Humble The Poet Quotes

Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep.

Go into yourself. Find out the reason that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depths of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose... ...Describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty - describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds – wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attentions to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. - And if out of this turning-within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it.

I examined the poets, and I look on them as people whose talent overawes both themselves and others, people who present themselves as wise men and are taken as such, when they are nothing of the sort. From poets, I moved to artists. No one was more ignorant about the arts than I; no one was more convinced that artists possessed really beautiful secrets. However, I noticed that their condition was no better than that of the poets and that both of them have the same misconceptions. Because the most skillful among them excel in their specialty, they look upon themselves as the wisest of men. In my eyes, this presumption completely tarnished their knowledge. As a result, putting myself in the place of the oracle and asking myself what I would prefer to be — what I was or what they were, to know what they have learned or to know that I know nothing — I replied to myself and to the god: I wish to remain who I am. We do not know — neither the sophists, nor the orators, nor the artists, nor I— what the True, the Good, and the Beautiful are. But there is this difference between us: although these people know nothing, they all believe they know something; whereas, I, if I know nothing, at least have no doubts about it. As a result, all this superiority in wisdom which the oracle has attributed to me reduces itself to the single point that I am strongly convinced that I am ignorant of what I do not know.

Later, years later, I would hear a song made of our meeting. [...] I was not surprised by the portrait of myself: the proud witch undone before the hero's sword, kneeling and begging for mercy. Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep.

if i write what you may feel but cannot say. it does not make me a poet. it makes me a bridge. and i am humbled and i am grateful to assist your heart in speaking. - grateful

Poetry empowers the simplest of lives to confront the most extreme sorrows with courage, and motivates the mightiest of offices to humbly heed lessons in compassion.

Unhappiness is simply when the picture in your head doesn’t match the picture in front of you.

I looked about me. Luminous points glowed in the darkness. Cigarettes punctuated the humble meditations of worn old clerks. I heard them talking to one another in murmurs and whispers. They talked about illness, money, shabby domestic cares. And suddenly I had a vision of the face of destiny. Old bureaucrat, my comrade, it is not you who are to blame. No one ever helped you to escape. You, like a termite, built your peace by blocking up with cement every chink and cranny through which the light might pierce. You rolled yourself up into a ball in your genteel security, in routine, in the stifling conventions of provincial life, raising a modest rampart against the winds and the tides and the stars. You have chosen not to be perturbed by great problems, having trouble enough to forget your own fate as a man. You are not the dweller upon an errant planet and do not ask yourself questions to which there are no answers. Nobody grasped you by the shoulder while there was still time. Now the clay of which you were shaped has dried and hardened, and naught in you will ever awaken the sleeping musician, the poet, the astronomer that possibly inhabited you in the beginning.

Give a damn about yourself first, then those who give a damn about you, and then see if you have any damns left to give.  

Think of my Pleasure in Solitude, in comparison of my commerce with the world - there I am a child - there they do not know me not even my most intimate acquaintance - I give into their feelings as though I were refraining from irritating a little child - Some think me middling, others silly, other foolish - every one thinks he sees my weak side against my will; when in thruth it is with my will - I am content to be thought all this because I have in my own breast so graet a resource. This is one great reason why they like me so; because they can all show to advantage in a room, and eclipese from a certain tact one who is reckoned to be a good Poet - I hope I am not here playing tricks 'to make the angels weep': I think not: for I have not the least contempt for my species; and though it may sound paradoxical: my greatest elevations of Soul leave me every time more humbled - Enough of this - though in your Love for me you will not think it enough.

If you trust in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge. - Mitchell translation

We owned a garden on a hill, We planted rose and daffodil, Flowers that English poets sing, And hoped for glory in the Spring. We planted yellow hollyhocks, And humble sweetly-smelling stocks, And columbine for carnival, And dreamt of Summer's festival. And Autumn not to be outdone As heiress of the summer sun, Should doubly wreathe her tawny head With poppies and with creepers red. We waited then for all to grow, We planted wallflowers in a row. And lavender and borage blue, - Alas! we waited, I and you, But love was all that ever grew.

