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my friend cally sent this to me. read it; its worth it. when i read it the second time, and it sunk in, i cried.

Wait – by Galway Kinnell

Wait, for now.
Distrust everything, if you have to.
But trust the hours. Haven’t they
carried you everywhere, up to now?
Personal events will become interesting again.
Hair will become interesting.
Pain will become interesting.
Buds that open out of season will become interesting.
Second-hand gloves will become lovely again,
their memories are what give them
the need for other hands. And the desolation
of lovers is the same: that enormous emptiness
carved out of such tiny beings as we are
asks to be filled; the need
for the new love is faithfulness to the old.

Wait.
Don’t go too early.
You’re tired. But everyone’s tired.
But no one is tired enough.
Only wait a while and listen.
Music of hair,
Music of pain,
music of looms weaving all our loves again.
Be there to hear it, it will be the only time,
most of all to hear,
the flute of your whole existence,
rehearsed by the sorrows, play itself into total exhaustion.

is there anything as dangerous than being understood? all the more so, as there is no such thing. you are always misunderstood. you think you are not lonely but in actual fact you are even more lonely.
nothing has been created without loneliness. i have created a loneliness for myself which nobody can see. it is very difficult nowadays to be on your own, because there are clocks and watches. have you ever seen a saint with a watch? i have never been able to find any, not even among those patron saints of the watchmakers.
braque said to me once “deep down you’ve always loved classical beauty.” that is true. it was then, and still is. people don’t invent a new kind of beauty every year.

And when I look to the shape of the sky,
I give thanks for this hollow chest of mine,
that I no longer feel, the great weight of ordeals,
that can make this life so unkind

If there’s any love in me, don’t let it show,
oh and if there’s any love in me, don’t let it grow.

I wanted to embed this music video but it won’t let me, sadly.

but watch that one! that is what this post is about. then watch the other one.

here is another one thats equally awesome.

that one will surprise you i think :)

the other day I had a dream that a hero of mine came to my house and was sitting at my kitchen table. she was there with her dreads, her bright boho clothes and her husband. and of course her sweet little baby boy. we were just talking and I remember being so nervous and thinking about what I could make fast and I was explaining to my parents who this family was. my parents being old fashioned it was a little difficult to explain that I follow this wonderful lady’s blog and I have fallen in love with this family through the pictures and stories that she shares. weird? yes. wonderful? yes. I look at my kitchen table in a whole new light.

i think i would be more excited to meet this person than i would to meet the president.

(thought process)

president>government>government class>current events discussion>swine flu>swine flu vaccinations>flu vaccine>last week I got a flu shot and have been feeling pretty down..and this morning I went to the doctor to have this sore through I’ve got checked out. doctors visit today>work>germ-x>and today at work they’ll ask me how my weekend went and if I did anything exciting…which I did. I went to our homecoming dance and to the Fort Worth Stockyards with my family. I bought some salsa.

quote of the weekend:

“do you want to chew on my bones now?”
“no, we’ll save that for later.”

“And now here is my secret, a very simple secret; it is only with the heart that one can see rightly, what is essential is invisible to the eye.” -little prince

it is hidden..
whatever i am looking for.
i drive myself into pits
looking for it
because when the dead end
or sneers and jabs
enter my thoughts again
it looks suddenly very dark out  b2758181

Then, when he dies, his lifeless body
Cannot taste sweetness, feel the sharpness of pain,
Lift a hand, or be lost in reveries of the mind.

from The Seafarer (anonymous)

“I write and tell stories so I can experience life more than once…Most of all I write because of the joy it creates.  Writing creates connections and magic and certain kinds of permanent bliss. I can write myself in and out of moods and experiences and creating new places to live in my mind. I think of it kind of like pole vaulting with a pen…Writing can show us how incandescent, brave, wise, and human we are.”

SARK

I can’t express myself sometimes in words, and I often borrow the words of others; others that have had so much more experience then I have; others who I look up to. Here is some excerpts from the book, A Circle of Quiet, which is by Madeleine L’Engle. She is my favorite author. Please, sit back and bask in these words.

