— Read on wsquared.blog/2020/03/02/life-is-amazing/
I found this in my drafts, and have idea whether I shared it before. I couldn't locate it so what the heck, I'll post it, maybe again. When the lilac dawn crawls up blood-red brick over white painted steel like a bruise, its silver shadows fall first on the tall broad-faced sunflowers. Even in prison, …
Your desires are not random. They are the map your feet should follow. ~ Andrea Balt
A most amazing poem by David Whyte.
When your eyes are tired
the world is tired also.
When your vision has gone
no part of the world can find you.
Time to go into the dark
where the night has eyes
to recognize its own.
There you can be sure
you are not beyond love.
The dark will be your womb
The night will give you a horizon
further than you can see.
You must learn one thing.
The world was made to be free in
Give up all the other worlds
except the one to which you belong.
Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet
confinement of your aloneness
anything or anyone
that does not bring you alive
is too small for you.
– “Sweet Darkness” byDavid Whyte,House of Belonging
I dig I am an archeologist excavating Brushing away what isn't To expose what is Discovery: Metaphorical bricks and mortar The foundation laid by My mother and father Their mothers and fathers And so on White middle class siding, black Rooftop shingles above Contain what is below A water table of war, famine, alcohol When …
Children need art and stories and poems and music as much as they need love and food and fresh air and play. If you don’t give a child food, the damage quickly becomes visible. If you don’t let a child have fresh air and play, the damage is also visible, but not so quickly. If you don’t give a child love, the damage might not be seen for some years, but it’s permanent.
But if you don’t give a child art and stories and poems and music, the damage is not so easy to see. It’s there, though. Their bodies are healthy enough; they can run and jump and swim and eat hungrily and make lots of noise, as children have always done, but something is missing.
It’s true that some people grow up never encountering…
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For my dad. There, in the asylum of dementia, he forgot. The meaning of suffering. The toll his life had taken on him. And on everyone he once professed To love. And hate. He lived for this moment. Only. Not by choice. By chance. That's all he had left. The disease had swept clean the …
My friend, Shona Moonbeam, over at http://www.knomochoicius.com, shared a piece of a William Blake poem with me tonight. We were talking about a book I'm reading called "The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck" by Mark Manson. I'll write more about the book later, but for now it's enough to say ... wow. Seventy-eight …
I'm propped up in my bed on Sunday morning, skittering around the Internet while hoping a panic episode subsides. It's a gorgeous day already, much like the one I wrote so happily about on Tuesday. But I'm not in that space now, and I'm wishing my dad was still alive to talk to about it. …