When someone let’s us down, we can take the time to figure out if we want to allow that to happen again. After all, the past is just that, the past. We can only focus on improving the choices of our present to hopefully have a better future.

If people don’t like you for who you are, change the people, not yourself.

Comfort zones, after all, are the enemy of growth

It's about finding that balance where you have one foot in the familiar, one foot in the unfamiliar. If you have two feet in the unfamiliar it's overwhelming. If you have two feet in the familiar then there's just boredom. It's about having both.

if i write what you may feel but cannot say. it does not make me a poet. it makes me a bridge. and i am humbled and i am grateful to assist your heart in speaking. – grateful

If you know what you want from life, don’t let anyone tell you that it can’t be obtained, especially if the one telling you is yourself.

Depict your sorrows and desires, your passing thoughts and beliefs in some kind of beauty- depict all that with heartfelt, quiet, humble sincerity and use to express yourself the things that surround you,the images of your dreams and the objects of your memory. If your everyday life seems poor to you, do not accuse it; accuse yourself, tell yourself you are not poet enough to summon up its riches; since for the creator there is no poverty and no poor or unimportant place.

You can be the ripest, juiciest peach in the world, and there’s still going to be somebody who hates peaches. —Dita Von

Life isn’t long enough to win folks over nor is it ever worth the effort to seek approval from the judgmental.

There’s a quote associated with the American artist Florence Scovel Shinn: “No man is your friend, no man is your enemy, every man is your teacher.

Regret is a burden we all hold, for whatever reason, and holding on does nothing but weigh us down. Learn from the mistakes of your past, thank them for occurring, then gently push them into the wind, and wave as they flutter away.

You may feel the human realm is a difficult place, but there is surely no better world to live in. You will find another only by going to the nonhuman; and the nonhuman realm would surely be a far more difficult place to inhabit than the human. So if this best of worlds proves a hard one for you, you must simply do your best to settle in and relax as you can, and make this short life of ours, if only briefly, an easier place in which to make your home. Herein lies the poet's true calling, the artist's vocation. We owe our humble gratitude to all practitioners of the arts, for they mellow the harshness of our human world and enrich the human heart. Yes, a poem, a painting, can draw the sting of troubles from a troubled world and lay in its place a blessed realm before our grateful eyes.

If thou indeed derive thy light from Heaven, Then, to the measure of that heaven-born light, Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content: -- The stars pre-eminent in magnitude, And they that from the zenith dart their beams, (Visible though they be to half the earth, Though half a sphere be conscious of their brightness) Are yet of no diviner origin, No purer essence, than the one that burns, Like an untended watch-fire on the ridge Of some dark mountain; or than those which seem Humbly to hang, like twinkling winter lamps, Among the branches of the leafless trees. All are the undying offspring of one Sire: Then, to the measure of the light vouchsafed, Shine, Poet! in thy place, and be content.

Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets.

Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep

The fear of loneliness can drive us to compromise who we are, thinking it will open us up to other people.

Love is not obedience.

the proud witch undone before the hero’s sword, kneeling and begging for mercy. Humbling women seems to me a chief pastime of poets. As if there can be no story unless we crawl and weep.

He was a secretive man, who kept his own counsel. He was an ambitious man of humble origins, with colossal designs on the future. And it would always be advantageous not to be closely known, never to be transparent. Passing a farmer on a day, he would tip his hat and grin. Everybody knew him. Nobody knew him. He would play the fool, the clown, the melancholy poet dying for love, the bumpkin. He would take the world by stealth and not by storm. He would disarm enemies by his apparent naiveté, by seeming pleasantly harmless. He would go to such lengths in making fun of his own appearance that others felt obliged to defend it. -Daniel Mark Epstein.

Bodily delight is a sensory experience, not any different from pure looking or the pure feeling with which a beautiful fruit fills the tongue; it is a great, an infinite learning that is given to us, a knowledge of the world, the fullness and the splendor of all knowledge...the individual...can remember that all beauty in animals and plants is a silent, enduring form of love and yearning, and he can see the animal, as he sees plants, patiently and willingly uniting and multiplying and growing, not out of physical pleasure, not out of physical pain, but bowing to necessities that are greater than pleasure and pain, and more powerful than will and withstanding. If only human beings could more humbly receive this mystery---which the world is filled with...