I like hanging sheets on lines strung under the apple trees—the birds like it, too. I enjoy going out to the incinerator after dark and watching the flames; my bad feelings burn away with the trash. But the house is still visible, and I can hear the sounds from within; often I need to get away completely, if only for a few minutes. My special place is a small brook in a green glade, a circle of quiet from which there is no visible sign of human beings. There’s a natural stone bridge over the brook, and I sit there, dangling my legs and looking through the foliage at the sky reflected in the water, and things slowly come back into perspective. If the insects are biting me—and they usually are; no place is quiet perfect—I use the pliable branch of a shadblow tree as a fan. The brook wanders through a tunnel of foliage, and the birds sing more sweetly there than anywhere else; or perhaps it is just what when I am at the brook I have time to be aware of them, and I move slowly into a kind of peace that is marvelous, “annihilating all that’s made to a green thought in a green shade.” If I sit for a while, them my impatience, crossness, frustration, are indeed annihilated, and my sense of humor returns.

I suppose the perfect isness of anything would be frightening without the hope of God. An oak tree is, and it doesn’t matter to it—at least Sartre thinks it doesn’t; it is not a thinking oak. Man is; and it matters to him, this is terrifying unless it matters to God, too, because we are sufficient unto ourselves—I am not: my husband, my family, my friends give me my meaning and, in a sense, my being, so that I know that I, like the burning bush, or the oak tree, am ontological: essential: real.

When we are self-conscious, we cannot be wholly aware; we must throw ourselves out first. This throwing ourselves away is the act of creativity. So, when we wholly concentrate, like a child in play, or an artist at work, then we share in the act of creating. We not only escape time, we also escape out self-conscious selves. The Greeks had a word for ultimate self-consciousness which I find illuminating: hubris: pride: pride in the sense of oneself in the center of the universe. The strange and terrible thing is that this kind of total self-consciousness invariably ends in self-annihilation. The great tragedians always understood this, from Sophocles to Shakespeare.

The kind of unself-consciousness I’m thinking about becomes clearer to me when I turn to a different discipline: for instance, that of playing a Bach fugue at the piano, precisely because I will never be good enough pianist to play a Bach fugue as it should be played. But when I am actually sitting at the piano, all there is for me is the music. I am wholly in it, unless I fumble so badly that I perforce to become self-conscious. Mostly, no matter how inadequate my playing, the music is all that matters: I am outside time, outside self, in play, in joy. When we can play with the unself-consciousness concentration of a child, this is: art: prayer: love.

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“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.”

~ Anais Nin

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“June loved to tease August about the way she pondered things, how one minute she was talking to you and the next she had slipped into a private world where she turned her thoughts over and over, digesting stuff most white people would choke on. I wanted to say, ‘Teach me how to do that. Teach me how to take all this in.’ ”

There is so much to take in. I want to sit down and observe it flashing by; I want to watch it in slow motion to I can appreciate all of the moments that I missed when my eyes were blinking. Have you ever thought about that, thought about the moments that went by when you blinked?

I take for granted to many things; one thing being my sisters. I’ve never realised what a close relationship I have with them and how special they are. They each have their own talents and perspectives and quirks and habits. Some are good at finding things, and some are not. Some remember, some are stubborn (all of us are stubborn) and some are nerdy. I love them that way.

I love the book, The Secret Life of Bees, one of many reasons being because it describes the beautiful relationship sisters can have. Of course this book is not for everyone. Many books I love other people think are not worth it or worldy (is there a better way to describe it?). It depends on the person’s perspective on different issues and their heart.

Recently Life has been flashing by before me and I struggle to keep up. My best friend graduated on saturday and summer has started and my sister Amy is here and will leave on Wednesday. She is staying a second year at the internship and by the time she is home and living at home again I will be graduated and possible going to college? Sad? Incredibly.

Even though I want to take things in deeper and look at them from every possibly angle I don’t want to over think anything to wrong-ness. Especially my best friend leaving for college or my sister being gone for so long. God has a plan for them; he has a plan for me; not to harm me (or possible, depress and sadden my heart?) but to prosper me and to give me a hope and a future.

I want to ruminate verses like that that so clearly speak peace to my natural worrying-ness.

So before I (or instead off) crying about heavy sad things, here are some pictures I took of my lovelies. Contemplate. Appreciate. Take pictures of your lovelies.

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ams spinning; her dress is from israel, along with her shoes and her earrings.

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my photography sis, els.

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this scarf is from jerusalem from my sis, ams.

amen.

p.s. don’t you love the green-ness of the grass? it astounds me and I can’t stop taking pictures of it. this is really in my back yard and I didn’t edit it. yum.