Thursday, October 31, 2013

The open heart by Rumi

Sanya Khomenko Photography

The ocean refuses no river, no river
The open heart refuses no part of me, no part of you.
I am one with all that is, one with all;
All that is is one with me, one with all.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again Lyrics From Phantom Of The Opera

Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again Lyrics
From Phantom Of The Opera
Performed by Emmy Rossum

You were once my one companion
You were all that mattered
You were once a friend and father
Then my world was shattered
Wishing you were somehow here again
Wishing you were somehow near
Sometimes it seemed if I just dreamed
Somehow you would be here

Wishing I could hear your voice again
Knowing that I never would
Dreaming of you won't help me to do
All that you dreamed I could
Passing bells and sculpted angels
Cold and monumental, seem for you the wrong companions
You were warm and gentle

Too many years fighting back tears
Why can't the past just die?
Wishing you were somehow here again
Knowing we must say, "Goodbye"
Try to forgive, teach me to live
Give me the strength to try
No more memories, no more silent tears
No more gazing across the wasted years
Help me say, "Goodbye"
Help me say, "Goodbye

Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl! by John Keats

Edmund Blair Leighton Art

Asleep! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
John Keats

ASLEEP! O sleep a little while, white pearl!
And let me kneel, and let me pray to thee,
And let me call Heaven’s blessing on thine eyes,
And let me breathe into the happy air,
That doth enfold and touch thee all about,
Vows of my slavery, my giving up,
My sudden adoration, my great love!

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

When problem becomes too great by John Steinbeck

Rembrandt Art

When a condition or a problem becomes too great, humans have the protection of not thinking about it. But it goes inward and minces up with a lot of other things already there and what comes out is discontent and uneasiness, guilt and a compulsion to get something--anything--before it is all gone.
John Steinbeck, The Winter of Our Discontent


Peter Ilsted Art

Few and precious are the words which
the lips of Wisdom utter:
To what shall their rarity be likened?
What prices shall count their worth?
Perfect, and much to be desired, and giving joy with riches,
No lovely thing on earth can picture their fair beauty.
They be chance pearls, flung among the rocks by the sullen waters of Oblivion.
MARTIN FARQUHAR TUPPER, Proverbial Philosophy

Beauty by G.O.Warren

G. O. Warren

NOT flesh alone am I, when I can be
So swiftly caught in Beauty’s shimmering thread
Whose slender fibres, woven, held by me,
With their frail strength my following heart have led.

Yea, not all mortal, not all death my mind,
When, watching by lone twilight waters’ brim
I tremblingly decipher, as they wind,
Her deathless hieroglyphs, though strange and dim.

So for this faith, when Thou my dust shalt bring
To dust, remember well, Great Alchemist,
Yearly to change my wintry earth to spring,
That I with Beauty still may keep my tryst.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Motivational & Encouragement Poems:Smiles by Ella Wheeler Wilcox*The Disappointed by Ella Wheeler Wilcox*Die Slowly by Martha Medeiros.


Edmund Hodgson Smart Art

Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Smile a little, smile a little,
As you go along,
Not alone when life is pleasant,
But when things go wrong.
Care delights to see you frowning,
Loves to hear you sigh;
Turn a smiling face upon her,
Quick the dame will fly.

Smile a little, smile a little,
All along the road;
Every life must have its burden,
Every heart its load.
Why sit down in gloom and darkness,
With your grief to sup?
As you drink Fate's bitter tonic
Smile across the cup.

Smile upon the troubled pilgrims
Whom you pass and meet;
Frowns are thorns, and smiles are blossoms
Oft for weary feet.
Do not make the way seem harder
By a sullen face,
Smile a little, smile a little,
Brighten up the place.

Smile upon your undone labor;
Not for one who grieves
O'er his task, waits wealth or glory;
He who smiles achieves.
Though you meet with loss and sorrow
In the passing years,
Smile a little, smile a little,
Even through your tears.

Sanya Khomenko Photography

The Disappointed
Ella Wheeler Wilcox

There are songs enough for the hero
Who dwells on the heights of fame;
I sing of the disappointed--
For those who have missed their aim.
I sing with a tearful cadence
For one who stands in the dark,
And knows that his last, best arrow
Has bounded back from the mark.

I sing for the breathless runner,
The eager, anxious soul,
Who falls with his strength exhausted.
Almost in sight of the goal;
For the hearts that break in silence,
With a sorrow all unknown,
For those who need companions,
Yet walk their ways alone.

There are songs enough for the lovers
Who share love's tender pain,
I sing for the one whose passion
Is given all in vain.
For those whose spirit comrades
Have missed them on their way,
I sing, with a heart o'erflowing,
This minor strain to-day.

