Inspirational Leaf Quotes

YOU are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf, I am the smaller one on its upper side,' said the dewdrop to the lake.

The pessimist resembles a man who observes with fear and sadness that his wall calendar, from which he daily tears a sheet, grows thinner with each passing day. On the other hand, the person who attacks the problems of life actively is like a man who removes each successive leaf from his calendar and files it neatly and carefully away with its predecessors, after first having jotted down a few diary notes on the back. He can reflect with pride and joy on all the richness set down in these notes, on all the life he has already lived to the fullest. What will it matter to him if he notices that he is growing old? Has he any reason to envy the young people whom he sees, or wax nostalgic over his own lost youth? What reasons has he to envy a young person? For the possibilities that a young person has, the future which is in store for him? No, thank you,' he will think. 'Instead of possibilities, I have realities in my past, not only the reality of work done and of love loved, but of sufferings bravely suffered. These sufferings are even the things of which I am most proud, although these are things which cannot inspire envy.

Give me a land of boughs in leaf A land of trees that stand; Where trees are fallen there is grief; I love no leafless land.

Meditation is the process of transformation and beautification of soul from a leaf-eating caterpillar to a nectar-sipping butterfly. It grows with the wings of love and compassion.

The earth will never be the same again Rock, water, tree, iron, share this greif As distant stars participate in the pain. A candle snuffed, a falling star or leaf, A dolphin death, O this particular loss A Heaven-mourned; for if no angel cried If this small one was tossed away as dross, The very galaxies would have lied. How shall we sing our love's song now In this strange land where all are born to die? Each tree and leaf and star show how The universe is part of this one cry, Every life is noted and is cherished, and nothing loved is ever lost or perished.

The old cobbler had believed in something he called "the signature of all things"-namely, that God had hidden clues for humanity's betterment inside the design of every flower, leaf, fruit, and tree on earth. All the natural world was a divine code, Boehme claimed, containing proof of our Creator's love.

‗In life, at sometime or another we come to a point where all relationships cease—where there is only us and Allah. There are no parents, brother or sister, or any friend. Then we realise that there is no earth under us nor is there sky above, but only Allah who is supporting us in this emptiness. Then we realise our worth – it is not more than a grain of sand or the leaf of a plant. Then we realise our existence is only confined to our being. Our demise makes not a whit of difference to the world around us, nor to the scheme of things.

That knowledge humbles me, melts my bones, closes my ears, and makes my teeth rock loosely in their gums. And it also liberates me. I am a big bird winging over high mountains, down into serene valleys. I am ripples of waves on silver seas. I'm a spring leaf trembling in anticipation.

Does a leaf, when it falls from the tree in winter, feel defeated by the cold? The tree says to the leaf: "That’s the cycle of life. You may think you’re going to die, but you live on in me. It’s thanks to you that I’m alive, because I can breathe. It’s also thanks to you that I have felt loved, because I was able to give shade to the weary traveller. Your sap is in my sap; we are one thing.

Don't give up when dark times come. The more storms you face in life, the stronger you'll be. Hold on. Your greater is coming.

A great tree develops over time and can tell stories not only those of happiness, but also those that contain pain from what it has seen over the years, and as a result is the wise ancient tree that it is today. As the seasons change, the tree naturally goes through changes as well: where the leaves turn yellow and orange in the fall, falling by the Winter, returning in the Spring, and with full set of new leafs by the Summer. Love is no different in that there will be times when we are fully naked in the Winter, and left to wonder about Spring when it seemed so easy to love, yet the wise tree knows that no winter will last forever no matter how cold it may be.

Birth, life, and death― each took place on the hidden side of a leaf.

I was stirred only like a leaf in the wind, that is all. . .

Who can really say how decisions are made, how emotions change, how ideas arise? We talk about inspiration; about a bolt of lightnng from a clear sky, but perhaps everything is just as simple and just as infinitely complex as the processes that make a particular leaf fall at a particularmoment. That point has been reached, that's all. It has to happen, and it does happen.

