“In one drop of water are found all the secrets of all the oceans;
in one aspect of You are found all the aspects of existence.”
― Kahlil Gibran
Photography
On the Pulse of Morning
(excerpt)
By Maya Angelou
A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon,
The dinosaur, who left dried tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.
But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow,
I will give you no hiding place down here.
You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness
Have lain too long
Facedown in ignorance,
Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.
The Rock cries out to us today,
You may stand upon me,
But do not hide your face.
“When they walk, they stumble. They are not what one would call graceful.
They were not designed to walk. They fly. And when they fly, oh, how they fly,
so free, so graceful. They see from the sky what we never see.” — Anonymous
“Bears are not companions of men, but children of God, and His charity is broad enough for both… We seek to establish a narrow line between ourselves and the feathery zeros we dare to call angels, but ask a partition barrier of infinite width to show the rest of creation its proper place. Yet bears are made of the same dust as we, and breathe the same winds and drink of the same waters. A bears days are warmed by the same sun, his dwellings are overdomed by the same blue sky, and his life turns and ebbs with heart-pulsings like ours and was poured from the same fountain…..” – John Muir
The Morning Comes Before the Sun
by Susan Coolidge
Slow buds the pink dawn like a rose
From out night’s gray and cloudy sheath;
Softly and still it grows and grows,
Petal by petal, leaf by leaf;
Each sleep-imprisoned creature breaks
Its dreamy fetters, one by one,
And love awakes, and labor wakes,–
The morning comes before the sun.
What is this message from the light
So fairer far than light can be?
Youth stands a-tiptoe, eager, bright,
In haste the risen sun to see;
Ah! check thy lunging, restless heart,
Count the charmed moments as they run,
It is life’s best and fairest part,
This morning hour before the sun.
When once thy day shall burst to flower,
When once the sun shall climb the sky,
And busy hour by busy hour,
The urgent noontide draws anigh;
When the long shadows creep abreast,
To dim the happy task half done,
Thou wilt recall this pause of rest,
This morning hush before the sun.
To each, one dawning and one dew,
One fresh young hour is given by fate,
One rose flush on the early blue.
Be not impatient then, but wait!
Clasp the sweet peace on earth and sky,
By midnight angels woven and spun;
Better than day its prophecy,–
The morning comes before the sun.
A pair of powerful spectacles has sometimes sufficed to cure a person in love. — Friedrich Nietzsche
“To hear never-heard sounds, To see never-seen colors and shapes, To try to understand the imperceptible Power pervading the world; To fly and find pure ethereal substances That are not of matter But of that invisible soul pervading reality. To hear another soul and to whisper to another soul; To be a lantern in the darkness Or an umbrella in a stormy day; To feel much more than know. To be the eyes of an eagle, slope of a mountain; To be a wave understanding the influence of the moon; To be a tree and read the memory of the leaves; To be an insignificant pedestrian on the streets Of crazy cities watching, watching, and watching. To be a smile on the face of a woman And shine in her memory As a moment saved without planning.” ― Dejan Stojanovic
“Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.
We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality,
tied in a single garment of destiny.
Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.”
― Martin Luther King Jr., Letter from the Birmingham Jail
I’m neither an impostor nor a guest!
I’m not the maid! I am your seventh
Day, your longed-for Sunday’s rest,
Your passion and your seventh heaven!
On earth, they wouldn’t offer me a dime,
Hung millstones on my neck to spite me.
My love! Do you not recognize me? I’m
Your little bird, your swallow – Psyche!
April 1918
By Marina Tsvetaeva
Translation by Andrey Kneller
Ambient Music must be able to accommodate many levels of listening attention
without enforcing one in particular; it must be as ignorable as it is interesting. — Brian Eno
Maverick Mist 