kenne
All women are wounded Who gather berries, dibble in mottled light, Turn white roots from humus, crack nuts on stone High upland with squinted eye or rest in cedar shade.
View Off Wilderness Rocks Trail in the Santa Catalina Mountains (08/08/14) — Image by kenne
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In a tangle of cliffs, I chose a place – Bird paths, but no trails for me. What’s beyond the yard? White clouds clinging to vague rocks. Now I’ve lived here – how many years – Again and again, spring and winter pass. Go tell families with silverware and cars “What’s the use of all that noise and money?”
— Han-shan, Cold Mountain Poems Translated by Gary Snyder
Pipevine Swallowtail Butterfly On A Bearded Penstemon — Image by kenne
Thinking about a poem I’ll never write. With gut on wood and hide, and plucking thumb, Grope and stutter for the words, invent a tune, In any tongue, this moment one time true Be wine or blood of rhythm drives it through— A leap of words to things and there it stops. Creating empty caves and tools in shops And holy domes, and nothing you can name; The long old chorus blowing underfoot Makes high wild notes of mountains in the sea. O Muse, a goddess gone astray Who warms the cow and makes the wise man sane, (& even madness gobbles demons down) Then dance through jewelled trees & lotus crowns For Narihira’s lover, the crying plover, For babies grown and childhood homes And moving, moving, on through scenes and towns Weep for the crowds of men Like birds gone south forever.
Pusch Ridge Wilderness, Santa Catalina Mountains — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The path to Han-shan’s place is laughable, A path, but no sign of cart or horse. Converging gorges – hard to trace their twists Jumbled cliffs – unbelievably rugged. A thousand grasses bend with dew, A hill of pines hums in the wind. And now I’ve lost the shortcut home, Body asking shadow, how do you keep up?
My home was at Cold Mountain from the start,
Rambling among the hills, far from trouble.
Gone, and a million things leave no trace
Loose, and it flows through the galaxies
A fountain of light, into the very mind—
Not a thing, and yet it appears before me:
Now I know the pearl of the Buddha-nature
Know its use: a boundless perfect sphere.
The Path to His Mountain Place — Photo-Artistry by kenne
The path to Han-shan’s place is laughable, A path, but no sign of cart or horse. Converging gorges — hard to trace the twists Jumbled cliffs — unbelievably rugged. A thousand grasses bend with dew, A hill of pines hums in the wind. And now I’ve lost the shortcut home, Body asking shadow, how do you keep up?
Time To Rest The Feet (FotoFest 10/24/02) — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Snow In the Santa Catalina Mountains — Images by kenne
Honey Bee On Elegant Lupin — Image by kenne
Sabino Canyon, Santa Catalina Mountains — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Snow On Mountain — Image by kenne
The Path to His Mountain Place — Photo-Artistry by kenne
Becoming is Superior to Being 