Hoping you have a fuzzy slipper kind of weekend !!
" The type of silence I’m talking about, worldly silence, isn’t about not hearing; on the contrary, it’s about listening.
Sound remains; what’s left behind is the voice. What’s left behind is verbalism, language. What’s left behind are the sweet and not-so-sweet nothings of cohabitation, the can-you-pass-the-salts, the pleases without thought to the other person’s pleasure, the sparring, the automatic and constant gauging of the limits of common ground. What’s left behind is the voice, and with that gone, the ego suddenly fades three shades.
Silence is radical. When sustained, it has an effect on your perception comparable to that of any number of chemicals with which you might seek change. Your vision transforms, to start with; you suddenly find yourself absorbing what’s on the periphery, massive amounts of once-invisible data assailing your pupils. When you’re not preparing your next remark, your hearing capacity expands, too: the changing rhythms of the wind; the muted thud of a teardrop hitting the wooden floor; your neighbor’s beating heart. And taste, and smell, they’re amplified and shifted, as well—a cup of tea sipped without the surrounding dialogue (Earl Grey. You don’t? How about English Breakfast, then? No, no sugar, thanks. Watching my weight. Do you have one of those carrying trays? Wow, that sure is hot.) is a more intricate cup of tea. Silence gives you the opportunity to know any number of an object’s facets that typically disappear behind the verbal screens we erect constantly, unthinkingly, between our selves and our environments. And surely the power of wordless touch is one each of us knows ...
Silence, by clarifying our senses, invites us to witness ourselves as we are. This is terrifying. Communal silence goes a step further, inviting us to witness ourselves as we are under the gaze of others. This is simply intolerable...."
"And so, to that end, I will take this opportunity to shut up."xxx
|south moravia by krzysztof browko|
"On a farm you learn to respect nature,
particularly for the wisdom of its dark underworld.
When you sow things in the spring,
you commit them to the darkness of the soil.
The soil does its own work.
It is destructive to interfere with the rhythm and wisdom of its darkness.
You sow drills of potatoes on Tuesday and you are delighted with them.
You meet someone on a Wednesday who says
that you spread the potatoes too thickly, you will have no crop.
You dig up the potatoes again and spread them more thinly.
On the following Monday, you meet an agricultural advisor who says
this particular variety of seed potatoes needs to be spread close together.
You dig them up again and set them closer to each other.
If you keep scraping at the garden, you will never allow anything to grow.
People in our hungry modern world are always scraping at the clay of their hearts.
They have a new thought, a new plan, a new syndrome, that now explains why
they are the way they are. They have found an old memory that opens a new wound.
They keep on relentlessly, again and again, scraping the clay away from their own hearts.
In nature (for example) we do not see the trees getting seriously involved in therapeutic analysis of their root systems or the whole stony world that they had to avoid on their way to the light. Each tree grows in two directions at once, into the darkness and out to the light with as many branches and roots as it needs to embody its wild desires ...
It is wise to allow the soul to carry on its secret work in the night side of your life.
You might not see anything stirring for a long time.
You might have only the slightest intimations
of the secret growth that is happening within you,
but these intimations are sufficient."
|college girls walking barefoot at SMU|
"We lived with the war constantly. I think it's why it had such a profound effect upon my generation. Shoes became scarce. Now, there must have been shoe rationing. I don't remember how they issued shoes, but, being in college, shoes were very important. And we were down to two or three pair of shoes. So you never let your friend borrow your shoes. When it rained at Auburn we all took our shoes off and carried 'em. Some big reporter from New York City came down to see how southern college girls were living during the war, and he found us walking around the campus barefooted. So he went back to New York and wrote this long article, how southern women went to college without shoes on. Well, the Dean of Women called us all into a big assembly and she said, 'Now, girls, I don't care if it's your only pair of shoes. Put them on when you walk across the campus.' She said, 'We can't have publicity like this in New York about our southern campus.' So we all then wore our shoes. If they fell apart, they fell apart."
Let's face it. Unless it's in accordance with your will, going barefoot downright sucks. Today was "A day without shoes" day, by Tom's shoes. (check 'em out online.) I woke up to find a torrential monsoon out my window. Initially I wanted to forget barefoot day and put on my boots. But then I thought, you know, that's the whole point. People across the globe are not afforded the option of putting their shoes on when they feel like it. They walk barefoot rain or shine or snow or WHATEVER!!
-Within 5 minutes of my trek to the Psych building, my feet were already being rubbed raw with the rough sidewalks.-I couldn't walk as fast I normally walked because it hurt and I had to dodge worm guts that were strewn across the pavement. (I'm grossed out about that sort of thing even with my shoes on. Seriously! I was one stride away from vomiting.)-I looked at the ground pretty much the entire time I walked. I didn't want to step on worms or sharp rocks. Which I inevitably did anyway.-Aside from the rain I didn't feel like walking around as much. Duh. That's a given.-I was exceedingly grateful for smooth surfaces.-I really appreciate the fact that God has blessed me so well that I can own as many shoes as I'd want.
|It's Story Time by Christopher Stott|
|Anais Nin in Silverlake / Los Angeles|
"My father left: love means abandonment and tragedy, either be abandoned or abandon first, etc. Not only the leap over the obstacle of fatality, but a complete artistic rehearsal of the creative instinct which is a leap beyond the human through a complete rebirth, or perhaps being born truly for the first time. To accomplish this it was not sufficient that I should relive the childhood which accustomed me to pain. I must find a realm as strong as the realm of my bondage to sorrow, by the discovery of my positive, active individuality. Such as my power to write […] the most vital core of my true maturity."~ by Anais Nin