You do not have to be good - Mary Oliver cc-by lemasney
You do not need to be good – Mary Oliver cc-by lemasneyYou do not have to be good – Mary Oliver cc-by lemasney
These are two takes on illustrating a part of the lovely poem by Mary Oliver below. Incidentally, I also decided to use Prezi to see if I could animate the quote:
WILD GEESE by Mary Oliver
“Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine…” Â You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the
All the world is made of - JMBarrie cc-by lemasney
All the world is made of – JMBarrie cc-by lemasney
These are two takes on the same quote, J.M. Barrie’s All the world is made of faith, and trust, and pixie dust. This is very much a shared philosophy of mine. I feel that as I remove and reduce the things around me, removing the noise, that other truths become especially clear: What life is. What our intent should be. How things work in a holistic system. And after seeing those truths (at least truth
Walk as if you are kissing - Thich Nhat Hanh cc-by lemasney
Walk as if you are kissing – Thich Nhat Hanh cc-by lemasney
Walk as if you are kissing the earth with your feet.
– Thich Nhat Hanh
“Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh is a global spiritual leader, poet and peace activist, revered throughout the world for his powerful teachings and bestselling writings on mindfulness and peace. His key teaching is that, through mindfulness, we can learn to live happily in the present moment—the only
Act without doing work without effort - Tao Te Ching cc-by lemasney
Act without doing work without effort – Tao Te Ching cc-by lemasney
“When people see things as beautiful,  ugliness is created.  When people see things as good,  evil is created.  Being and non-being produce each other.  Difficult and easy complement each other.  Long and short define each other.  High and low oppose each other.  Fore and aft follow each other.  Therefore the Master  can act without doing anything  and teach without saying a word.  Things come her way and she does not stop them;  things leave and she lets them go.  She has without
We want nights of vague adventure - Gwendolyn Brooks cc-by lemasney
We want nights of vague adventure – Gwendolyn Brooks cc-by lemasney
We want nights of vague adventure – Gwendolyn Brooks cc-by lemasney
“Now, at 77, Gwendolyn Brooks, perhaps our greatest living poet, has been chosen by the National Endowment for the Humanities to deliver the 1994 Jefferson Lecture in the Humanities. She will speak today in Washington and next week in Chicago. This is the highest honor the federal government bestows for intellectual achievement in the humanities. It was given because she has
Books are the mirror of the soul - Virginia Woolf cc-by lemasney
Books are the mirrors of the soul – Virginia Woolf cc-by lemasney
Between the Acts – Virginia Woolf
“A foolish, flattering lady, pausing on the threshold of what she once called “the heart of the house,” the threshold of the library, had once said: “Next to the kitchen, the library’s always the nicest room in the house.” Then she added, stepping across the threshold: “Books are the mirrors of the soul.” In this case a tarnished, a spotted soul. For as the train took over three hours to reach this remote village in the very heart of England, no one ventured so long a journey, without staving off possible mind- hunger, without buying a book on a bookstall.
Thus the mirror that reflected the soul sublime, reflected also the soul bored. Nobody could pretend, as they looked at the shuffle of shilling shockers that week-enders had dropped, that the looking-glass always reflected the anguish of a Queen or the heroism of King Harry. At this early hour of a June morning the library was empty. Mrs. Giles had to visit the kitchen. Mr. Oliver still tramped the terrace. And Mrs. Swithin was of course at church. The light but variable breeze, foretold by the weather expert, flapped the yellow curtain, tossing light, then shadow. The fire greyed, then glowed, and the tortoiseshell butterfly beat on the lower pane of the window; beat, beat, beat; repeating that if no human being ever came, never, never, never, the books would be mouldy, the fire out and the tortoiseshell butterfly dead on the pane. Heralded by the impetuosity of the Afghan hound, the old man entered. He had read his paper; he was drowsy; and so sank down into the chintz-covered chair with the dog at his feet–the Afghan hound. His nose on his paws, his haunches drawn up, he looked a stone dog, a crusader’s dog, guarding even in the realms of death the sleep of his master. But the master was not dead; only dreaming; drowsily, seeing as in a glass, its lustre spotted, himself, a young man helmeted; and a cascade falling. But no water; and the hills, like grey stuff pleated; and in the sand a hoop of ribs; a bullock maggot-eaten in the sun; and in the shadow of the rock, savages; and in his hand a gun. The dream hand clenched; the real hand lay on the chair arm, the veins swollen but only with a brownish fluid now.”