A Coy Aversion ...a flutter too shy to be seen...

People who aren’t happy with what they have won’t be happy with what they get.

Failure isn’t the opposite of success, it’s a path to it.

No situation is good, no situation is bad, every situation is our teacher.

we have to share our stories. There is so much power in realizing we’re not alone.

Humans have the ability to rewrite history. Within a few decades it is not even questioned. Stories of the past become as real as the world you walk through today. Wars are waged over false history. Sins are denied. All for mankind to move forward and feel comfortable about its past. Your true history is written in the stars. Look up, breathe in, and be humbled by the ones who came before you. The ones who have suffered, who have endured, who have overcome. Their blood is alive in you. Their spirits roam freely in the heavens above.

I write because the security of your love allows me to develop my craft without concerning myself with trivialities — as if your love could be any more complete. But I write, in the first place, because of you, my muse. I write for your green eyes to glance at my humble words and for the pleasure of hearing you utter them.

An intellectual is usually someone who isn't exactly distinguished by his intellect," Corelli asserted. "he claims that label to compensate for his inadequacies. It's as old as that saying : "Tell me what you boast of and I'll tell you what you lack. Our daily bread. The incompetent always present themselves as experts, the cruel as pious, sinners as devout, usurers as benefactors, the small-minded as patriots, the arrogant as humble, the vulgar as elegant, and the feeble-minded as intellectual. Once again, it's all the work of nature. Far from being the sylph to whom poets sing, nature is a cruel, voracious mother who needs to feed on the creatures she gives birth to in order to stay alive.

It is a mistake to think of the expatriate as someone who abdicates, who withdraws and humbles himself, resigned to his miseries, his outcast state. On a closer look, he turns out to be ambitious, aggressive in his disappointments, his very acrimony qualified by his belligerence. The more we are dispossessed, the more intense our appetites and illusions become. I even discern some relation between misfortune and megalomania. The man who has lost everything preserves as a last resort the hope of glory, or of literary scandal. He consents to abandon everything, except his name. [ . . . ] Let us say a man writes a novel which makes him, overnight, a celebrity. In it he recounts his sufferings. His compatriots in exile envy him: they too have suffered, perhaps more. And the man without a country becomes—or aspires to become—a novelist. The consequence: an accumulation of confusions, an inflation of horrors, of frissons that date. One cannot keep renewing Hell, whose very characteristic is monotony, or the face of exile either. Nothing in literature exasperates a reader so much as The Terrible; in life, it too is tainted with the obvious to rouse our interest. But our author persists; for the time being he buries his novel in a drawer and awaits his hour. The illusion of surprise, of a renown which eludes his grasp but on which he reckons, sustains him; he lives on unreality. Such, however, is the power of this illusion that if, for instance, he works in some factory, it is with the notion of being freed from it one day or another by a fame as sudden as it is inconceivable. * Equally tragic is the case of the poet. Walled up in his own language, he writes for his friends—for ten, for twenty persons at the most. His longing to be read is no less imperious than that of the impoverished novelist. At least he has the advantage over the latter of being able to get his verses published in the little émigré reviews which appear at the cost of almost indecent sacrifices and renunciations. Let us say such a man becomes—transforms himself—into an editor of such a review; to keep his publication alive he risks hunger, abstains from women, buries himself in a windowless room, imposes privations which confound and appall. Tuberculosis and masturbation, that is his fate. No matter how scanty the number of émigrés, they form groups, not to protect their interests but to get up subscriptions, to bleed each other white in order to publish their regrets, their cries, their echoless appeals. One cannot conceive of a more heart rending form of the gratuitous. That they are as good poets as they are bad prose writers is to be accounted for readily enough. Consider the literary production of any "minor" nation which has not been so childish as to make up a past for itself: the abundance of poetry is its most striking characteristic. Prose requires, for its development, a certain rigor, a differentiated social status, and a tradition: it is deliberate, constructed; poetry wells up: it is direct or else totally fabricated; the prerogative of cave men or aesthetes, it flourishes only on the near or far side of civilization, never at the center. Whereas prose demands a premeditated genius and a crystallized language, poetry is perfectly compatible with a barbarous genius and a formless language. To create a literature is to create a prose.

