life: acoustic & amplified

poetry, quotes & thoughts about life

Archive for the category “Blessing”

Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy . . . but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird. – Harper Lee

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It’s all connected –
All the love,
All the loss,
All the joy,
All the pain.

The world is made of God.
We live in the ocean of God’s breath,
His very words.

We are all artists.
We all speak creation.
Our words are our greatest art form,
make sure they are painting a masterpiece.

God is love is life is truth is word is love is…
every little thing is connected to each other.

Everything I really needed to know
I learned from the ocean
and the trees.
The mountains
introduced me to the angels.
Acorns were my very first teachers
the finest flock of seagulls
were my most recent.

We are the temple.
We includes the universe
we find ourselves in.
We are brothers and sisters
to stars and starships

ACL 3/31/13

It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions, my one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for.
– Oscar Wilde

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It is strange to be here. The mystery never leaves you alone. Behind your image, below your words, above your thoughts, the silence of another world waits. A world lives within you. No one else can bring you news of this inner world. Through the opening of the mouth, we bring out sounds from the mountain beneath the soul. These sounds are words. The world is full of words. There are so many talking all the time, loudly, quietly, in rooms, on streets, on television, on radio, in the paper, in books. The noise of words keeps what we call the world there for us. We take each other’s sounds and make patterns, predictions, benedictions, and blasphemies. Each day, our tribe of language holds what we call the world together. Yet the uttering of the word reveals how each of us relentlessly creates. Everyone is an artist. Each person brings sound out of silence and coaxes the invisible to become visible.
– John O’Donohue

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We seldom hear the voice of the Holy One
who is, after all, fearsomely immense,

who sits, enthralled, perfectly still as a bird
watcher, saying nothing, offering only

the merest whispers, hidden in this world
so cleverly as to seem natural,

so as not to frighten us
away.
__________________
Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
http://www.unfoldinglight.net

That day I carried the dream around like a full glass of water, moving gracefully so I would not lose any of it. – Miranda July

oh yeah, it’s a brand spankin’ new day!!’

You wake with
no aches
in the arms
of your beloved
to the smell of fresh coffee
you eat a giant breakfast
with no thought
of carbs
there is time to read
with a purring cat on your lap
later you walk by the ocean
with your dog
on this cut crystal day
your favorite music and the sun
fill the house
a short delicious nap
under a fleece throw
comes later
and the phone doesn’t ring
at dusk you roast a chicken,
bake bread, make an exquisite
chocolate cake
for some friends
you’ve been missing
someone brings you an
unexpected present
and the wine is just right with the food
after a wonderful party
you sink into sleep
in a clean nightgown
in fresh sheets
your sweetheart doesn’t snore
and in your dreams
an old piece of sadness
lifts away

“The Perfect Day” by Alice N. Persons

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the natural

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Biology: Course Review
by Marilyn McEntyre

If you forget what axons do,
or how a virus invades a cell,
remember this—

that light becomes food.
That the seasons rhyme,
a different word each time

turning soil into living song.
That all things work together.
Even death. Even decay.

That this is the way
of the world we got: what is given
grows by grace and care

and knows what it needs.
That life is strong, and precarious,
full of devices and desires.

That what we hold in common
may not be owned. Control
is costly. Close attention

is the reverence due
whatever lives and moves,
mutant and quick and clever.

That our neighbors—
the plankton, the white pine,
the busy nematodes—

serve us best
in reciprocal gratitude:
what they receive, they give.

The way the heart accepts
what the vein delivers and sends it on,
again. Again.

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faith walk

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This is a faith walk. Everything you do must be done by faith in Me. If you keep your eyes focused on Me, you will not fail. I know each thing you must face, because I have already faced them for you. So, My child, do not be afraid. I will not let you be harmed. I will guide you every step of the way. My right hand will protect you. Know that I have prepared the way for you. Just trust Me and press on through.
– Shearon Hurst

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Lord God of Abraham, Isaac, and of Israel, let it be known THIS DAY that thou art God of everything, and that I am Your servant, and that I have done all these things at Thy word. Hear me, O Lord, hear me, that this people may know that Thou art the Lord God, and that Thou hast turned their heart back again.
(vs 36-37)
– Buell Kazee

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Faith is the basis of all works in us. Absolute surrender of all self-sufficiency and resourcefulness of self, and absolute faith and trust in God to do something for us, is the attitude a believer must take. Ever it is the question, “Can you believe?” All things are possible to him that believeth.
– Buell Kazee

Modern religion has tended to degenerate into a decent formula whereby people can embellish an otherwise comfortable life. – Alfred North Whitehead

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And the bottom line is: We will be known by our fruits — not by what name we call ourselves or by what fame we want to be known for. We will be known for our actual fruits, not the intentions of our imaginations.

