Contributions

"A man who uses his hands is a laborer.

One who uses his hands and mind is a craftsman.

But he who uses his hands, his mind, and his heart, is an artist."

~ Saint Francis of Assisi

If order and industry be our aim
We are put by birds and bees to shame;
But, if we would fathom the Soul,
From toe to tip, -- we should
The very gods outstrip!

A devil is a god outgrown.

Only the servant of God is the master of himself.

I would die for the answers, but I live for the questions.

If you cannot buy a clue, beg for one.

The best conversations go on, even when they are over.

Have you any idea what it does to a child, when the parents are in love?

Love is on everyone's side.

We didn't turn on the television when we got home. We had a glass of wine, we smoked a joint, we talked about love and people and dying and living out this life. We talked about what is immediate and we talked about what is immense. The time at hand and the time to come. We remembered we were made for each other, like two molecules possessing an opposite charge, which cling to one another, each asking those questions, and offering those answers, which the other keeps hidden and cannot bear to confront, lest they undermine our chosen path. How mysterious and cautious, these moments, when we risk projecting our own path onto another, and drawing them away from their unique calling, for the sake of challenging and catalyzing within them some nobler, more authentic synthesis.

How To Decalcify Your Pineal (or How To Open Your "Third Eye")

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=92qmQFkYILM

I am a part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethro'
Gleams that untravell'd world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
~ Tennyson

In forests, I have seen the soul of man descend, and wind herself around some armored oak; coat herself in rough, primordial luxury, and forget the worlds of angels; disembodied hosts. How blessed is this world? How cursed are those who curse it? Yet, somewhere high above, an airy light breaks through, -- not unnatural in essence, -- immaculate and wondrous to behold. Who, brought to touch the skirt of what is not, could love again the earth this love had trot? For the mind is water, the body rust; imagination weaves a scene more lovely and more likely than the grave. Where shall we enter, as souls on fire, inflamed by our desire for the visions we have made? Into a kettle, into a hovel, into a garden path? Along the seaside, upon a mare, under the bridge the city wears? Or shall we rise in subtlest, unfettered aspiration, into a sky of ecstasy sublime? Our gentle souls unhurried, languishing, and merging with the gossamer clouds. Our essence drawn as delicately into the warming sun.