To be a good man, you must become a paradox: strong but self-controlled, violent but gentle, ready to go to war one minute and prepared to give piggyback rides the next. This kind of man is fierce in word and deed while remaining compassionate and humble. He is fully soldier, fully lover, whole man.

Let your actions do the talking from now on, and if something is important to you, let it show in your day-to-day movements.

The world isn’t fair—never was, never will be.

The strongest don’t survive; the most adaptable do. When life is viewed this way, nothing is seen as an obstruction, but merely an obstacle to overcome.

A lot of the relationships we have are based on how the other person makes us feel about ourselves, and that only heightens the sense of loss at their departure

patience doesn’t mean waiting around for things to happen—it’s respecting the time needed for things to play out.

WHEN WE SHIFT OUR FOCUS ON OUR EFFORTS AND WHAT WE CAN CONTROL, WE’RE MORE EMPOWERED AND MUCH LESS FRUSTRATED BY THINGS THAT ARE BEYOND OUR CONTROL.

Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.” ― Corrie ten Boom “Worry does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, it empties today of its strength.

use our disappointments to recognize the root of our expectations.

The only reason you’re not good enough is because you’re thinking it.

Give a damn about yourself first, then those who give a damn about you, and then see if you have any damns left to give.

Expectations are a bigger enemy to our happiness than our circumstances; the fewer expectations you have, the better off you are.

We aren’t victims of life—we are life. We have power over our efforts, which gives us power to adjust our sails depending on which way things are blowing.

But what is it, to be an artist? Nothing shows up the general human dislike of thinking, and man's innate craving to be comfortable, better than his attitude to this question. When these worthy people are affected by a work of art, they humbly say that that sort of thing is a 'gift.' And because in their innocence they assume that beautiful and uplifting results must have beautiful and uplifting causes, they never dream that the 'gift' in question is a very dubious affair and rests upon extremely sinister foundations. [...] Listen to this. I know a banker, grey-haired business man, who has a gift for writing stories. He employs this gift in his idle hours, and some of his stories are of the first rank. But despiteI say despite-this excellent gift his withers are by no means unwrung: on the contrary, he has had to serve a prison sentence, on anything but trifling grounds. Yes, it was actually first in prison that he became conscious of his gift, and his experiences as a convict are the main theme in all his works. One might be rash enough to conclude that a man has to be at home in some kind of jail in order to become a poet.

The reality is you’re not married to who you are; you can change it at any moment. The change may not be overnight, but nothing about you is concrete; it’s a construct. Anything that is constructed can be destroyed.

In my mind's eye I can still see the first night flight I made in Argentina. It was pitch-dark. Yet in the black void, I could see the lights of man shining down below on the plains, like faintly luminous earthbound stars. Each star was a beacon signaling the presence of a human mind. Here a man was meditating on human happiness, perhaps, or on justice or peace. Lost among this flock of stars was the star of some solitary shepherd. There, perhaps, a man was in communication with the heavens, as he labored over his calculations of the nebula of Andromeda. And there, a pair of lovers. These fires were burning all over the countryside, and each of them, aven the most humble, had to be fed. The fire of the poet, of the teacher, of the carpenter. But among all these living fires, how many closed windows there were, how many dead stars, fires that gave off no light for lack of nourishment.

depict your sadnesses and desires, passing thoughts and faith in some kind of beauty - depict all this with intense, quiet, humble sincerity and make use of whatever you find about you to express yourself, the images from your dreams and the things in your memory.

Hope for the best, prepare for the worst.” Even when things are going well, be prepared for the worst-case scenarios; it will cushion the blow if something happens. You don’t need to trust a world you can’t control, just trust yourself to do your best to get through it.

I’ve said it numerous times, and I’m going to say it again: if you don’t love yourself, you have no business seeking love from others. Other people will exploit your need for love and affection for their own benefit; don’t hold that against them, just stay away from them.

For this reason, flee general subjects and take refuge in those offered by your own day-to-day life; depict your sadnesses and desires, passing thoughts and faith in some kind of beauty – depict all this with intense, quiet, humble sincerity and make use of whatever you find about you to express yourself, the images from your dreams and the things in your memory. If your everyday life seems to lack material, do not blame it; blame yourself, tell yourself that you are not poet enough to summon up its riches, for there is no lack for him who creates and no poor, trivial place.