The greatest of these is love. And love’s actual fruit is service: Love bears service. Love says: Let me serve.

And the actual fruit of serving is peace: Service grows peace. Service says: Let me help bring peace. Which means — all of us are simply just one hand reach away from working for world peace.
– Ann Voskamp

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Life is never about being correct, but only and always about being connected. Just stay connected. At all costs stay connected. Our only holiness is by participation and surrender to the Body of Love, and not by any private performance. Because Love is One, and this Love is either shared and passed on or it is not the Great Love at all. The One Love is always eager.
– Richard Rohr

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both the receiving of love, and the letting go of it for others, are always. very real dying to our present state. Whenever we choose to love, we will – and must – die to who ever we were before we loved. Our former self is taken from us by the object of our love. We only realize this is what has happened after the letting go.
– Richard Rohr

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avatar

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hiding in this cage
of visible matter

is the invisible
lifebird

pay attention
to her

she is singing
your song

“07” [“Hiding in this cage”], attributed to Kabir, from Beloved, May I Enter: Short Poems.

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what you see is what you are

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Our only blindness is our own lack of fascination, humility, curiosity, awe, and willingness to be allured forward.
– Richard Rohr

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Every happening, great and small, is a parable whereby God speaks to us, and the art of life is to get the message. – Malcolm Muggeridge

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Nature will bear the closest inspection. She
Invites us to lay our eyes level with her
Smallest leaf, and take an insect view of its
Plain.

—Thoreau

The raspberries
in my driveway
have always
been here
(for the whole eleven years
I have owned
but have not owned
this house),
yet
I have never
tasted them
before.

Always on a plane.
Always in the arms
of man, not God,
always too busy,
too fretful,
too worried
to see
that all along
my
driveway
are red, red raspberries
for me to taste.

Shiny and red,
without hairs—
unlike the berries
from the market.
Little jewels—
I share them
with the birds!

On one perches
a tiny green insect.
I blow her off.
She flies!
I burst the raspberry
upon my tongue.

In my solitude
I commune
with raspberries,
with grasses,
with the world.

The world was always
there before,
but where
was I?

Ah raspberry—
if you are so beautiful
upon my ready tongue,
imagine
what wonders
lie in store
for me!

“Raspberries in my Driveway” by Erica Jong

life abundant

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Let a stalk of wheat
be your witness
to every difficult day.

Since it was a flame
before it was a plant,
since it was courage
before it was grain,
since it was determination
before it was growth,
and, above all, since it was prayer
before it was fruition,
it has nothing to point to
but the sky.

Remember the incredibly gentle wheat stalk
which holds its countless arrows fixed
to shoot from the bowstring—
you, standing in the same position
where the wind holds it.

“Wheat” by Ishihara Yoshiro

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full

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Although I watched and waited for it every day,

somehow I missed it, the moment when everything reached 

the peak of ripeness. It wasn’t at the solstice; that was only
the time of the longest light. It was sometime after that, when

the plants had absorbed all that sun, had taken it into themselves

for food and swelled to the height of fullness. It was in July,
in a dizzy blaze of heat and fog, when on some nights
it was too hot to sleep, and the restaurants set half their tables

on the sidewalks; outside the city, down the coast,
the Milky Way floated overhead, and shooting stars

fell from the sky over the ocean. One day the garden

was almost overwhelmed with fruition:
My sweet peas struggled out of the raised bed onto the mulch
of laurel leaves and bark and pods, their brilliantly colored

sunbonnets of rose and stippled pink, magenta and deep purple
pouring out a perfume that was almost oriental. Black-eyed Susans

stared from the flower borders, the orange cherry tomatoes

were sweet as candy, the corn fattened in its swaths of silk,

hummingbirds spiraled by in pairs, the bees gave up

and decided to live in the lavender. At the market,

surrounded by black plums and rosy plums and sugar prunes

and white-fleshed peaches and nectarines, perfumey melons
and mangos, purple figs in green plastic baskets,

clusters of tiny Champagne grapes and piles of red-black cherries

and apricots freckled and streaked with rose, I felt tears

come into my eyes, absurdly, because I knew
that summer had peaked and was already passing

away. I felt very close then to understanding 

the mystery; it seemed to me that I almost knew

what it meant to be alive, as if my life had swelled

to some high moment of response, as if I could

reach out and touch the season, as if I were inside

its body, surrounded by sweet pulp and juice,

shimmering veins and ripened skin.

“A Warm Summer in San Francisco” by Carolyn Miller

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