Bach Flower Quotes

I’m crying all the time now. I cried all over the street when I left the Seattle Wobbly Hall. I cried listening to Bach. I cried looking at the happy flowers in my backyard, I cried at the sadness of the middle aged trees. Happiness exists I feel it. I cried for my soul, I cried for the world’s soul. The world has a beautiful soul. God appearing to be seen and cried over. Overflowing heart of Paterson.

Seen from above, our life’s this vast field of co-incidents, flowers blossoming from the decisions we’ve made based on suggestions we’ve accepted based on our belief that the appearances that surround us are true, or aren’t.

They – note the ‘they’ – paid Dr Stone to figure out what had destroyed the patient entering the ward. In each case a bullet had been fired at him, somewhere, at some time, in his life. The bullet entered him and the pain began to spread out. Insidiously, the pain filled him up until he split in half, right down the middle. The task of the staff, and even of the other patients, was to put the person back together but this could not be done so long as the bullet remained. All that lesser therapists did was note the person split into two pieces and begin the job of patching him back into a unity; but they failed to find and remove the bullet. The fatal bullet fired at the person was the basis of Freud’s original attack on the psychologically injured person; Freud had understood: he called it a trauma. Later on, everyone got tired of searching for the fatal bullet; it took too long. Too much had to be learned about the patient. Dr Stone had a paranormal talent, like his paranormal Bach remedies which were a palpable hoax, a pretext to listen to the patient. Rum with a flower dipped in it – nothing more, but a sharp mind hearing what the patient said.

Now let me tell you something. I have seen a thousand sunsets and sunrises, on land where it floods forest and mountains with honey coloured light, at sea where it rises and sets like a blood orange in a multicoloured nest of cloud, slipping in and out of the vast ocean. I have seen a thousand moons: harvest moons like gold coins, winter moons as white as ice chips, new moons like baby swans’ feathers. I have seen seas as smooth as if painted, coloured like shot silk or blue as a kingfisher or transparent as glass or black and crumpled with foam, moving ponderously and murderously. I have felt winds straight from the South Pole, bleak and wailing like a lost child; winds as tender and warm as a lover’s breath; winds that carried the astringent smell of salt and the death of seaweeds; winds that carried the moist rich smell of a forest floor, the smell of a million flowers. Fierce winds that churned and moved the sea like yeast, or winds that made the waters lap at the shore like a kitten. I have known silence: the cold, earthy silence at the bottom of a newly dug well; the implacable stony silence of a deep cave; the hot, drugged midday silence when everything is hypnotised and stilled into silence by the eye of the sun; the silence when great music ends. I have heard summer cicadas cry so that the sound seems stitched into your bones. I have heard tree frogs in an orchestration as complicated as Bach singing in a forest lit by a million emerald fireflies. I have heard the Keas calling over grey glaciers that groaned to themselves like old people as they inched their way to the sea. I have heard the hoarse street vendor cries of the mating Fur seals as they sang to their sleek golden wives, the crisp staccato admonishment of the Rattlesnake, the cobweb squeak of the Bat and the belling roar of the Red deer knee-deep in purple heather. I have heard Wolves baying at a winter’s moon, Red howlers making the forest vibrate with their roaring cries. I have heard the squeak, purr and grunt of a hundred multi-coloured reef fishes. I have seen hummingbirds flashing like opals round a tree of scarlet blooms, humming like a top. I have seen flying fish, skittering like quicksilver across the blue waves, drawing silver lines on the surface with their tails. I have seen Spoonbills flying home to roost like a scarlet banner across the sky. I have seen Whales, black as tar, cushioned on a cornflower blue sea, creating a Versailles of fountain with their breath. I have watched butterflies emerge and sit, trembling, while the sun irons their wings smooth. I have watched Tigers, like flames, mating in the long grass. I have been dive-bombed by an angry Raven, black and glossy as the Devil’s hoof. I have lain in water warm as milk, soft as silk, while around me played a host of Dolphins. I have met a thousand animals and seen a thousand wonderful things. But— All this I did without you. This was my loss. All this I want to do with you. This will be my gain. All this I would gladly have forgone for the sake of one minute of your company, for your laugh, your voice, your eyes, hair, lips, body, and above all for your sweet, ever-surprising mind which is an enchanting quarry in which it is my privilege to delve.

But the worst came from the Mongol Tamerlane, a dedicated Muslim who conducted furious jihad campaigns against the Nestorians and devastated their cities and churches. It was full-blown war against the Assyrian Christians: Tamerlane offered them conversion to Islam, dhimmitude, or death. By 1400, the vast Nestorian domains were no more; Christianity had almost completely died out in Persia, Central Asia, and China.7 After this, virtually all Nestorians lived as dhimmis under Muslim rule. And like the Zoroastrians, their community dwindled down to a tiny remnant under the relentless weight of this institutionalized injustice. If the Christians in Europe had been subjected to the same fate, it is distinctly possible that the world might never have known the works of Dante Alighieri, or Michelangelo, or Leonardo da Vinci, or Mozart, or Bach. It is likely that there would never have been an El Greco, or a Giotto, or an Olivier Messaien. A community that must expend all its energy just to survive does not easily pursue art and music. The Crusades may have made the full flowering of European civilization possible.