And I know the Solar system
Must somewhere keep in space
A prize for that spent runner
Who barely lost the race.
For the plan would be imperfect
Unless it held some sphere
That paid for the toil and talent
And love that are wasted here.

Die Slowly
Martha Medeiros

He who becomes the slave of habit,
who follows the same routes every day,
who never changes pace,
who does not risk and change the color of his clothes,
who does not speak and does not experience,
dies slowly.

He or she who shuns passion,
who prefers black on white,
dotting ones i's rather than a bundle of emotions,
the kind that make your eyes glimmer,
that turn a yawn into a smile,
that make the heart pound in the face
of mistakes and feelings,
dies slowly.

He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy,
who is unhappy at work,
who does not risk certainty for uncertainty,
to thus follow a dream,
those who do not forego sound advice
at least once in their lives,
die slowly.

He who does not travel, who does not read,
who does not listen to music,
who does not find grace in himself,
she who does not find grace in herself,
dies slowly.

He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem,
who does not allow himself to be helped,
who spends days on end complaining
about his own bad luck,
about the rain that never stops,
dies slowly.

He or she who abandons a project before starting it,
who fails to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know, he or she who doesn't reply when they are asked something they do know,
dies slowly.

Let's try and avoid death in small doses,
reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort
far greater than the simple fact of breathing.
Only a burning patience will lead
to the attainment of a splendid happiness.

Friday, October 25, 2013

Citations et extraits du livre "manuscrit trouvé à Accra" de Paulo Coelho

Personne ne peut revenir en arrière, mais tout le monde peut aller de l'avant.Et demain, quand le soleil se lèvera, il suffira de se répéter :Je vais regarder cette journée comme si c'était la première de ma vie. Regarder les membres de ma famille avec surprise et émerveillement - joyeux de découvrir qu'ils sont à mes cotés, partageant en silence quelque chose qui s'appelle Amour, dont on parle beaucoup et que l'on comprend mal...

La plus destructrice de toutes les armes n’est pas la lance ou le canon – qui peuvent blesser le corps et détruire la muraille. La plus terrible est la parole – qui ruine une vie sans laisser de traces de sang, et dont les blessures ne cicatrisent jamais. Soyons donc maître de notre langue, pour ne pas être esclave de nos paroles. Même si elles sont utilisées contre nous, n’entrons pas dans un combat qui n’aura jamais de vainqueur.

Celui qui a un jour été blessé doit se demander : Cela vaut-il la peine de remplir mon coeur de haine et de traîner ce poids avec moi ? A ce moment-là, il recourt à l’une des qualités de l’Amour qui s’appelle Pardon. Il s’élève au-dessus des offenses proférées dans la chaleur de la bataille, que le temps se chargera bientôt d’effacer, comme le vent efface les pas dans les sables du désert.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

How Much Music Can You Make? By Steve Goodier

How Much Music Can You Make?
Steve Goodier

Imagine this. A concert violinist is performing a difficult piece in front of a large audience. Suddenly there is a loud snap that reverberates throughout the auditorium. The audience immediately knows that a string has broken and fully expects the concert to be suspended until another string, or instrument, is brought to the musician.

But instead, the violinist composes herself, closes her eyes and then signals the conductor to begin again. The orchestra resumes where they had left off and now the musician plays the music on three strings. In her mind she works out new fingering to compensate for the missing string. A work that few people can play well on four strings, the violinist with the broken string plays on three.

When she finishes, an awesome silence hangs in the room. And then as one, the crowd rises to their feet and cheers wildly. The violinist smiles and wipes perspiration from her brow. When silence returns to the great room, she explains why she continued to play in spite of a broken string. "You know," she says, still breathless, "sometimes it is the artist's task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.

We know what she means, don't we? Maybe we've lived most of our lives and we have only a little time left. Can we still make music?

Maybe disease has robbed us of our capacity to work.
Can we still make music?
Perhaps a financial loss has left us impoverished.
Can we still make music?
Or maybe a meaningful relationship has ended and we feel alone in the world. Can we still make music?

There will come a time when we all experience loss. Like the violinist, will we find the courage to discover just how much music we can still make with what we have left? How much good we can still do? How much joy we can still share? For I'm convinced that the world, more than ever, needs the music only you can make.

And if it takes extra courage to make the music, many will applaud your effort. For some people have lost more than others, and these brave souls inspire the rest of us to greater heights.

Just how much music can you make with what you have left?

Tuesday, October 22, 2013

Lines Written In Kensington Gardens By Matthew Arnold

Lines Written In Kensington Gardens
Matthew Arnold

IN this lone, open glade I lie,
Screen’d by deep boughs on either hand;
And at its end, to stay the eye,
Those black-crown’d, red-boled pine-trees stand!

