A blog about anything and everything
I am not I.
I am this one
walking beside me whom I do not see,
whom at times I manage to visit,
and whom at other times I forget;
who remains calm and silent while I talk,
and forgives, gently, when I hate,
who walks where I am not,
who will remain standing when I die.
When you think of spirituality think about a tree, how the tree grows….
The tree puts down many, many roots….
There is a balance between the roots and branches….
To have a balanced consciousness, you must have spirituality in the inner world, and spirituality in the outer world….
Your spirituality must be grounded or else your spirituality remains suspended in the air.
On one side you must further the expansion of your consciousness, and on the other side, you must show the fruits of the expansion of consciousness.
(Consciousness Vol. 1, p. 278).
Whatever your fate is, whatever the hell happens, you say,‘This is what I need.’
It may look like a wreck, but go at it as though it were an opportunity, a challenge.
If you bring love to that moment—not discouragement—you will find the strength is there.
Any disaster that you can survive is an improvement in your character, your stature, and your life.
What a privilege!
This is when the spontaneity of your own nature will have a chance to flow.”
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate:
Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,
And summer’s lease hath all too short a date;
Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,
And often is his gold complexion dimm’d;
And every fair from fair sometime declines,
By chance or nature’s changing course untrimm’d;
But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st;
Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,
When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st:
So long as men can breathe or eyes can see,
So long lives this, and this gives life to thee.
Purple as tulips in May, mauve
into lush velvet, purple
as the stain blackberries leave
on the lips, on the hands,
the purple of ripe grapes
sunlit and warm as flesh.
Every day I will give you a color,
like a new flower in a bud vase
on your desk. Every day
I will paint you, as women
color each other with henna
on hands and on feet.
Red as henna, as cinnamon,
as coals after the fire is banked,
the cardinal in the feeder,
the roses tumbling on the arbor
their weight bending the wood
the red of the syrup I make from petals.
Orange as the perfumed fruit
hanging their globes on the glossy tree,
orange as pumpkins in the field,
orange as butterflyweed and the monarchs
who come to eat it, orange as my
cat running lithe through the high grass.
Yellow as a goat’s wise and wicked eyes,
yellow as a hill of daffodils,
yellow as dandelions by the highway,
yellow as butter and egg yolks,
yellow as a school bus stopping you,
yellow as a slicker in a downpour.
Here is my bouquet, here is a sing
song of all the things you make
me think of, here is oblique
praise for the height and depth
of you and the width too.
Here is my box of new crayons at your feet.
Green as mint jelly, green
as a frog on a lily pad twanging,
the green of cos lettuce upright
about to bolt into opulent towers,
green as Grand Chartreuse in a clear
glass, green as wine bottles.
Blue as cornflowers, delphiniums,
bachelors’ buttons. Blue as Roquefort,
blue as Saga. Blue as still water.
Blue as the eyes of a Siamese cat.
Blue as shadows on new snow, as a spring
azure sipping from a puddle on the blacktop.
Cobalt as the midnight sky
when day has gone without a trace
and we lie in each other’s arms
eyes shut and fingers open
and all the colors of the world
pass through our bodies like strings of fire.
It was a sunny bright evening, an
evening so calm,
The kind of evening that was inviting me with an outstretched arm.
So I decided to spend an hour doing almost nothing,
Sitting and enjoying the best of what nature could bring.
Getting up from my chair, I thought I’d take a stride
Then there was a bumble bee that suddenly came by my side.
There was a kind of music as the bee flapped its wing,
Music so perfect that no one could ever sing.
Walking little further, I spotted a butterfly
Which was hovering over the flowers and then soaring high
And I came to the conclusion as I was on my knees,
Not the richest of queens was dressed like one of these.
My evening hour in the garden was very well spent
And now I know what beauty and music really meant!!
(Taken from the book: Power, Freedom and Grace by Deepak Chopra)
What is my purpose in life
What contribution can I make to my family/society/to my world
What are my unique talents? How can I express them in the service of humanity
What brings joy into my life
What are the qualities that I look for in a friend
What qualities do I want to express in my relationships
It is all-important to LOVE oneself
To accept one’s flaws and weaknesses
Because without that capacity for self-compassion
How could one truly love or show compassion for anyone else?
“A writer is a person who cares what words mean, what they say, how they say it.
Writers know words are their way towards truth and freedom, and so they use them with care, with thought, with fear, with delight.
By using words well they strengthen their souls.
Story-tellers and poets spend their lives learning that skill and art of using words well.
And their words make the souls of their readers stronger, brighter, deeper.”