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“REMEMBER YOUR GREATNESS
Before you were born,
And were still too tiny for
The human eye to see,
You won the race for life
From among 250 million competitors.
And yet,
How fast you have forgotten
Your strength,
When your very existence
Is proof of your greatness.
You were born a winner,
A warrior,
One who defied the odds
By surviving the most gruesome
Battle of them all.
And now that you are a giant,
Why do you even doubt victory
Against smaller numbers,
And wider margins?
The only walls that exist,
Are those you have placed in your mind.
And whatever obstacles you conceive,
Exist only because you have forgotten
What you have already
Achieved.”
― Rise Up and Salute the Sun: The Writings of Suzy Kassem
Before you were born,
And were still too tiny for
The human eye to see,
You won the race for life
From among 250 million competitors.
And yet,
How fast you have forgotten
Your strength,
When your very existence
Is proof of your greatness.
You were born a winner,
A warrior,
One who defied the odds
By surviving the most gruesome
Battle of them all.
And now that you are a giant,
Why do you even doubt victory
Against smaller numbers,
And wider margins?
The only walls that exist,
Are those you have placed in your mind.
And whatever obstacles you conceive,
Exist only because you have forgotten
What you have already
Achieved.”
― Rise Up and Salute the Sun: The Writings of Suzy Kassem
“Asunder
Ask parents who've lost a child,
"How many children do you have?"
The father says "one,"
the mother says "two" ~
that's why these marriages break in half.”
―
Ask parents who've lost a child,
"How many children do you have?"
The father says "one,"
the mother says "two" ~
that's why these marriages break in half.”
―
“There is a legend that has often been told
Of the boy who searched for the Windows of Gold.
The beautiful windows he saw far away
When he looked in the valley at sunrise each day.
And he yearned to go down to the valley below
But lived on a mountain covered with snow,
And he knew it would be a difficult trek,
But that was a journey he wanted to make.
So he planned by day and he dreamed by night
Of how he could reach The Great Shining Light.
And one golden morning when dawn broke through
And the valley sparkled with diamond of dew.
He started to climb down the mountainside
With the Windows of Gold as his goal and his guide.
He traveled all day and, weary and worn,
With bleeding feet and clothes that were torn.
He entered the peaceful valley town
Just as the Golden Sun went down.
But he seemed to have lost his "Guiding Light,"
The windows were dark that had once been bright.
And hungry and tired and lonely and cold
He cried, "Won't You Show Me The Windows of Gold?"
And a kind hand touched him and said, "Behold!
High On The Mountain Are The Windows of Gold."
For the sun going down in a great golden ball
Had burnished the windows of his cabin so small,
And the Kingdom of God with its Great Shining light,
Like the Golden Windows that shone so bright.
Is not a far distant place, somewhere,
It's as close to you as a silent prayer,
And your search for God will end and begin
When you look for Him and find Him within.”
―
Of the boy who searched for the Windows of Gold.
The beautiful windows he saw far away
When he looked in the valley at sunrise each day.
And he yearned to go down to the valley below
But lived on a mountain covered with snow,
And he knew it would be a difficult trek,
But that was a journey he wanted to make.
So he planned by day and he dreamed by night
Of how he could reach The Great Shining Light.
And one golden morning when dawn broke through
And the valley sparkled with diamond of dew.
He started to climb down the mountainside
With the Windows of Gold as his goal and his guide.
He traveled all day and, weary and worn,
With bleeding feet and clothes that were torn.
He entered the peaceful valley town
Just as the Golden Sun went down.
But he seemed to have lost his "Guiding Light,"
The windows were dark that had once been bright.
And hungry and tired and lonely and cold
He cried, "Won't You Show Me The Windows of Gold?"
And a kind hand touched him and said, "Behold!
High On The Mountain Are The Windows of Gold."
For the sun going down in a great golden ball
Had burnished the windows of his cabin so small,
And the Kingdom of God with its Great Shining light,
Like the Golden Windows that shone so bright.
Is not a far distant place, somewhere,
It's as close to you as a silent prayer,
And your search for God will end and begin
When you look for Him and find Him within.”
―
“There are 2 kinds of fighters: those who fight because they hate, and those who fight because they love.”
― Healology
― Healology
“The earliest storytellers were magi, seers, bards, griots, shamans. They were, it would seem, as old as time, and as terrifying to gaze upon as the mysteries with which they wrestled. They wrestled with mysteries and transformed them into myths which coded the world and helped the community to live through one more darkness, with eyes wide open and hearts set alight.