What's the worth of sadness in front of happiness? Like a leaf that's blown away by the wind. What's the worth of despair in front of hope? Like a dirty stone that's thrown in a clean pond. What's the worth of chaos in front of peace? Like a flying kite that's string has been cut down. What's the worth of disunion in front of the union? Like a fish that's breathing but not in water.

When the last leaf falls, what will die within us?

Every atom you possess has almost certainly passed through several stars and been part of millions of organisms on its way to becoming you. We are each so atomically numerous and so vigorously recycled at death that a significant number of our atoms - up to a billion for each of us, it has been suggested - probably once belonged to Shakespeare. A billion more each came from Buddha and Genghis Khan and Beethoven, and any other historical figure you care to name. So we are all reincarnations - though short-lived ones. When we die, our atoms will disassemble and move off to find new uses elsewhere - as part of a leaf or other human being or drop of dew.

Preoccupied with a single leaf, you won't see the tree. Preoccupied with a single tree, you'll miss the entire forest.

You cannot discover new oceans until you are willing to lose sight of the shore.

Mostly humanity lives with its consciousness asleep blowing like a leaf in the winds of unawareness.

She flew across the turbulent gust. Her eyes fixed, her wings strong She flies and flies and flies along. To reach high, to open her wings to the breathing sun rise.

They tell us the only way to move on is to forget. “Forgive,” they say. Realise that you deserve better. That maybe they deserve better. You can't fight fire with fire. Extinguish it once and for all. "Do not look back," they say. They don't tell you that only one thing is needed. Only one: love. When you are filled to the brim with love, you only emanate love. You become lover and love itself. Only then will you love even the very people you wish to hate.

I especially loved the Old Testament. Even as a kid I had a sense of it being slightly illicit. As though someone had slipped an R-rated action movie into a pile of Disney DVDs. For starters Adam and Eve were naked on the first page. I was fascinated by Eve's ability to always stand in the Garden of Eden so that a tree branch or leaf was covering her private areas like some kind of organic bakini. But it was the Bible's murder and mayhem that really got my attention. When I started reading the real Bible I spent most of my time in Genesis Exodus 1 and 2 Samuel and 1 and 2 Kings. Talk about violent. Cain killed Abel. The Egyptians fed babies to alligators. Moses killed an Egyptian. God killed thousands of Egyptians in the Red Sea. David killed Goliath and won a girl by bringing a bag of two hundred Philistine foreskins to his future father-in-law. I couldn't believe that Mom was so happy about my spending time each morning reading about gruesome battles prostitutes fratricide murder and adultery. What a way to have a "quiet time." While I grew up with a fairly solid grasp of Bible stories I didn't have a clear idea of how the Bible fit together or what it was all about. I certainly didn't understand how the exciting stories of the Old Testament connected to the rather less-exciting New Testament and the story of Jesus. This concept of the Bible as a bunch of disconnected stories sprinkled with wise advice and capped off with the inspirational life of Jesus seems fairly common among Christians. That is so unfortunate because to see the Bible as one book with one author and all about one main character is to see it in its breathtaking beauty.

I only thought Of lying quiet there where I was thrown Like sea-weed on the rocks, and suffer her To prick me to a pattern with her pin, Fibre from fibre, delicate leaf from leaf, And dry out from my drowned anatomy The last sea-salt left in me.

Nature we have always with us, an in exhaustible store-house of that which moves the heart, appeals to the mind and fires the imagination -- health to the body, a stimulus to the intellect, and joy to the soul.

Every story begins somewhere, some in the rain of forgotten yesterdays and some in the scent of autumn leaves...

A tree will not wither and die because the wind blew away one leaf.

you are a bouquet crafted by artisans you are a garden inspired by Eden not one leaf is set by way of accident not one petal curves by way of chance

Take a deep breath and feel the joy of life. Open your eyes and see the beauty of a dancing leaf.

The garden is a miraculous place, and anything can happen on a beautiful moonlit night.