So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty — describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is not poverty and no poor, indifferent place.

This chapter isn’t for everyone—it’s for the folks who are open to it. I’m writing this because I know there are individuals who want to divorce and unlearn some of the things that were poured into their minds at a very young age, but are afraid of the world afterwards. Don’t be. The wisest ones are the ones who acknowledge how little they actually know.

He went over to this desk on the other side of the room, and without sitting down wrote something on a piece of paper. Then he came back and sat down with the paper in his hand. “Oddly enough, this wasn’t written by a practicing poet. It was written by a psychoanalyst named Wilhelm Stekel. Here’s what he—Are you still with me?” “Yes, sure I am.” “Here’s what he said: ‘The mark of the immature man is that he wants to die nobly for a cause, while the mark of the mature man is that he wants to live humbly for one.

He can remember that all beauty in animals and plants is a silent, enduring form of love and longing, and he can see the animal, as he sees the plant, patiently and willingly uniting and multiplying and growing, not from physical pleasure, not from physical pain, but bowing to necessities that are greater than pleasure and pain and mightier than will and opposition. O, that man might more humbly receive this mystery, of which the earth is full, down to its smallest things, and earnestly bear it, endure it, and feel how terribly weighty it is, rather than taking it lightly.

He can remember that all beauty in animals and plants is a silent, enduring form of love and yearning, and he can see the animal, as he sees plants, patiently and willingly uniting and multiplying and growing, not out of physical pleasure, not out of physical pain, but bowing to necessities that are greater than pleasure and pain, and more powerful than will and withstanding. If only human beings could more humbly receive this mystery — which the world is filled with, even in its smallest Things —, could bear it, endure it, more solemnly, feel how terribly heavy it is, instead of taking it lightly

Life is too short to be in any situation you don’t want to be in, and it feels even shorter when you’re with people you don’t want to be around. There aren’t any erasers to undo our past, but there are fresh pages to write a new chapter. I have great friends who mustered up the courage and strength to escape their comfort zones and place themselves in situations they would much rather be in. It took time and it was a struggle, but they came out as better people with better lives. You can do the same thing. It won’t be easy, but so what? Is there really a point to building a life if it isn’t the life you want? I strongly encourage you to take risks; you’re worth it.

Having experimented in both poetry and prose, I can say that the two are such loaded words. But neither are quite as weighted as the word “poet”. I think some people can write poetry their whole lives, and never truly BE a “poet”. Whereas I see poets in the wanderers I encounter, the baristas who serve me, and the truckers I, so, love to talk to.To be a poet in my humble opinion is to be a muse of the human experience. I love that I love the idea, that anything can be poetry, it can’t be defined. It’s a feeling, like punk rock. I’m not one for form or structure. I say if your words are visceral and honest, it’s poetry. If you see the beauty of the world and humanity, and you preach it, you’re a poet.

Describe all these with heartfelt, silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don't blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is no poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world's sound - wouldn't you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure house of memories? Turn your attention to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance. And if out of , this turning within, out of this immersion in your own world, poems come, then you will not think of asking anyone whether they are good or not. Nor will you try to interest magazines in these works: for you will see them as your dear natural possession, a piece of your life, a voice from it. A work of art is good if it has arisen out of necessity. That is the only way one can judge it. So, dear Sir, I can't give you any advice but this: to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to, the question of whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take that destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside. For the creator must be a world for himself and must find everything in himself and in Nature, to whom his whole life is devoted.

Sufism is the reconciliation of all opposites: the outer and the inner, the material and the spiritual, the finite and the infinite, the here and the hereafter, freedom and servanthood, the human and the divine. Enlightenment in this tradition does not prevent us from functioning in a practical and humble way in life, does not entitle us to special treatment, does not exclude us from the inevitable joys and griefs of life. The Sufi’s union with God does not cancel servanthood. What I found through Sufism far exceeded my hopes. As an example, one poet said to me: “All of my reading, study, and creative writing could not have prepared me for the poetry of Rumi.” And yet all Rumi’s poetry is just the wave on the surface of the ocean of Sufi spirituality. Perhaps it is consistent with the idea of Divine generosity that it should exceed in actuality the gift we had foreseen in our imagination. The Source is not only infinitely generous, it is infinitely creative, and its gifts surpass human imagination.

