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Do you wish me merry Christmas, or mean that it is a merry Christmas whether I want it or not? Or that you feel merry this Christmas? Or that it is a Christmas to be merry on? All of them at once I suppose! |
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It’s like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going, because they were holding on to something. That there is some good in this world, and it's worth fighting for. Samwise Gamgee, The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers motion picture |
My church has no doors My church has no steeple Her arms always open No judgemental people She has always been there From our day of birth Trust in her love Sacred Mother Earth Gwendolyn Fuchs |
| The whole world is a series of miracles, but we're so used to them we call them ordinary things. Hans Christian Andersen |
| I loved her against reason, against promise, against peace, against hope, against happiness, against all discouragement that could be. Charles Dickens, Great Expectations |
| When grief comes to you as a purple gorilla you must count yourself lucky. You must offer her what’s left of your dinner, the book you were trying to finish you must put aside and make her a place to sit at the foot of your bed, her eyes moving from the clock to the television and back again. I am not afraid. She has been here before and now I can recognize her gait as she approaches the house. Some nights, when I know she’s coming, I unlock the door, lie down on my back, and count her steps from the street to the porch. Tonight she brings a pencil and a ream of paper, tells me to write down everyone I have ever known, and we separate them between the living and the dead so she can pick each name at random. I play her favorite Willie Nelson album because she misses Texas but I don’t ask why. She hums a little, the way my brother does when he gardens. We sit for an hour while she tells me how unreasonable I’ve been, crying in the check-out line, refusing to eat, refusing to shower, all the smoking and all the drinking. Eventually she puts one of her heavy purple arms around me, leans her head against mine, and all of a sudden things are feeling romantic. So I tell her, things are feeling romantic. She pulls another name, this time from the dead, and turns to me in that way that parents do so you feel embarrassed or ashamed of something. Romantic? She says, reading the name out loud, slowly so I am aware of each syllable, each vowel wrapping around the bones like new muscle, the sound of that person’s body and how reckless it is, how careless that his name is in one pile and not the other. Daniel S. |
| You will never be able to escape from your heart. So it's better to listen to what it has to say. Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist |
Why are we worn out? Why do we, who start out so passionate, brave, noble, believing, become totally bankrupt by the age of thirty or thirty-five? Why is it that one is extinguished by consumption, another puts a bullet in his head, a third seeks oblivion in vodka, cards, a fourth, in order to stifle fear and anguish, cynically tramples underfoot the portrait of his pure, beautiful youth? Why is it that, once fallen, we do not try to rise, and, having lost one thing, we do not seek another? Why? Anton Chekhov |
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