“Wear the bee suit. If you don’t it hurts a LOT.”
–Dan Grandy of Grand-Bee’s Honey
“Play matters because, against the gray backdrop of a jobbing sky, play is the rainbow, is energy, is wicked flirtatiousness, is the helplessly laughing, the leglessly laddered, the God of Things which Brimmeth Over, the pint down the pub, the de trop overflow of excess, the resplendently unnecessary and the one-too-many which make the whole damn thing worthwhile. Play is harvest, is abundance, is generosity, the harvest of pleasure after work, the excess and the gusto, the more-than-enough, the gifts, the spirit of exchange. To play a game is, in German ein Spiel spielen, and the brimmingness, the spilling-over abundance of play is mirrored in this brimming-over phrase: spill it, spiel it twice – just for fun.
“Aristotle said, ‘Nature requires us not only to be able to work well but also to idle well.’ Sigh. It’s so hard. The Idea of the Idle which disses and rejects the clock is an ambition harder than it seems. To really play is to let go of the hand of the clock, to dive deep into the fathoms of time – a state of water this, deep play, with affinities to music, art, sex, deep drinking and deep thought. It is a chancy, risky, fluxy, underwater world where immersion in the moment is all. This wild time is far richer, though far flukier, than clock-time, this is time enlivened and various, time as fast and slow as a waterfall’s cascade. It is not necessarily easy to be in, for its waters are uncontrolled by a clock, uncommanded and uncharted. Without a clock you are on your own and it is a difficult but rich experience, this, the beautiful duress of ludid creativity – idlesse oblige.”
– Jay Griffiths, A Sideways Look at Time
“Of course Keats had good reason to write, ‘When I have fears that I may cease to be Before my pen has glean’d my teeming brain.’ That’s the great classic statement. But in America the writer is more likely to fear that his brain may cease to teem. I once did a drawing of a man at his typewriter, you see, and all this crumpled paper is on the floor, and he’s staring down in discouragement. ‘What’s the matter,’ his wife is saying, ‘has your pen gleaned your teeming brain?'”
“The tendency of people to be fearful of those experiences they call apparitions or assign to the “spirit world,” including death, has done infinite harm to life. All these things so naturally related to us have been driven away through our daily resistance to them, to the point where our capacity to sense them has atrophied… Fear of the unexplainable has not only impoverished our inner lives, but also diminished relations between people; these have been dragged, so to speak, from the river of infinite possibilities and stuck on the dry bank where nothing happens. For it is not only sluggishness that makes human relations so unspeakably monotonous, it is the aversion to any new, unforeseen experience we are not sure we can handle.”
–Rainer Maria Rilke, Out of a Brain Pickings posting.
“Oh, for a tongue to express he Wonders which the Thought reveals!
Oh, for some Word to comprehend the boundless idea!
Would that some Voice were sweet enough to sound the harmony of Life.
But Within, in that vast realm of thought where the Soul meets God, the Spirit knows.
I will listen for that Voice and It will tell me of Life, of Love and Unity.
Speak to me, Spirit.
O, Soul of mine, look out and see; look up and know Thy freedom.
Be not cast down nor dismayed; be uplifted within me and exult, for Thy Salvation has come.
Behold the wonders of the Great Whole and the marvels of the Universe.
Look out and see Thy good. It is not far off, but is at hand. Prepare Thyself to accept and believe; to know and live.
Let Life enter and live through Thee, Soul of mine, and rejoice that Thou hast vision so fair and so complete.
Rejoice that the Perfect Whole is so completely reflected through Thee.
My light has come.”
Lord, make me a channel of thy peace–that where there is hatred, I may bring love–that where there is wrong, I may bring the spirit of forgiveness–that where there is discord, I may bring harmony–that where there is error, I may bring truth–that where there is doubt, I may bring faith–that where there is despair, I may bring hope–that where there are shadows, I may bring light–that where there is sadness, I may bring joy. Lord, grant that I may seek rather to comfort than to be comforted–to understand, than to be understood–to love, than to be loved. For it is by self-forgetting that one finds. It is by forgiving that one is forgiven. It is by dying that one awakens to eternal life.
“It is far more creative to work with the idea of mindfulnesss rather than with the idea of will. Too often people try to change their lives by using the will as a kind of hammer to beat their life into proper shape. The intellect identifies the goal of the program, and the will accordingly forces the life into that shape. This way of approaching the sacredness of one’s own presence is externalist and violent. It brings you falsely outside yourself, and you can spend years lost in the wilderness of your own mechanical, spiritual programs. You can perish in a famine of your own making.”
“Our brains evolved in such a way as to render us all eager but flawed mind readers. Whenever we see each other, we try to figure out what other people are thinking; it is a necessary skill in a deeply social species – or, rather, we are a deeply social species precisely because we have this skill. We try to read each other by look, posture, expression, gesture. And, to make things more complicated (and/or fun), we know this about each other, so we also try deliberately to produce certain readings in others by feigning certain looks, postures, expressions and gestures. All the world’s a stage – and the world we have created includes millions of actual stages, where actors embody the principle that all the world’s a (self-reflexive) stage.”
– Michael Bérubé
“It had flaws, but what does that matter when it comes to matters of the heart? We love what we love. Reason does not enter into it. In many ways, unwise love is the truest love. Anyone can love a thing because. That’s as easy as putting a penny in your pocket. But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. That is rare and pure and perfect.”
― Patrick Rothfuss, The Wise Man’s Fear