there's another force as well, one every bit as real as the God ...,
and that it works consciously to bring all our decent impulses to ruin. ...,
but a kind of demon of discord, a prankish and stupid thing
that laughs with glee when an old man sets himself on fire trying to light his pipe
or when a much-loved baby puts its first Christmas toy in its mouth and chokes to death on it.
The world that humanity has made is different from the world it was given.
The given world dazzles with wonder, poetry, and purpose.
The man made world is a perverse realm of ego and envy.
Power mad cynics make false idols of themselves, and the meek have no inheritance because they have surrendered it to their idols in return, not for lasting glory, but for an occassional parade.
Not for bread, but for the promise of bread.
The wise men understood that this natural world is only an image and a copy of paradise.
The existence of this world is simply a guarantee that there exists a world that is perfect.
God created the world so that, through its visible objects, men could understand his spiritual teachings and the marvels of his wisdom.
If you could go back and change one thing about your life, would you?
And if you did, would that change make your life better?
Or would that change ultimately break your heart?
Or break the heart of another?
Or would you choose an entirely different path?
Or would you change just one thing, just one moment?
One moment, that you've always wanted back.
They found this guy in Maine who had been living completely alone in the woods for 30 years.
They called him the last true hermit.
30 years without the warmth of human touch, without conversation.
The hermit felt more lonely when he was out in the world, than he ever felt in the woods by himself. Surrounded by people, but drowning in solitude.
That kind of loneliness can swallow you whole.
The last true hermit was found and dragged out of hiding and into the world. Most might find his existence sad, but the hermit knew something we didn't. He knew that when it comes down to it, even when you're with someone, or in the noisy rush of people, it's just you.
The one you can count on, and lean on, and depend on. It has to be you.
And once you figure that out, that's when being alone becomes a choice.
When exposed to trauma, the body deploys its own defense system.
From the first second the brain receives the signal that a catastrophe has happened, the blood rushes to the organs that need help the most. Blood floods into the muscles, the lungs, the heart, the brain.
The brain makes a decision for the rest of the body. Either face the danger or run away. It's a mechanism designed to protect the body from harm.
From knowing that what has happened might be irreparable, we call it 'shock'.
When shock wears off, when the body can accept that a trauma has happened, when it can let down its defences, it's a scary moment. It's vulnerable.
The shock response had protected us, and it just might have saved us.
Being alive, it's everything.
Time to celebrate.
And yes, time for pain.
Time to change. To grow. To love.
And time to give.
There will be no shortage of times when you feel like giving up, but you can't let that fear or desperation stop you.
Even when you feel trapped. Even when it feels like there is no end in sight. Even when things are moving faster than you can comprehend.
Even when every part of you is certain that all is lost.
Researchers have theorized that nightmares are the brain's way of processing unsettling events of the past.
Others believe nightmares are how our subconscious mind prepares us to do deal with our real-life fears.
Either way, they agree that nightmares are most commonly brought on by one thing: stress.
Sometimes, your worst nightmare comes true but you find it's really nothing to worry about.
Occasionally, you discover that what you most dread is really a blessing and your life is better because you persevered despite your fears.
But sometimes your worst nightmare is truly scary and it feels like it's never going to end.
That's when support from friends and family is vital.
You wanna surround yourself with people who will wake you up from your nightmare and help you live your wildest dreams.
for some reason, someone decided a long time ago that naming pain is impolite, that hiding it and hiding from it makes more sense.
It doesn't. It's a lie.
A lie that both comforts and destroys us.
A survey showed the typical adult says "I'm fine" 14 times a week. But less than one in five of them means it.
Our default is to put on a brave face.
But sometimes it's braver to admit something's wrong.
Because pretending everything's fine eventually catches up to you.
And when it does, you better hope you can repair the damage that's already done.
It's a natural progression in any profession for the student to become the teacher, the mentee to become the mentor.
It's not that much different from parenting.
We learn from our ancestors how to make the perfect soup, how to soothe an aching head or heart. We measure milestones in percentiles and first steps to try and gain insight into the person they'll grow into.
As if knowing a bunch of numbers on charts is any true measure of what we might make of ourselves
. No one said it was easy, becoming the person you're meant to be
It takes bravery to step into the power you found and earned and deserve.
The trick is, to take the people who were there for you, with you, to remind you you're not alone.
You have an entire legacy behind you as you create your own.
It's been said that a house divided against itself cannot stand.
But conflict on the road to progress is inevitable. And at least some division is always a certainty.
Because we all want what we think is best for everyone. And when we can trust at least that much to be true, it's simply not realistic for any house to avoid some division.
But how much division can any house withstand before it finally falls?
August is the slow, gentle month that stretches out the longest across the span of a year.
It yawns and lingers on with the light in its palms.
This morning, the sun endures past dawn.
it is August: the summer's last stand.
As we stood there older than men
And younger than the boys (that's right)
We were as still as the wind
That blows on a hot August night
The wild boys are callingOn their way back from the fireIn August moon's surrender toA dust cloud on the rise
August
The Emperor Octavian, called the August,
I being his favorite, bestowed his name
Upon me, and I hold it still in trust,
In memory of him and of his fame.
I am the Virgin, and my vestal flame
Burns less intensely than the Lion's rage;
Sheaves are my only garlands, and I claim
The golden Harvests as my heritage.
The first week of August hangs at the very top of summer, the top of the live-long year, like the highest seat of a ferris wheel when it pauses in its turning,
The weeks that come before are only a climb from balmy spring,
and those that follow a drop to the chill of autumn,
but the first week of August is motionless, and hot.
It is curiously silent, too, with blank white dawns and glaring noons, and sunsets smeared with too much color.
Twilight is the border between day and night,
the shore is the border between sea and land.
The border is longing:
when both have fallen in love but still haven’t said anything.
The border is to be on the way.
It is the way that is the most important thing.
August is the border between summer and autumn;
it is the most beautiful month
August rain:
the best of the summer gone,
and the new fall not yet born.
The odd uneven time.
Those late August mornings smelt of autumn
from day-break till the hour when the sun-baked earth allowed the cool sea breezes to drive back the then less heavy aroma
of threshed wheat, open furrows, and reeking manure.
In August, the large masses of berries, which, when in flower, had attracted many wild bees, gradually assumed their bright velvety crimson hue, and by their weight again bent down and broke their tender limbs.
