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

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Agostino Arrivabene.
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Do as Does the Sculptor of a Statue

Alfred Kubin – The Guardian

Plotinus:

‘Withdraw into yourself and look; and if you do not find yourself beautiful as yet, do as does the sculptor of a statue … cut away all that is excessive, straighten all that is crooked, bring light to all that is shadowed … do not cease until there shall shine out on you the Godlike Splendour of Beauty; until you see temperance surely established in the stainless shrine.

Artwork: Alfred Kubin (1877 – 1959)

Nature begins to whisper

All of nature begins to whisper its secrets to us through its sounds. Sounds that were previously incomprehensible to our soul now become the meaningful language of nature.

~ Rudolf Steiner

naturescalling

 

The Temple With A Thousand Halls

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“And what yesterday appeared to be a garden or a park or a jungle, today or
tomorrow is recognized as a temple, a temple with a thousand halls and courtyards in which the spirit of all nations and times is present, constantly waiting for reawakening, ever ready to recognize the many-voiced multiplicity of its phenomena as a unity. ”

– Hermann Hesse

 

1889 Man sitting on a bench inside the Hollow Tree in Stanley Park, Vancouver (unknown)

I could light myself

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“Inside me there was everything I had believed was outside. There was, in particular, the sun, light, and all colours. There were even the shapes of objects and the distance between objects. Everything was there and movement as well… Light is an element that we carry inside us and which can grow there with as much abundance, variety, and intensity as it can outside of us…I could light myself…that is, I could create a light inside of me so alive, so large, and so near that my eyes, my physical eyes, or what remained of them, vibrated, almost to the point of hurting…” – Jacques Lusseyran

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Find your eternity in each moment.

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“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment. Fools stand on their island of opportunities and look toward another land. There is no other land; there is no other life but this.”

~ Henry David Thoreau

Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.

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“Literature is the most agreeable way of ignoring life.”
― Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

 

Antoni Arissa Untitled 1930-1936“Antoni Arissa Untitled 1930-1936 ”

 

Another world is not only possible, she is on her way

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To love. To be loved. To never forget your own insignificance. To never get used to the unspeakable violence and the vulgar disparity of life around you. To seek joy in the saddest places. To pursue beauty to its lair. To never simplify what is complicated or complicate what is simple. To respect strength, never power.
Above all, to watch. To try and understand. To never look away. And never, never, to forget… another world is not only possible, she is on her way.
On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing.
–  Arundhati Roy
image: Igor Maikov 1966

It will have its own – Mary Webb

The British novelist and poet Mary Webb, around 1920. Credit Dorothy Hicklin
The British novelist and poet Mary Webb, around 1920. Credit Dorothy Hicklin

For the love of nature is a passion for those in whom it once lodges. It can never be quenched. It cannot change. It is a furious, burning, physical greed, as well as a state of mystical exaltation. It will have its own.
Mary Webb from The House in Dormer Forest (circa 1921)

 

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The young Mary Webb

The Mary Webb Society website 

The Ancient Gods

Certainly there were splashings in the water, Certainly there were shadows on the hill, Dark with the leaves of purple-spotted orchis; But now all’s still.

It may be that the catkin-covered sallow,
With her illusive, glimmering surprise,
Pale golden-tinted as a tall young goddess,
Deceived my eyes;

And the white birches wading in the margin,
Each one a naked and a radiant god,
Dazzled me; and the foam was flung by currents
Where no feet trod.

Only I know I saw them–stately, comely,
Within the leafy shadows of the stream;
They woke amid the shallow, singing water
A fading gleam.

They left no trail for any beast to follow,
No track upon the moss for man to trace;
In a long, silent file up-stream they vanished
With measured pace.

The hollow water curved about their ankles
Like amber; splashes glistened on their thighs;
Sun barred their lifted heads and their far-seeing
Yet sightless eyes.

Some were like women, with deep hair of willows,
Bare breasts and gracious arms and long, smooth hips,
And the red roses of desire half frozen
Upon their lips:

But most were massive-browed and massive-shouldered
And taller than the common height of men.
They went as those that have not home nor kindred,
Nor come again.

Still, where the birches fingered their reflection,
The thrushes chanted to the evening sky;
Still the grey wagtails raced across the shingle
As they went by.

Beyond the furthest of the saffron shallows
I lost them in the larches’ rainy green,
And only saw the stretches of marsh-mallows
Where they had been.

You say the sallow and the birch deceived me:
But I know well that I beheld to-day
The ancient gods, unheralded, majestic,
Upon their way.

Mary Webb © by owner. provided at no charge for educational purposes