At the still point of the turning world.

At the still point of the turning world.
Neither flesh nor fleshless;
Neither from nor towards;
at the still point,
there the dance is,
But neither arrest nor movement.

And do not call it fixity,
Where past and future are gathered.
Neither movement from nor towards,
Neither ascent nor decline.

Except for the point, the still point,
There would be no dance,
and there is only the dance.

T.S. Eliot

16.-Figure-contemplant-monts-du-Mezenc

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What The Dog Perhaps Hears by Lisel Mueller

Photographer Unknown
photographer unknown (?)

What The Dog Perhaps Hears by Lisel Mueller

 

If an inaudible whistle

blown between our lips

can send him home to us,

then silence is perhaps

the sound of spiders breathing

and roots mining the earth;

it may be asparagus heaving,

headfirst, into the light

and the long brown sound

of cracked cups, when it happens.

We would like to ask the dog

if there is a continuous whir

because the child in the house

keeps growing, if the snake

really stretches full length

without a click and the sun

breaks through clouds without

a decibel of effort,

whether in autumn, when the trees

dry up their wells, there isn’t a shudder

too high for us to hear.

 What is it like up there

above the shut-off level

of our simple ears?

For us there was no birth cry,

the newborn bird is suddenly here,

the egg broken, the nest alive,

and we heard nothing when the world changed.

The stars passed through his soul

 

What is Love? I have met in the streets a very poor young man who was in love. His hat was old, his coat worn, the water passed through his shoes and the stars through his soul. — Victor Hugo

Agnes Miller Parker
Agnes Miller Parker

This is to be my symphony

To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion, to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly, to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages, with open heart, to bear all cheerfully, to all bravely await occasions, hurry never. In a word, to let the spiritual unbidden and unconscious grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony.”  — William Henry Channing

The Shadow Hand (1896) by Charles Lacoste
The Shadow Hand (1896) by Charles Lacoste

 

 

The Boy who Sees with his Heart

Most people are like a falling leaf that drifts and turns in the air, flutters, and falls to the ground. But a few others are like stars which travel one defined path: no wind reaches them, they have within themselves their guide and path — Hermann Hesse

Gustaf Fjaestad (Swedish, 1968-1948)      The Boy Who Sees with His Heart, 1898
Gustaf Fjaestad (Swedish, 1968-1948) The Boy Who Sees with His Heart, 1898

Earthcoat

“At times I feel as if I am spread out over the landscape and inside things, and am myself living in every tree, in the splashing of the waves, in the clouds and the animals that come and go, in the procession of the seasons.”
Carl Jung

‘Earthcoat_ by Robert and Shana Parke Harrison
‘Earthcoat’ by Robert and Shana Parke Harrison

They find countless mysterious ways

“Separated lovers cheat absence by a thousand fancies which have their own reality.
They are prevented from seeing one another and they cannot write;
nevertheless they find countless mysterious ways of corresponding,
by sending each other the song of birds,
the scent of flowers,
the laughter of children,
the light of the sun,
the sighing of the wind,
and the gleam of the stars – all the beauties of creation.”
– Victor Hugo

Frederick Walker, 1871

 

 

“A Stranger, who can know what this word means.”

What does this sudden awakening mean, in this dark room, with the sounds of a city that has suddenly become strange? And everything is strange to me, everything, without a single person who belongs to me, with no place to heal this wound. What am I doing here, what is the point of these smiles and gestures? I am not from here—not from anywhere else either. And the world has become merely an unknown landscape where my heart can lean on nothing.

albert_camus2
Albert Camus

From: Paris from Camus’s Notebooks

By Alice Kaplan 

Our life’s potential reveals itself in glimpses

The story of our life does already exist in potential, and is pushing to come into being, through we only get glimpses of it bit by bit.

J. Gary Sparks

agostino
Agostino Arrivabene.