Many people have trouble expressing how they feel. I have the opposite problem; I have trouble keeping what I feel inside. If you get to know this blog, you will know me better than people who see me everyday. I don't post as much as many, but everything I post really means something to me, a little sliver of who I am. I'm a passive conversationalist; I listen more than I talk. But I put all of myself into what I write. Oh, and, for what it's worth, I'm so much INFP it's like the description was written specifically for me. Please ask anything you like.
Good company elevates every experience, no matter what it is. Give me good company and terrible everything else, and the terrible everything else won’t really even register because I have good company.
Related: Being good company is just as important as having good company.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
You can’t find intimacy—you can’t find home—when you’re always hiding behind masks. Intimacy requires a certain level of vulnerability. It requires a certain level of you exposing your fragmented, contradictory self to someone else. You’re running the risk of having your core self rejected and hurt and misunderstood.
"I don’t know much about him. My aunt tells me that he was smart and funny, and that I’m a lot like him because I’m stubborn. I know that I have his nose. But other than that, he’s just the man who walked out on me and my mother. He’d call every few months when I was really young, but eventually that stopped. I can’t convince myself that he’s mean, because then I’ll be angry forever. I’m sure plenty of people who know him think that he’s a really nice guy." "Would you like to know him?" "I can’t say that I want to know him really, but I would like to know about him. I’d like to see how he behaves, how he walks, if he seems different than the other people I see on the street. I’m interested in his story just like I’m interested in everyone else’s story. Only a little more so, because I’m a part of his story."
(Mexico City, Mexico)
“…I’m interested in his story just like I’m interested in everyone else’s story. Only a little more so, because I’m a part of his story.”
A very short story by David White, inspired by a photograph.
“She was beautiful, sitting alone in a restaurant, cigarette attached to right hand, face turned to her right, pensive, profile of Athena. Her long bare neck a blank canvas excepting an unpretentious necklace. I’m not an artist, but I know I could have painted a masterpiece on that canvas with my lips. I was drunk, and she was alone, except for the two daisies in a simple vase on her table.
The moment would pass and a million more would take its place, but I knew no moment would ever match that moment, like the first time you see a sunrise, the first time you see something you know has been kissed by the universe. You are thankful; you have seen true beauty. Many never do. You now know it exists, no longer some myth. Life in the gutters would never be the same. You now knew there was beauty in the world, even if only for a moment, but maybe, just maybe, if you hung around long enough, maybe one more such moment would present itself. And that hope was worth staying alive for.”
Author Ken Kesey (One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest) would’ve turned 79 today. In 1984, following the death of his son, he wrote one of the most powerful letters I’ve ever read…
And everybody said, “It’s okay, ol’ Jedderdink. You know better than we do. Breathe easy. Go on ahead. We’ll catch you later down the line.”
So Faye and I had to sign five copies apiece, on a cold formica countertop, while the machine pumped out the little “beep…beep…beep…” in the dim tangle of technology behind us. In all my life, waking and dreaming, I’ve never imagined anything harder.
They phoned the hotel about an hour later to tell us it was over, and that the kidneys were in perfect shape. That was about four in the morning. They phoned again a little after six to say that the kidneys were already in two young somebodies.”
I walked into a classroom where some young Tibetan students were practicing their chants, and all the kids suddenly grew very focused and well-behaved on account of the visitor. Except for this guy, who started laughing at me. Then he started laughing at himself laughing. Then he started laughing that he couldn’t stop laughing at himself laughing.
THE FLOWER SERMON
Toward the end of his life, the Buddha took his disciples to a quiet pond for instruction. As they had done so many times before, the Buddha’s followers sat in a small circle around him, and waited for the teaching.
But this time the Buddha had no words. He reached into the muck and pulled up a lotus flower. And he held it silently before them, its roots dripping mud and water.
The disciples were greatly confused. Buddha quietly displayed the lotus to each of them. In turn, the disciples did their best to expound upon the meaning of the flower: what it symbollized, and how it fit into the body of Buddha’s teaching.
When at last the Buddha came to his follower Mahakasyapa, the disciple suddenly understood. He smiled and began to laugh. Buddha handed the lotus to Mahakasyapa and began to speak.
“What can be said I have said to you,” smiled the Buddha, “and what cannot be said, I have given to Mahakashyapa.”
Mahakashyapa became Buddha’s successor from that day forward.
"I have a doctorate in Buddhist philosophy. Now I want to learn as many languages as possible so I can teach as many people as possible." “What do you think is the most important thing that people can learn from Buddhism?” “Compassion. Everyone suffers and everyone needs happiness.”