He was going to learn about sheep, and the high pasturages, and look at a wider sky, and walk ever further and further towards the Mountains, always uphill. Beyond that I cannot guess what became of him. Even little Niggle in his old home could glimpse the Mountains far away, and they got into the borders of his picture; but what they are really like, and what lies beyond them, only those can say who have climbed them.

Life is full of joy and beauty. Look around and notice it. Notice the little butterfly, a little baby with a smile, and the white rose in the garden. Notice a drop of dew on a green leaf in the morning sun. Touch the wind, smell the rain, and feel the joy. Live your life with beauty and joy.

Does a caterpillar sit on the same leaf when it's a butterfly? No! It goes for a little fly and sees something of the world. Does the tadpole stay in the same pond once it's a frog? No! It stretches its legs, goes for a jump, explores other waters. Did Cinderella go back cleaning hearths once she married the prince? ... Transformation means moving forward. If a butterfly stays on the same leaf and a frog stays in the same pond, then they may as well have stayed a caterpillar or a tadpole. There was no point in metamorphosing.

Autumn is the season when cathedrals of memories are built. They become palaces of light, amid the falling leaves.

She is a storm; she is a river untamed; untouched she will engulf you; she will shatter you hold her softly; caress her gently she is fragile like a rose petal she is tender like the touch me not leaf she is the warm glow of the morning sun she is the magic of a full moon night

I began to understand that the most worthwhile obsession is an obsession that is actually independent of the object of fixation. The object is only borrowed as a pretext, a means, an environment, through which or in which the obsessed person can project his own eternal and essential hunger, thus fulfilling the requirements of death--the dissolution of the ego for something, anything, that exists independently outside of one's self. Perhaps that obsession should be controlled. At some point the most mundane catalyst, a skirt or fallen leaf, is enough to provoke a series of captivating chain reactions, while at another time much more important objects will inspire only an absurd indifference.

The Dream I Dream For You, My Child ... I hope you search for four-leaf clovers, grin back at Cheshire moons, breathe in the springtime breezes, and dance with summer loons. I hope you gaze in wide-eyed wonder at the buzzing firefly and rest beneath the sunlit trees as butterflies fly by. I hope you gather simple treasures of pebbles, twigs, and leaves and marvel at the fragile web the tiny spider weaves. I hope you read poetry and fairy tales and sing silly, made-up songs, and pretend to be a superhero righting this world's wrongs. I hope your days are filled with magic and your nights with happy dreams, and you grow up knowing that happiness is found in simple things. The dream I dream for you, my child, as you discover, learn, and grow, is that you find these simple joys wherever in life you go.

I would like to hold your hand as it holds this green leaf, yellowed, that fell early from its tree, this Autumn. And I would like to imagine that it feels your careful care, for your eyes are warmed by your heart, and I would let you sadly nestle into me as a bird folds into its nest, resigning itself to a storm. For my heart is as large as a city, and it glows with the fire that, with the right mischievous love, shall serve to inspire thousands upon thousands to inspire thousands upon thousands.

Every flower can sing, every tree can understand, every leaf can hear the silent song of your heart.

deeds cannot dream what dreams can do —time is a tree (this life one leaf) but love is the sky and i am for you just so long and long enough

Life is nothing but a transient dream dancing at the tip of a leaf called time.

The real bible is not the work of inspired men, nor prophets, nor apostles, nor evangelists, nor of Christs. Every man who finds a fact, adds, as it were, a word to this great book. It is not attested by prophecy, by miracles or signs. It makes no appeal to faith, to ignorance, to credulity or fear. It has no punishment for unbelief, and no reward for hypocrisy. It appeals to man in the name of demonstration. It has nothing to conceal. It has no fear of being read, of being contradicted, of being investigated and understood. It does not pretend to be holy, or sacred; it simply claims to be true. It challenges the scrutiny of all, and implores every reader to verify every line for himself. It is incapable of being blasphemed. This book appeals to all the surroundings of man. Each thing that exists testifies of its perfection. The earth, with its forests and plains, its rocks and seas; with its every wave and cloud; with its every leaf and bud and flower, confirms its every word, and the solemn stars, shining in the infinite abysses, are the eternal witnesses of its truth.

