Image re-posted from For Ever Art Facebook page
Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of others’ opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition.
Steve Jobs
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There’s a point where we simply have to accept there is no limit to how much we can love. That this moment we are in now is always the beginning of our expanding heart. We are never at an end point. Everything you know and can experience is evolving. This Earth, the Universe, plankton in the sea – you. Nothing is stagnant and most certainly not your heart. We have to stop seeing ourselves as limited lovers. We use the moments where we fall short to love to confirm we have boundaries because we fear to step across the horizon. We don’t know who that version of us is, so we accept our frailties as sure signs that this is who we are. Yet those moments are just us cracking the chrysalis. We’re gnawing off the chain, splitting our emotional atom and losing our religion that says, “This is all that I am.”
It’s time we stepped up to the bar, laid down the money and said, “I’m in. I’m in with everything I’ve got. I’ll slay whatever dragons. Today and every day henceforth I am free to love more than I ever thought possible.”
Sunset: Photo negative taken by Noelle
The Dalai Lama is quoted as saying, “Sometimes the best thing to ever happen to you is NOT getting what you thought you wanted.” Spiritual evolution comes when we begin to see that the negative events of our life are actually the good things. That these same things, places, events were providing us an opportunity to see the world and ourselves completely differently. That they are meant to strip away our illusions, mainly, about ourself. When you can see beauty and motion and grace in negatives….well…then you are really onto something.
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“Size matters not. Look at me. Judge me by my size, do you? Hmm? Hmm. And well you should not. For my ally is the Force, and a powerful ally it is. Life creates it, makes it grow. Its energy surrounds us and binds us. Luminous beings are we, not this crude matter. You must feel the Force around you; here, between you, me, the tree, the rock, everywhere, yes.”
~ Jedi Master Yoda
Special thank you to Satyam T. Das for posting the quote in “Be Here Now” group on the Insight Timer app
Remembering Autumn: Photo by Noelle
“God give me strength to face a fact though it slay me.”
Thomas H. Huxley
Image re-posted from Enchanted Nature Facebook page.
Breaking chains that bind
Waiting on a free man’s sun
Faith in adventure
Free photos from http://www.terragalleria.com
If pain, sorrow, regret, confusion or fear are appearing in your present experience right now, do not turn away, do not use the labels ‘dark’ or ‘negative’, do not assume any kind of cosmic deviation or ‘sin’. For these are sacred and intelligent life-movements, all, undivided from the vastness of creation, waves of the limitless ocean of Self. They are your beloved children, all, forgotten movements of yourself, longing for your warm presence – a moment of undivided attention. “Remember me!” they cry, one last time, and will you ignore them today? Or will you finally accept your birth right? Will you remember that everything you long for is already appearing, disguised as everything you reject?
Will you remember that you cannot be anywhere other than Home?” ~ Jeff Foster
A study in the formation of frost: Photo by Noelle
Who should sing the song of goodness and well being into the world? The Buddha? Jesus? Mother Teresa? Why are we waiting for a great leader when we each have a song of love in our throat? We sing our life into being through our thoughts. Offer anger and the world is dark. Offer tenderness and the world is soft. We sing by thinking and we are always singing.
The world needs simple lullabys as children need them for soothing and sleep. And like a baby the Earth does not know its mother’s voice as stage worthy, nor if it be heard by one or thousands. The Earth simply knows our voice as the voice of love.
There are no small acts of love and no common voices. You are Mohammed or Rumi or Osho. So sing. Sing as though the world were your stage and your heart should burst with the love it has to give out. For in truth, that is how it is.
Life in Concrete: Photo by Noelle
She asks what I want. Such a loaded question. No exit. I want, I want many things but purse strings wrap at my knees and I feel myself falling into her question. I look up. She wants to please me. Her love a warm blanket, tattered but whole. That moneyless handbag dangles off her arm and it’s not the elephant in the room, but rather the herd. I don’t know why she’s asking when there is no way to fill my hunger. I want to tell her not to ask me anymore for my insides she can’t fill. Best not to ask and let me gnaw on my own wants as dog bones left on the floor.
Still, she waits and there’s the tension. The longing to be true and answer with my greatest heart’s desire, because her love deserves that much. Yet to answer is to darken her eyes with that poor man’s shadow. He lingers with his empty pockets in the hallway jingling keys to fool you it was money. I hear him louder sometimes than I hear her. Still, she’s waiting.
I want to love her with an answer she can meet, but all my small hopes are used up. I got nothing but big heart yearnings left and I feel like she can see them straight up, though I’ve worked hard to hide them in the wood pile. “What do you want,” she asks now exasperated. I shove my hands in my pockets, “Nothin’, mama. I’m good.”
I see her sorrow and I eat it whole, like her biscuits. It’s all that’s on the table.
Work in progress from “The Writer’s Church” writing group, Boulder, CO. Hosted by Marj Hahne
Winter Sun: Photo by Noelle
Dead is the soup, no more potatoes on the board
Dead is the Shalimar soaked scarves on the door
Dead comes the memory of smashed pots on walls
And broken eggs still in cracked dishes on the floor
Dead giggles down hallways where she chased
Little girl hiding in winter boots and grandma’s lace
Dead comes the warm paper skinned hands
That kneaded the bread and rolled pie dough with cans
Dead are the winter nights as black as coal
Christmas light watching sipping her coffee cold
Dead are the secrets each of us carried
Dead is the garden of our arguments parried
Dead am I as cherished daughter
Dead is the place called home by lake water
Dead comes her call from decades now past
Dead are my longings for safe sail and mast
An anaphora (repetition of phrase). A work in progress from The Writer’s Church, Boulder, CO. Hosted by Marj Hahne
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