yesdove2005--0-7-T07: 1:5:-08:00The quote, among many, that I try to live every day by :
"I can do no great things, only small things with great love."
-Mother Teresa
The theme song for my life, if I could choose one, would be:
"Hands"
By Jewel
If I could tell the world just one thing
It would be that we're all OK
And not to worry 'cause worry is wasteful
And useless in times like these
I won't be made useless
I won't be idled with despair
I will gather myself around my faith
For light does the darkness most fear
My hands are small, I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
Poverty stole your golden shoes
It didn't steal your laughter
And heartache came to visit me
But I knew it wasn't ever after
We will fight, not out of spite
For someone must stand up for what is right
'Cause where there's a man who has no voice
There ours shall go singing
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
I am never broken
In the end only kindness matters
In the end only kindness matters
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
I will get down on my knees, and I will pray
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
My hands are small I know
But they're not yours, they are my own
But they're not yours, they are my own
And I am never broken
We are never broken
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's mind
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's heart
We are God's eyes
God's hands
God's eyes
We are God's hands
We are God's hands
What? No place for favorite poetry? Tsk, tsk, that just lacks culture! Alas, this space will have to suffice. One of my favorite poets is Khalil Gibran (If you haven't read "The Prophet", do so ASAP, you can access it here : http://www.columbia.edu/~gm84/gibtable.html) One of my favorite excerpts from
The Prophet:
Then the gates of his heart were flung open, and his joy flew far over the sea. And he closed his eyes and prayed in the silences of his soul.
But as he descended the hill, a sadness came upon him, and he thought in his heart:
How shall I go in peace and without sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the spirit shall I leave this city.
Long were the days of pain I have spent within its walls, and long were the nights of aloneness; and who can depart from his pain and his aloneness without regret?
Too many fragments of the spirit have I scatterd in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.
It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.
Nor is it a thought I leave behind me, but a heart made sweet with hunger and with thirst.
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
The sea that calls all things unto her calls me, and I must embark.
For to stay, though the hours burn in the night, is to freeze and crystallize and be bound in a mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is here. But how shall I?
A voice cannot carry the tongue and the lips that give it wings. Alone must it seek the ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the eagle fly across the sun...
...Your pain is the breaking of the shell that encloses your understanding.
Even as the stone of the fruit must break, that its heart may stand in the sun, so must you know pain.
And could you keep your heart in wonder at the daily miracles of your life, your pain would not seem less wondrous than your joy;
And you would accept the seasons of your heart, even as you have always accepted the seasons that pass over your fields.
And you would watch with serenity through the winters of your grief.
Much of your pain is self-chosen.
It is the bitter potion by which the physician within you heals your sick self.
Therefore trust the physician, and drink his remedy in silence and tranquillity:
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
And the cup he brings, though it burn your lips, has been fashioned of the clay which the Potter has moistened with His own sacred tears.
We mustn't forget Pablo Neruda, though. Deep and bleeding. He is, however, far more beautiful in Spanish.
I Do Not Love You...
by Pablo Neruda
I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
Or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
In secret, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that never blooms
But carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
Thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
Risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
So I love you because I know no other way
Than this: where "I" does not exist, nor "you",
So close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
So close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.
And Emily Dickinson. I have heard the criticism that says her work is shallow or too short, but those people simply aren't looking deeply enough. Her work was never meant to be taken at face value, there are always hidden meanings.
If you were coming in the fall,
I ?d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
If I could see you in a year, 5
I ?d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed,
I ?d count them on my hand, 10
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen?s land.
If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I ?d toss it yonder like a rind, 15
And taste eternity.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time?s uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting. 20buzznet:user:id:88995http://www.buzznet.com/Copyright (c) 2005, Buzznet, Inc.yesdovePics Of Me