an apology to past lovers: i wasn't ready to treat you well i didn't know love was meant to be selfless i didn't know my pain had control over my actions i didn't know how far away i was from myself and how that distance always kept us miles apart (blind heart) ~ Yung Pueblo, Inward (Page 23)
The man in whom Tao Acts without impediment Does not bother with his own interests And does not despise Others who do. He does not struggle to make money And does not make a virtue of poverty. He goes his way Without relying on others And does not pride himself On walking alone. While he does not follow the crowd He won't complain of those who do. Rank and reward Make no appeal to him; Disgrace and shame Do not deter him. He is not always looking For right and wrong Always deciding "Yes" or "No." — Thomas Merton, The Way of Chuang Tzu, via Sunbeams (Page 121)
Broken Gull of Brandon Beach
Winged soul, you danced the skies, And startled dawn with shrilling cries. You followed sails and braved the sea, Then caught the wind back to me. You broke your wing; it dragged the land And etched your mark upon the sand. When feathers break, you cannot fly, But who decides the time to die? You disappeared, I know not where. But your wing-marks still linger there. A broken heart cannot fly, But who decides the time to die?
Delia Owens, Where The Crawdads Sing (Page 276)
Fading moon, follow My footsteps Through light unbroken By land shadows, And share my senses That feel the cool Shoulders of silence. Only you know How one side of a moment Is stretched by loneliness For miles To the other edge, And how much sky Is in one breath When time slides backward From the sand.
~ Delia Owens, Where The Crawdads Sing (Page 214)
I must let go now. Let you go. Love is too often The answer for staying. Too seldom the reason For going. I drop the line And watch you drift away. All along You thought The fiery current Of your lover's breast Pulled you to the deep. But it was my heart-tide Releasing you To float adrift With seaweed.
~ Delia Owens, Where The Crawdads Sing (Page 213)
Always keep Ithaca on your mind.
To arrive there is your ultimate goal.
But do not hurry the voyage at all.
It is better to let it last for many years;
and to anchor at the island when you are old,
rich with all you have gained on the way,
not expecting that Ithaca will offer you riches.
Constantine Cavafy, Ithaca, via The Happiness of Pursuit (Page 114)
“Be like the bird, pausing in his flight
On limb too slight,
Feels it give way, yet sings,
Knowing he has wings.”
Victor Hugo, Sunbeams (Page 17)
Paul Hogan Poem on Capturing Moments (and Maybe When Not To)
“Camera loaded, the light
near sundown blushes
the grey, beat wood
of the boathouse, flashes
along arcs of the waves.
Don’t photograph this. Don’t render it
immutable now. Let it
distort, let it unravel,
reconstruct itself.
This image will retell
this here and now for years,
without conclusion —
It will never change,
it will always be different,
we will never agree. For now,
let the light slip down
around you. Don’t
remember this yet.”
Paul Hogan, Point of Departures (Page 37)
Beyond the Quote (167/365)
In a world where the camera on our phone takes better pictures than most DSLR cameras from just a few years ago, where 4K quality can be held in the palm of one hand and activated with the push of one thumb, where so much of what we see and hear in the world can be so vividly captured and contained within the confines of a memory chip that’s smaller than a penny and backed up by an imaginary cloud—the line between knowing when to be present in a moment and when to capture a moment can become incredibly blurred. Hell, if we wanted to, we could record every moment we ever wanted to and store it into a neat and tidy timeline of moments that could quite literally make up the story of our lives. Rather than our life “flashing before our eyes” at the end, we could playback our lives in a flash with just a few clicks on a computer screen.
Read More »Paul Hogan Poem on Capturing Moments (and Maybe When Not To)Milk and Honey [Book]
Book Overview: #1 New York Times bestseller Milk and Honey is a collection of poetry and prose about survival. About the experience of violence, abuse, love, loss, and femininity. The book is divided into four chapters, and each chapter serves a different purpose. Deals with a different pain. Heals a different heartache. Milk and Honey takes readers through a journey of the most bitter moments in life and finds sweetness in them because there is sweetness everywhere if you are just willing to look.