Perhaps it is in this respect that language differs most sharply from other biologic systems for communication. Ambiguity seems to be an essential, indispensable element for the transfer of information from one place to another by words, where matters of real importance are concerned. It is often necessary, for meaning to come through, that there be an almost vague sense of strangeness and askewness. Speechless animals and cells cannot do this. The specifically locked-on antigen at the surface of a lymphocyte does not send the cell off in search of something totally different; when a bee is tracking sugar by polarized light, observing the sun as though consulting his watch, he does not veer away to discover an unimaginable marvel of a flower. Only the human mind is designed to work in this way, programmed to drift away in the presence of locked-on information, straying from each point in a hunt for a better, different point. If it were not for the capacity for ambiguity, for the sensing of strangeness, the words in all languages provide, we would have no way of recognizing the layers of counterpoint in meaning, and we might be spending all our time sitting on stone fences, staring into the sun. To be sure, we would always have had some everyday use to make of the alphabet, and we might have reached the same capacity for small talk, but it is unlikely that we would have been able to evolve from words to Bach. The great thing about human language is that it prevents us from sticking to the matter at hand.

How much longer can I get away with being so fucking cute? Not much longer. The shoes with bows, the cunning underwear with slogans on the crotch — Knock Here, and so forth — will have to go, along with the cat suit. After a while you forget what you really look like. You think your mouth is the size it was. You pretend not to care. When I was young I went with my hair hiding one eye, thinking myself daring; off to the movies in my jaunty pencil skirt and elastic cinch-belt, chewed gum, left lipstick imprints the shape of grateful, rubbery sighs on the cigarettes of men I hardly knew and didn’t want to. Men were a skill, you had to have good hands, breathe into their nostrils, as for horses. It was something I did well, like playing the flute, although I don’t. In the forests of grey stems there are standing pools, tarn-coloured, choked with brown leaves. Through them you can see an arm, a shoulder, when the light is right, with the sky clouded. The train goes past silos, through meadows, the winter wheat on the fields like scanty fur. I still get letters, although not many. A man writes me, requesting true-life stories about bad sex. He’s doing an anthology. He got my name off an old calendar, the photo that’s mostly bum and daisies, back when my skin had the golden slick of fresh-spread margarine. Not rape, he says, but disappointment, more like a defeat of expectations. Dear Sir, I reply, I never had any. Bad sex, that is. It was never the sex, it was the other things, the absence of flowers, the death threats, the eating habits at breakfast. I notice I’m using the past tense. Though the vaporous cloud of chemicals that enveloped you like a glowing eggshell, an incense, doesn’t disappear: it just gets larger and takes in more. You grow out of sex like a shrunk dress into your common senses, those you share with whatever’s listening. The way the sun moves through the hours becomes important, the smeared raindrops on the window, buds on the roadside weeds, the sheen of spilled oil on a raw ditch filling with muddy water. Don’t get me wrong: with the lights out I’d still take on anyone, if I had the energy to spare. But after a while these flesh arpeggios get boring, like Bach over and over; too much of one kind of glory. When I was all body I was lazy. I had an easy life, and was not grateful. Now there are more of me. Don’t confuse me with my hen-leg elbows: what you get is no longer what you see.

There are quick-acting remedies, often marketed for fear of fireworks. And I have found Bach flower remedies work fast (if they’re going to work at all).

The most familiar products are Bach Flowers composed of 38 individual remedies. Each benefits a different emotional state, and is sometimes used in combination with others for greater effect. Rescue Remedy, for instance, is a premixed combination of the essences Impatiens, Star of Bethlehem, Cherry Plum, Rock Rose and Clematis, recommended for any kind of stress. Most health food stores carry Bach Flower remedies. They’re safe to use alongside other medical treatments, and choosing the “wrong” essence won’t cause harm. Once you’ve chosen your flower essences, here’s how to put them to work. · Maintain the original undiluted bottle as your stock bottle. It should last a very long time. ·           To create a treatment strength mixture, place two drops of the undiluted remedy in a one-ounce glass dropper bottle, and then fill the bottle three-quarters full with spring water, and shake 100 times. Don’t use tap water or distilled water—they go stale too quickly. Refrigerate the mixture. It lasts up to two weeks.  ·           Give the pet four drops four times a day from the treatment bottle until the behavior changes. This could be anywhere from a few days to a couple weeks. It can be given straight from the treatment bottle dropper into the pet’s mouth or on his nose if this doesn’t stress him out too much. Don’t touch the dropper to the pet or that could contaminate the bottle.

BACH FLOWER REMEDIES Flower essence therapy can also help with behavior modification. These herbal remedies are made from plants, trees and bushes. The essences are said to carry the imprint of the plant’s energy, so the patient’s body somehow “recognizes” this image, which wakes up the system so it can heal itself. In a percentage of cases, flower essence therapies work extraordinarily well. The most familiar products are Bach Flowers composed of 38 individual remedies. Each benefits a different emotional state, and is sometimes used in combination with others for greater effect. Rescue Remedy, for instance, is a premixed combination of the essences Impatiens, Star of Bethlehem, Cherry Plum, Rock Rose and Clematis, recommended for any kind of stress. Most health food stores carry Bach Flower remedies. They’re safe to use alongside other medical treatments, and choosing the “wrong” essence won’t cause harm. Once you’ve chosen your flower essences, here’s how to put them to work. · Maintain the original undiluted bottle as your stock bottle. It should last a very long time. ·           To create a treatment strength mixture, place two drops of the undiluted remedy in a one-ounce glass dropper bottle, and then fill the bottle three-quarters full with spring water, and shake 100 times. Don’t use tap water or distilled water—they go stale too quickly. Refrigerate the mixture. It lasts up to two weeks.  ·           Give the pet four drops four times a day from the treatment bottle until the behavior changes. This could be anywhere from a few days to a couple weeks. It can be given straight from the treatment bottle dropper into the pet’s mouth or on his nose if this doesn’t stress him out too much. Don’t touch the dropper to the pet or that could contaminate the bottle. ·           Alternatively, add drops to a treat, like a teaspoonful of plain yogurt, or add several drops of the remedy to the drinking water for all the pets to sip.