Wandering Thought # 361
We fall into addictive cycles as a way to escape pain, inner turmoil and anxiety. Instead of facing our underlying emotions — or because we are unable to recognize them — we take the easy way out and choose our drug of addiction which solidifies overtime into a pattern of behavior. The longer we persist the harder it becomes to break the cycle, the deeper we go into the labyrinth and no longer find our way out. It becomes our normal, part of our routine and coping mechanism, a need etched into our brain that drains our soul.
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The apple trees lovingly bowed their branches over us
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"One of the worst plagues of society is this thoughtless inexhaustible verbosity, this careless use of words, this pretense of knowing a thing because we talk about it—these counterfeits of belief, thought, love, or earnestness, which all the while are mere babble."
— Henri-Frédéric Amiel
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“There is, at least there sometimes seems to be, a certain blessedness lying at the heart of things, a mysterious blessedness.”
— Aldous Huxley
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The Dove
by Leonard Cohen
I saw the dove come down, the dove with the
green twig, the childish dove out of the storm and
flood. It came towards me in the style of the Holy Spirit
descending. I had been sitting in a cafe for twenty-five
years waiting for this vision. It hovered over the great
quarrel. I surrendered to the iron laws of the moral universe which
make a boredom out of everything desired. Do not surrender,
said the dove. I have come to make a nest in your shoe. I
want your step to be light.
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Bernd Webler
#art
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“The roots of loneliness are very deep … They find their food in the suspicion that there is no-one who cares and offers love without conditions.”
— Henri Nouwen
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Painter unknown
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"The inaccessibility of this loch is part of its power. Silence belongs to it. If jeeps find it out, or a funicular railway disfigures it, part of its meaning will be gone. The good of the greatest is not here relevant. It is necessary to be sometimes exclusive, not on behalf of rank or wealth, but of those human qualities that can apprehend loneliness."
— Nan Shepherd, The Living Mountain
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17.
So I guess it’s time
to let go of my
tears, to let you go
on into the night,
quietly, quietly,
as you let the world
go, voice cut from you
by the surgeon’s knife,
only your hands to
say goodbye, touching
the leaves of the
lemon tree one last
time, or Britta’s
pale, shivering arm,
or trying to hold
forever in your eyes
this olive-tree
twisted in the valley
winds, or this flash
of sunlight off
the high Sierra snows.
Burton Hatlen, from Crossing Altamont
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A bird came down the walk:
He did not know I saw;
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw.
And then he drank a dew
From a convenient grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the wall
To let a beetle pass.
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroad,-
They looked like frightened beads, I thought;
He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger; cautious,
I offered him a crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home
Than oars divide the ocean,
Too silver for a seam,
Or butterflies, off banks of noon,
Leap, splashless, as they swim.
— Emily Dickinson, A Bird Came Down
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David Lupton, illustration for the Folio Society edition of The Tombs of Atuan by Ursula K. Le Guin
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I taught myself to live simply and wisely,
to look at the sky and pray to God,
and to wander long before evening
to tire my superfluous worries.
When the burdocks rustle in the ravine
and the yellow-red rowanberry cluster droops
I compose happy verses
about life's decay, decay and beauty.
I come back. The fluffy cat
licks my palm, purrs so sweetly
and the fire flares bright
on the saw-mill turret by the lake.
Only the cry of a stork landing on the roof
occasionally breaks the silence.
If you knock on my door
I may not even hear.
—Anna Akhmatova
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