If you trust in Nature, in the small Things that hardly anyone sees and that can so suddenly become huge, immeasurable; if you have this love for what is humble and try very simply, as someone who serves, to win the confidence of what seems poor: then everything will become easier for you, more coherent and somehow more reconciling, not in your conscious mind perhaps, which stays behind, astonished, but in your innermost awareness, awakeness, and knowledge. You are so young, so much before all beginning, and I would like to beg you, dear Sir, as well as I can, to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.

THE SOLITARY REAPER. Behold her, single in the field, Yon solitary highland lass! Reaping and singing by herself; Stop here, or gently pass! Alone she cuts and binds the grain, And sings a melancholy strain; O listen! for the vale profound Is overflowing with the sound. No nightingale did ever chaunt More welcome notes to weary bands Of travellers in some shady haunt Among Arabian sands: A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from a cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides. Will no one tell me what she sings?— Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow For old, unhappy, far-off things, And battles long ago: Or is it some more humble lay, Familiar matter of to-day? Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain, That has been, or may be again? Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang As if her song could have no ending; I saw her singing at her work, And o'er the sickle bending;— I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

In the EPJ results, there were two statistically distinguishable groups of experts. The first failed to do better than random guessing, and in their longer-range forecasts even managed to lose to the chimp. The second group beat the chimp, though not by a wide margin, and they still had plenty of reason to be humble. Indeed, they only barely beat simple algorithms like “always predict no change” or “predict the recent rate of change.” Still, however modest their foresight was, they had some. So why did one group do better than the other? It wasn’t whether they had PhDs or access to classified information. Nor was it what they thought—whether they were liberals or conservatives, optimists or pessimists. The critical factor was how they thought. One group tended to organize their thinking around Big Ideas, although they didn’t agree on which Big Ideas were true or false. Some were environmental doomsters (“We’re running out of everything”); others were cornucopian boomsters (“We can find cost-effective substitutes for everything”). Some were socialists (who favored state control of the commanding heights of the economy); others were free-market fundamentalists (who wanted to minimize regulation). As ideologically diverse as they were, they were united by the fact that their thinking was so ideological. They sought to squeeze complex problems into the preferred cause-effect templates and treated what did not fit as irrelevant distractions. Allergic to wishy-washy answers, they kept pushing their analyses to the limit (and then some), using terms like “furthermore” and “moreover” while piling up reasons why they were right and others wrong. As a result, they were unusually confident and likelier to declare things “impossible” or “certain.” Committed to their conclusions, they were reluctant to change their minds even when their predictions clearly failed. They would tell us, “Just wait.” The other group consisted of more pragmatic experts who drew on many analytical tools, with the choice of tool hinging on the particular problem they faced. These experts gathered as much information from as many sources as they could. When thinking, they often shifted mental gears, sprinkling their speech with transition markers such as “however,” “but,” “although,” and “on the other hand.” They talked about possibilities and probabilities, not certainties. And while no one likes to say “I was wrong,” these experts more readily admitted it and changed their minds. Decades ago, the philosopher Isaiah Berlin wrote a much-acclaimed but rarely read essay that compared the styles of thinking of great authors through the ages. To organize his observations, he drew on a scrap of 2,500-year-old Greek poetry attributed to the warrior-poet Archilochus: “The fox knows many things but the hedgehog knows one big thing.” No one will ever know whether Archilochus was on the side of the fox or the hedgehog but Berlin favored foxes. I felt no need to take sides. I just liked the metaphor because it captured something deep in my data. I dubbed the Big Idea experts “hedgehogs” and the more eclectic experts “foxes.” Foxes beat hedgehogs. And the foxes didn’t just win by acting like chickens, playing it safe with 60% and 70% forecasts where hedgehogs boldly went with 90% and 100%. Foxes beat hedgehogs on both calibration and resolution. Foxes had real foresight. Hedgehogs didn’t.