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Post(s) Inspired by this Book:
The Medicine is the Sickness
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who won’t let me in on the freeway.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having to let people in on the freeway.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s waking up to 50 assholes pretending to be me.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s waking up feeing like an asshole because I yelled at those assholes.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who turn the things I say into insipid greeting card messages.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s turning a bunch of ideas into a laundry list.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s that feeling you get when you scratch something new.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not knowing what’s wrong with someone and all you want to do is make them feel better.
If there’s one thing I hate it’s knowing that my mind naturally gravitates towards the negative and not being able to stop it.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who become your friend, to become your friend’s friend.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s being really busy and using that as an excuse to ignore your email.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s having to acknowledge that my feelings are my own, no one else’s. And, my responsibility.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s forgetting that and taking the way I feel out on the world.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s people who criticise things, who can’t take criticism.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s going to the same job day-after-day for the same pay.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not having a job.
If there’s one thing I hate, it’s not you.
It’s me.
The Place Where You Get Off
Photo by Jon Ellis
Outside the station, she stands with her child on the side of the street, taking pictures of cars.
You think she’s insane. Until, one day, you notice that she’s taking pictures of the license plates of the cars her child gets into.
Because you look. But you do not see.
And she walks out the shop with bags full of cat food. You think she’s some crazy cat lady until you find out, she has no cats.
Because you eat. But you do not taste.
It’s been a while since their last album but he assures you, he’s doing just fine these days, white flecks in his nostrils. Then he asks you if he can spend the night on your couch, even though it stinks.
Because you sniff. But you do not smell.
And they say “Just OK” when you ask them how school was. Then you wonder what they’re hiding until you find their diary and the last entry reads “I wish you’d give me some privacy.”
Because you listen. But you do not hear.
And they’ve got a bruise over their eye and you run the tips of your fingers over it and ask them how it happened. You believe them. Until it happens again.
Because you touch. But you do not feel.
And they walk past you everyday, one million stories, each waiting to be told. Waiting for you to ask.
Because you live. But very few, love.
—— —— ——
The above was a poem from the book, I Wrote This For You by Iain Thomas.
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
~ Rumi, via Solitude
Poem from Jamesy Boy – A Young Man’s Resolve to Keep Moving Forward in Spite of Incredible Life Challenges
In my mind, there’s a boy who exists in chains.
Inside a cold, dark room of painful solitude is where he will remain.
Behind these walls, the sorrow is inevitable, as relentless as the passage of time.
Mentalities corrupt and dark, brainwashed, and hopelessly blind.
Prisons are packed with crowded spaces, lifers and guards with hollow faces.
Shackled hearts afraid of changes, and weakened wills become complacent.
Yet, I maintain with patience, time can limit but not shatter my will, strength blazed across my chest as solid as penitentiary steel.
But the silence speaks, it tells me all I need to hear, it confirms my beliefs and its promises I have to fear.
It reminds me that without freedom, I’m alone.
And these whitewashed walls don’t make up for blackened souls.
I’ve given 95% of my boys a handshake than a pound, before they were either locked down or buried off in cemetery grounds.
What I’ve done is who I am, but who I am is what I do now.
I won’t let up or cease to fight.
Just time, I plan on doing it right.
And what’s right lies within me.
I’m learning to appreciate my struggle for it would be hard to find the joy of accomplishment without it.
We live and we learn.
We rise and we fall.
Like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant, with bittersweet dreams.
Stay up, never down.
—— —— ——
More: Poems // Resources on Starting Fresh
Watch: Jamesy Boy [2014]
Caged Bird
A free bird leaps
on the back of the wind
and floats downstream
till the current ends
and dips his wing
in the orange sun rays
and dares to claim the sky.
But a bird that stalks
down his narrow cage
can seldom see through
his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and
his feet are tied
so he opens his throat to sing.
The caged bird sings
with a fearful trill
of things unknown
but longed for still
and his tune is heard
on the distant hill
for the caged bird
sings of freedom.
~ Maya Angelou
On Children by Kahlil Gibran
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bow from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrow may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer’s hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
~ Kahlil Gibran
—– —– —–
Source: The Road Less Traveled by Scott Peck
The Road Not Taken
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sign
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I –
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
~ Robert Frost
The tool of Thought
Mind is the master power that molds and makes
And man is Mind and evermore he takes
The tool of Thought and, shaping what he wills
Brings forth a thousand joys, a thousand ills.
He thinks in secret, and it comes to pass:
Environment is but his looking glass.
~ James Allen