Jasmine would often describe her baby as frenetic and fractious. 'She was born with a hurricane for a soul, that one,' she would say. But she said it in a loving way with that soft glow in her eyes that only a mother can have for such difficult offspring. She would rock her in the dead of night when she found it impossible to sleep and she would wear her all day long in a baby carrier so that she would be calmed by the body to body contact. She would soothe her with lullaby's and stroke her tiny back and soft hair. She would whisper sweet things in her ears and cover her with kisses. She would love the hurricane right out of that child and replace it with a sweet summer breeze because above all, she was her baby, and she loved her with a power mightier than the wind.
Feet firmly planted on the ground I look up at a defiant sky, the dome of our existence. I see no fairness there, no sense of responsibility. Some days are dark, angry, bitter spitting rain, hail, fire and brimstone. Others calm, serene with light fluffy clouds as if there wasn't a care in the world. Why? I ask myself are some people drawn towards the former, and others towards the latter.
Perhaps we can see Hogwarts as a representation of colonialism, the "goods" turning up as if by magic to form a banquet in the western industrialised world - the workers kept out of sight and (apparently) 'wishing only to serve masters' whom are 'careful that they don't have socks.' And so, here we have a deep metaphor for the psychological struggles of white-middle class Britain, a subconscious awareness of, and fear of, the producers of the goods upon which we consume. Are our conscious minds being "heroes of justice" while we ignore the subconscious battle that rages on, our deep sense of morality vs. the media-planted fears? Perhaps if we wake up to this reality we can start to seriously address how real global fairness could work.
I know it’s an addiction. Everyone tells me. But it’s to painful to let go of. It’s always there for me when nothing else is. It makes my brain feel happy again. And I feel so bad to just let go because it’s like my best friend. What’s my addiction you ask? Well it’s...
Anxiety thoughts are akin to driving around the block over and over, faster and faster. It's pointless. Stop. Let your thoughts be as a car on a good road, taking the hills and valleys just the same, heading into the far horizon your passions call you toward. You owe it to yourself to take control of the wheel.
At first glance the diver only saw pink coral. She took out a camera and began to take photos for the magazine. After she had enough shots she drew closer to feel it. Something moved. Frozen in place she observed for a few minutes, then like one of those fancy trick 3D pictures she began to see something else. There was a pygmy seahorse with it's tail wrapped around the coral, its camouflage was so much like it's surroundings that just melted from view the second she stopped focusing on where it was. Its body was a soft pink was the exact shade of the main stems but it had darker pink lumps on it just like its home.
To reduce an ancient times master by the ignorances that were common of the time, yet not celebrate their achievements and advancements by creative leaps of the heart and machinery of thought, is cheap. It is knocking beer cans off a fence with your fist when they took the shot from a mile out with some old fashioned gun. So celebrate their wisdom, forgive their ignorance, feel gratitude for the answers which they handed to you on a platter, and strive to take your own shot into that far horizon.
I started pedaling, inching toward my destination and enjoying the newly cool air. It was a lovely day, the first of all the days of spring, with crocuses and daisies in the neighbors garden, and white asters blooming all around. I didn't simply like nature, but rather I loved it. The trees and the flowers and the animals who lasted all around. Imagining all of nature destroyed would be like leaving my soul gasping for breath.
That the financial system enables the privileged to prey on the disadvantaged is obvious, but the fact that it enables the "elders" to prey on the younger generation is the real kicker. You can either support or exploit others, to chase greed in the money-nexus or embrace ways of loving... it is a choice.
Massive amounts of wind are both music and the dance-floor for the clouds... vagrant, white and puffy as they are - playing and teasing with other clouds and moving freely in the sky as if they own freedom itself. Yet I wondered why at times they cry with fierce and sonorous thunder...
"Mirror, mirror," called the evil Queen, "Who is the most beautiful in the land?" But the mirror never cared for the wrapping paper, as it were, only the gift inside. On seeing the rotten core of the queen, so putrid with odorous decay, it knew that any fair hearted one would outshine her even in the deepest forests. So it told her that she was the poisoned apple and the bitter cold snow too, that she needed to dilute her toxins until they were no more and let warm sunshine into her soul.