No one can advise or help you- no one. There is only one thing you should do. Go into yourself. Find out the reasons that commands you to write; see whether it has spread its roots into the very depth of your heart; confess to yourself whether you would have to die if you were forbidden to write. This most of all: ask yourself in the most silent hour of your night: must I write? Dig into yourself for a deep answer. And if this answer rings out in assent, if you meet this solemn question with a strong, simple “I must,” then build your life in accordance with this necessity; your whole life, even into its humblest and most indifferent hour, must become a sign and witness to this impulse. Then come close to Nature. Then, as if no one had ever tried before, try to say what you see and feel and love and lose. Don’t write love poems; avoid those forms that are too facile and ordinary: they are the hardest to work with, and it takes a great, fully ripened power to create something individual where good, even glorious, traditions exist in abundance. So rescue yourself from these general themes and write about what your everyday life offers you; describe your sorrows and desires, the thoughts that pass through your mind and your belief in some kind of beauty- describe all these with heartfelt silent, humble sincerity and, when you express yourself, use the Things around you, the images from your dreams, and the objects that you remember. If your everyday life seems poor, don’t blame it; blame yourself; admit to yourself that you are not enough of a poet to call forth its riches; because for the creator there is no poverty and no poor, indifferent place. And even if you found yourself in some prison, whose walls let in none of the world’s sounds- wouldn’t you still have your childhood, that jewel beyond all price, that treasure home of memories? Turn your attention to it. Try to raise up the sunken feelings of this enormous past; your personality will grow stronger, your solitude will expand and become a place where you can live in the twilight, where the noise of other people passes by, far in the distance.

Cherchez en vous-mêmes. Explorez la raison qui vous commande d'écrire; examinez si elle plonge ses racines au plus profond de votre cour; faites-vous cet aveu : devriez-vous mourir s'il vous était interdit d'écrire. Ceci surtout : demandez-vous à l'heure la plus silencieuse de votre nuit; me faut-il écrire ? Creusez en vous-mêmes à la recherche d'une réponse profonde. Et si celle-ci devait être affirmative, s'il vous était donné d'aller à la rencontre de cette grave question avec un fort et simple "il le faut", alors bâtissez votre vie selon cette nécessité; votre vie, jusqu'en son heure la plus indifférente et la plus infime, doit être le signe et le témoignage de cette impulsion. Puis vous vous approcherez de la nature. Puis vous essayerez, comme un premier homme, de dire ce que vous voyez et vivez, aimez et perdez. N'écrivez pas de poèmes d'amour; évitez d'abord les formes qui sont trop courantes et trop habituelles : ce sont les plus difficiles, car il faut la force de la maturité pour donner, là où de bonnes et parfois brillantes traditions se présentent en foule, ce qui vous est propre. Laissez-donc les motifs communs pour ceux que vous offre votre propre quotidien; décrivez vos tristesses et vos désirs, les pensées fugaces et la foi en quelque beauté. Décrivez tout cela avec une sincérité profonde, paisible et humble, et utilisez, pour vous exprimer, les choses qui vous entourent, les images de vos rêves et les objets de votre souvenir. Si votre quotidien vous paraît pauvre, ne l'accusez pas; accusez-vous vous-même, dites-vous que vous n'êtes pas assez poète pour appeler à vous ses richesses; car pour celui qui crée il n'y a pas de pauvreté, pas de lieu pauvre et indifférent. Et fussiez-vous même dans une prison dont les murs ne laisseraient parvenir à vos sens aucune des rumeurs du monde, n'auriez-vous pas alors toujours votre enfance, cette délicieuse et royale richesse, ce trésor des souvenirs ? Tournez vers elle votre attention. Cherchez à faire resurgir les sensations englouties de ce vaste passé; votre personnalité s'affirmera, votre solitude s'étendra pour devenir une demeure de douce lumière, loin de laquelle passera le bruit des autres." (Lettres à un jeune poète)

Respecting the fact that relationships are based on conditions may not be the most romantic, but it is the most realistic.

Take a super-deep breath and hold it. Hold it a bit longer, then slowly breathe it out and keep blowing until there’s no air in your lungs. Congratulations, you just pressed reset.

