Wonder is the feeling of the philosopher, and philosophy begins in wonder.
—Plato (via id3as-ar3-bull3tproof)
(via aneleh)
Sólo en el silencio la palabra,
sólo en la oscuridad la luz,
sólo en la muerte vida:
brillante el vuelo del halcón
en el cielo vacío.
-La creación de Eá
(Source: theycallmeduke, via journalofanobody)
I’ve had so many names. Old names that only the wind and the trees can pronounce. I am the mountain, the forest and the earth.
—Pan’s Labyrinth (2006)
(Source: seabois, via foolishlight)
The word within a word, unable to speak a word,
Swaddled with darkness.
—T. S. Eliot, from “Gerontion” (via mirroir)
(Source: proustitute, via journalofanobody)
When I examine myself and my methods of thought, I come to the conclusion that the gift of fantasy has meant more to me than any talent for abstract, positive thinking.
—Albert Einstein (via barnsburntdownnow)
(Source: januarymidnight, via journalofanobody)
All through the night,
I have sent you
bunches, bouquets, of cloud
to the other side of the world;
so my love will be shade
where you are,
and yours,
as I turn in my sleep,
the bud of a star.—Carol Ann Duffy, closing lines to “World,” from Rapture (Picador, 2005)
(via huong1952)
Arthur Wesley Dow ( American, 1857-1922)
Spring Landscape, 1892. Oil on canvas.
(via journalofanobody)
“Be aware of what can never be tamed…” ~ Saint-Exupery, “The Little Prince”
(Source: nativefunkk, via shantiwinds)
In the end there doesn’t have to be anyone who understands you. There just has to be someone who wants to.
—Robert Brault (via alighthouseofwords)
Above all, don’t lie to yourself. The man who lies to himself and listens to his own lie comes to a point that he cannot distinguish the truth within him, or around him, and so loses all respect for himself and for others. And having no respect he ceases to love.
—The Brothers Karamazov (via iluminacje)
(via poetrymustdie)
The minute I heard my first love story,
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind that was.
Lovers don’t finally meet somewhere.
They’re in each other all along.
—Rumi, The Illuminated Rumi (via itsfromabook)
After learning my flight was detained 4 hours,
I heard the announcement:
If anyone in the vicinity of gate 4-A understands any Arabic,
Please come to the gate immediately.
Well—one pauses these days. Gate 4-A was my own gate. I went there.
An older woman in full traditional Palestinian dress,
Just like my grandma wore, was crumpled to the floor, wailing loudly.
Help, said the flight service person. Talk to her. What is her
Problem? we told her the flight was going to be four hours late and she
Did this.
I put my arm around her and spoke to her haltingly.
Shu dow-a, shu- biduck habibti, stani stani schway, min fadlick,
Sho bit se-wee?
The minute she heard any words she knew—however poorly used—
She stopped crying.
She thought our flight had been canceled entirely.
She needed to be in El Paso for some major medical treatment the
Following day. I said no, no, we’re fine, you’ll get there, just late,
Who is picking you up? Let’s call him and tell him.
We called her son and I spoke with him in English.
I told him I would stay with his mother till we got on the plane and
Would ride next to her—Southwest.
She talked to him. Then we called her other sons just for the fun of it.
Then we called my dad and he and she spoke for a while in Arabic and
Found out of course they had ten shared friends.
Then I thought just for the heck of it why not call some Palestinian
Poets I know and let them chat with her. This all took up about 2 hours.
She was laughing a lot by then. Telling about her life. Answering
Questions.
She had pulled a sack of homemade mamool cookies—little powdered
Sugar crumbly mounds stuffed with dates and nuts—out of her bag—
And was offering them to all the women at the gate.
To my amazement, not a single woman declined one. It was like a
Sacrament. The traveler from Argentina, the traveler from California,
The lovely woman from Laredo—we were all covered with the same
Powdered sugar. And smiling. There are no better cookies.
And then the airline broke out the free beverages from huge coolers—
Non-alcoholic—and the two little girls for our flight, one African
American, one Mexican American—ran around serving us all apple juice
And lemonade and they were covered with powdered sugar too.
And I noticed my new best friend—by now we were holding hands—
Had a potted plant poking out of her bag, some medicinal thing,
With green furry leaves. Such an old country traveling tradition. Always
Carry a plant. Always stay rooted to somewhere.
And I looked around that gate of late and weary ones and thought,
This is the world I want to live in. The shared world.
Not a single person in this gate—once the crying of confusion stopped
—has seemed apprehensive about any other person.
They took the cookies. I wanted to hug all those other women too.
This can still happen anywhere.
Not everything is lost.
—Naomi Shihab Nye (b. 1952), “Wandering Around an Albuquerque Airport Terminal.” I think this poem may be making the rounds, this week, but that’s as it should be. (via alzati)
(Source: oliviacirce, via alighthouseofwords)