Birds here make song, each bird has his,
Across the girdling city’s hum.
How green under the boughs it is!
How thick the tremulous sheep-cries come!

Sometimes a child will cross the glade
To take his nurse his broken toy;
Sometimes a thrush flit overhead
Deep in her unknown day’s employ.

Here at my feet what wonders pass,
What endless, active life is here!
What blowing daisies, fragrant grass!
An air-stirr’d forest, fresh and clear.

Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod
Where the tired angler lies, stretch’d out,
And, eased of basket and of rod,
Counts his day’s spoil, the spotted trout.

In the huge world, which roars hard by,
Be others happy if they can!
But in my helpless cradle I
Was breathed on by the rural Pan.

I, on men’s impious uproar hurl’d,
Think often, as I hear them rave,
That peace has left the upper world
And now keeps only in the grave.

Yet here is peace for ever new!
When I who watch them am away,
Still all things in this glade go through
The changes of their quiet day.

Then to their happy rest they pass!
The flowers upclose, the birds are fed,
The night comes down upon the grass,
The child sleeps warmly in his bed.

Calm soul of all things! make it mine
To feel, amid the city’s jar,
That there abides a peace of thine,
Man did not make, and cannot mar.

The will to neither strive nor cry,
The power to feel with others give!
Calm, calm me more! nor let me die
Before I have begun to live.

Nature Quotes

To any artist, worthy of the name, all in nature is beautiful, because his eyes, fearlessly accepting all exterior truth, read there, as in an open book, all the inner truth.
Auguste Rodin

The poetry of the earth is never dead.
John Keats

For I have learned to look on nature, not as in the hour of thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimes the still, sad music of humanity.
William Wordsworth

Confession & trust quote by Albert Camus

We rarely confide in those who are better than we. Rather, we are more inclined to flee their society. Most often, on the other hand, we confess to those who are like us and who share our weaknesses. Hence we don’t want to improve ourselves or be bettered, for we should first have to be judged in default. We merely wish to be pitied and encouraged in the course we have chosen. In short, we should like, at the same time, to cease being guilty and yet not to make the effort of cleansing ourselves.
Albert Camus,The Fall

Monday, October 21, 2013

Miyoko Shida - Rigolo :The Art of Balance & Concentration

Miyoko Shida-Rigolo

The First Day Of My Life by Paulo Coelho


The First Day Of My Life
Paulo Coelho

No one can go back, but everyone can go forward.
And tomorrow, when the sun rises, all you have
to say to yourselves is:
I am going to think of this day as the first day of my life.

I will look on the members of my family with surprise and amazement,glad to discover that they are by my side, silently sharing that little understood thing called love.

I will pass a beggar, who will ask me for money.
I might give it to him or I might walk past thinking
that he will only spend it on drink, and as I do,
I will hear his insults and know that it is simply
his way of communicating with me.

I will pass someone trying to destroy a bridge.
I might try to stop him or I might realise that he
is doing it because he has no one waiting for him
on the other side and this is his way of trying to
fend off his own loneliness.

Instead of noting down things I’m unlikely to forget,
I will write a poem.
Even if I have never written one before and even if I never do so again, I will at least know that I once had the courage to put my feelings into words.

I will keep smiling, because it pleases me to know that people think I am mad.
My smile is my way of saying: ‘You can destroy my body, but not my soul.’

If it’s sunny tomorrow, I want to look at the sun properly for the first time.
If it’s cloudy, I want to watch to see in which direction the clouds are going.
I always think that I don’t have time or don’t pay enough attention. Tomorrow, though, I will concentrate on the direction taken by the clouds or on the sun’s rays and the shadows they create.

Above my head exists a sky about which all humanity, over thousands of years, has woven a series of reasonable explanations.

Well, I will forget everything I learned about the stars and they will be transformed once more into angels or children or whatever I feel like believing at that moment.

For the first time, I will smile without feeling guilty,
because joy is not a sin.
For the first time, I will avoid anything that makes me suffer, because suffering is not a virtue.
I am living this day as if it were my first and, while it lasts, I will discover things that I did not even know were there.

Even though I have walked past the same places countless times before and said ‘Good morning’ to the same people, tomorrow’s ‘Good morning’ will be different.
It will not be a mere polite formula, but a form of blessing.

And if I’m alone when the night falls, I will go over to window, look up at the sky and feel certain that loneliness is a lie, because the Universe is there to keep me company.

And then I will have lived each hour of my day as if it were a constant surprise to me, to this ‘I’, who was not created by my father or my mother or by school, but by everything I have experienced up until now, and which I suddenly forgot in order to discover it all anew.

And even if this is to be my last day on Earth, I will enjoy it to the full, because I will live it with the innocence of a child, as if I were doing everything for the first time.

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