We can’t see other people’s struggles, pains, pressures, and anxieties. They put up the same front that we do. Trying to evaluate your life in comparison to others will always leave you more depressed for that simple reason.

have realized on my journey that I love creativity, so now any path that brings me closer to creativity is a path I’m open

The only way to remedy hard luck is with hard work. The curveballs that life throws you are only going to be an issue if you haven’t been practicing your swing.

Sikhi has a concept of tyar bar tyar, meaning “always be prepared.” Figure out what you want, and prepare for it. Have faith in your power of alchemy to turn every opportunity into gold.

Don’t fear the discomfort. When you were a baby first crawling, there was discomfort. When you learned to walk, run, ride a bike, read, and write, there was discomfort. Don’t deny yourself the opportunity for a better life simply because you’re scared to roll up your sleeves and do some work. We tend to sabotage our happiness by ignoring the wonderful things in our life. It’s a martyr syndrome, where we confuse self-pity for self-love. Nothing worthwhile comes from feeling sorry for yourself. That self-pity only isolates you from the beauty and catalysts of happiness around you.

Putting faith in your wings is only logical if you train those muscles, and muscles are best strengthened with resistance and stability training.

It’s healthy to have a myriad (that’s a smart word for “a bunch”) of emotions occupying the hotel of your heart. Welcome them all in, and experience them the way they’re meant to be (just clean up afterwards). You’ll also realize the relationships between them. The less things anger you, the less things will excite you. The less things make you cry, the less things will make you laugh. Different life experiences are going to break barriers within you and you’ll respond emotionally to things you never connected to before

What you fear isn’t the roadblock; allowing the fear to keep you from moving is the real obstacle.

The most important relationship you have is with yourself—simple. Putting the responsibility of your smiles on anyone else will often lead to the opposite, and you have no one to blame except yourself. This anti-victim mentality isn’t popular because people don’t enjoy the onus, but it’s probably the only way to ensure a long-standing, healthy ability to have meaningful relationships.

normal these things really are. We tend to amplify our problems and sink into a center-of-the-world mentality, thinking that the entire universe is conspiring against us; it’s not. We

A simple shift in what your mind is paying attention to can do wonders for the way you feel.

Needing attention and observing what works and what doesn’t fulfills that need and paints us a new picture of ourselves that over time distances us from who we really are.

Needing attention and observing what works and what doesn’t fulfills that need and paints us a new picture of ourselves that over time distances us from who we really are. We tend to not express ourselves, but rather express what works, and what makes us stand out or fit in.

For now that I have seen The curd-white hawthorn once again Break out on the new green, And through the iron gates in the long blank wall Have viewed across a screen Of rosy apple-blossom the grey spire And low red roofs and humble chimney-stacks, And stood in spacious courtyards of old farms, And heard green virgin wheat sing to the breeze, And the drone of ancient worship rise and fall In the dark church, and talked with simple folk Of farm and village, dwelling near the earth, Among earth's ancient elemental things: I can with heart made bold Go back into the ways of ruin and death With step unflagging and with quiet breath. (Martin Armstrong)

Putting yourself first is an act of survival as well. We can all easily drain ourselves trying to accommodate the whims of others. We can spend our entire life trying to make other people happy, and realize we have no life left for ourselves.

Observing everyone on the surface, then comparing what you see to what you’re feeling deep inside is a guaranteed method of sinking yourself even lower.

the intensity of our problems is the simple marriage of our circumstance with our mindset. Sometimes you can’t change the circumstances, but you can ALWAYS change your mindset.

There’s no growth in your comfort zone, there’s no comfort in your growth zone. It’s not a Venn diagram and there’s no happy medium.

it’s more of an understanding that it’s in our nature to find the path of least resistance. If someone found success creating a certain path, you can be sure that path will be clogged with people trying to follow in their footsteps.

When you pave your own road, there’s less traffic.

Anything worth saying is worth repeating. It's rare that we come across something worthwhile in life, and a single encounter is enough for it to stay with us.

Unhappiness is simply when the picture in your head doesn't match the picture in front of you.

Improve your relationship with all your emotions because there’s a lot to discover from them. I’m grateful that I have a variety of emotions. They teach me something new about myself on a regular basis.