"I can see them now, the old masters. I can see them standing on the other side of the flames, speaking in the voices of lions, or thunder, or monsters, or heroes, heroines, or the earth, or fire itself -- for they had to contain all voices within them, had to be all things and nothing. They had to have the ability to become lightning, to become a future homeland, to be the dreaded guide to the fabled land where the community will settle and fructify. They had to be able to fight in advance all the demons they would encounter, and summon up all the courage needed on the way, to prophesy about all the requisite qualities that would ensure their arrival at the dreamt-of land.
"The old masters had to be able to tell stories that would make sleep possible on those inhuman nights, stories that would counter terror with enchantment, or with a greater terror. I can see them, beyond the flames, telling of a hero's battle with a fabulous beast -- the beast that is in the hero."
"The storyteller's art changed through the ages. From battling dread in word and incantations before their people did in reality, they became the repositories of the people's wisdom and follies. Often, conscripted by kings, they became the memory of a people's origins, and carried with them the long line of ancestries and lineages. Most important of all, they were the living libraries, the keepers of legends and lore. They knew the causes and mutations of things, the herbs, trees, plants, cures for diseases, causes for wars, causes of victory, the ways in which victory often precipitates defeat, or defeat victory, the lineages of gods, the rites humans have to perform to the gods. They knew of follies and restitutions, were advocates of new and old ways of being, were custodians of culture, recorders of change."
"These old storytellers were the true magicians. They were humanity's truest friends and most reliable guides. Their role was both simple and demanding. They had to go down deep into the seeds of time, into the dreams of their people, into the unconscious, into the uncharted fears, and bring shapes and moods back up into the light. They had to battle with monsters before they told us about them. They had to see clearly."
"They risked their sanity and their consciousness in the service of dreaming better futures. They risked madness, or being unmoored in the wild realms of the interspaces, or being devoured by the unexpected demons of the communal imagination."
"And I think that now, in our age, in the mid-ocean of our days, with certainties collapsing around us, and with no beliefs by which to steer our way through the dark descending nights ahead -- I think that now we need those fictional old bards and fearless storytellers, those seers. We need their magic, their courage, their love, and their fire more than ever before. It is precisely in a fractured, broken age that we need mystery and a reawoken sense of wonder. We need them to be whole again.”
― A Way of Being Free
"I can see them now, the old masters. I can see them standing on the other side of the flames, speaking in the voices of lions, or thunder, or monsters, or heroes, heroines, or the earth, or fire itself -- for they had to contain all voices within them, had to be all things and nothing. They had to have the ability to become lightning, to become a future homeland, to be the dreaded guide to the fabled land where the community will settle and fructify. They had to be able to fight in advance all the demons they would encounter, and summon up all the courage needed on the way, to prophesy about all the requisite qualities that would ensure their arrival at the dreamt-of land.
"The old masters had to be able to tell stories that would make sleep possible on those inhuman nights, stories that would counter terror with enchantment, or with a greater terror. I can see them, beyond the flames, telling of a hero's battle with a fabulous beast -- the beast that is in the hero."
"The storyteller's art changed through the ages. From battling dread in word and incantations before their people did in reality, they became the repositories of the people's wisdom and follies. Often, conscripted by kings, they became the memory of a people's origins, and carried with them the long line of ancestries and lineages. Most important of all, they were the living libraries, the keepers of legends and lore. They knew the causes and mutations of things, the herbs, trees, plants, cures for diseases, causes for wars, causes of victory, the ways in which victory often precipitates defeat, or defeat victory, the lineages of gods, the rites humans have to perform to the gods. They knew of follies and restitutions, were advocates of new and old ways of being, were custodians of culture, recorders of change."
"These old storytellers were the true magicians. They were humanity's truest friends and most reliable guides. Their role was both simple and demanding. They had to go down deep into the seeds of time, into the dreams of their people, into the unconscious, into the uncharted fears, and bring shapes and moods back up into the light. They had to battle with monsters before they told us about them. They had to see clearly."
"They risked their sanity and their consciousness in the service of dreaming better futures. They risked madness, or being unmoored in the wild realms of the interspaces, or being devoured by the unexpected demons of the communal imagination."
"And I think that now, in our age, in the mid-ocean of our days, with certainties collapsing around us, and with no beliefs by which to steer our way through the dark descending nights ahead -- I think that now we need those fictional old bards and fearless storytellers, those seers. We need their magic, their courage, their love, and their fire more than ever before. It is precisely in a fractured, broken age that we need mystery and a reawoken sense of wonder. We need them to be whole again.”
― A Way of Being Free
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