I have no worries even if I die the very next moment, for I am sure that I will be around you even after that! Perhaps as an orphan cloud upon the blue skies, a drop of water falling onto your palms, a leaf of green that capture your vision or an invisible breeze caressing your skin - for I am the beauty of the universe!

an invitation to lunch HOW DO YOU LIKE THAT? when I only have 16 cents and 2 packages of yoghurt there's a lesson in that, isn't there like in Chinese poetry when a leaf falls? hold off on the yoghurt till the very last, when everything may improve

Why do you haunt me? You, like a tattoo on my tongue, like the bay leaf at the bottom of every pan. You who sprawled out beside me and sang my horoscope to a Schubert symphony, something about travel and money again, and we lay there, both of our breaths bad, both of our underwear dangling elastic, and then you turned toward me with a gaze like two matches, putting the horoscope aside, you traced my buried ribs with your index finger, lingered at my collarbone, admiring it as one might a flying buttress, murmuring: Nice clavicle. And me, too new at it and scared, not knowing what to say, whispering: You should see my ten-speed.

Logotherapy, keeping in mind the essential transitoriness of human existence, is not pessimistic but rather activistic. To express this point figuratively we might say: The pessimist resembles a man who observes with fear and sadness that his wall calendar, from which he daily tears a sheet, grows thinner with each passing day. On the other hand, the person who attacks the problems of life actively is like a man who removes each successive leaf from his calendar and files it neatly and carefully away with its predecessors, after first having jotted down a few diary notes on the back. He can reflect with pride and joy on all the richness set down in these notes, on all the life he has already lived to the fullest. What will it matter to him if he notices that he is growing old? Has he any reason to envy the young people whom he sees, or wax nostalgic over his own lost youth? What reasons has he to envy a young person? For the possibilities that a young person has, the future which is in store for him? “No, thank you,” he will think. “Instead of possibilities, I have realities in my past, not only the reality of work done and of love loved, but of sufferings bravely suffered. These sufferings are even the things of which I am most proud, though these are things which cannot inspire envy.

The same tree has different shades of green; Each leaf is unique, growing on the same twig. Some veins wiggle too much, Some networks- almost a mush. Blossoming buds of the same branch Do not take the same time to grow. Then how do you think you'd fit in In this strange world, away from home?

Be someone you'd like to know

A leaf has no power to resist when the wind blows, but when life’s storms rage, you do.

I'm a leaf / Look at me on my branch / A terrible storm / Came and knocked me off / The day you see me fall / Is not the day I die

Like a feather in the air,Like a leaf in the sea,I surrender to thee,I surrender to thee.-RVM

Life is a dancing dew drop on the tip of a leaf.

This was all in the making, a long time ago. You had as much control over these events as a leaf does in the time of its falling.

Open your wings and let your dreams fly for every thought counts.

If you are looking to turn over a new leaf and be more kind and forgiving, I suggest starting with the person you see in the mirror each morning.

Even a fallen leaf can shelter a bug from the storm.

When the wind comes leaves get ready to take their first flight.

The pessimist resembles a man who observes with fear and sadness that his wall calendar, from which he daily tears a sheet, grows thinner with each passing day. On the other hand, the person who attacks the problems of life actively is like a man who removes each successive leaf from his calendar and files it neatly and carefully away with its predecessors, after first having jotted down a few diary notes on the back. He can reflect with pride and joy on all the richness set down in these notes, on all the life he has already lived to the fullest. What will it matter to him if he notices that he is growing old? Has he any reason to envy the young people whom he sees, or wax nostalgic over his own lost youth? What reasons has he to envy a young person? For the possibilities that a young person has, the future which is in store for him? “No, thank you,” he will think. “Instead of possibilities, I have realities in my past, not only the reality of work done and of love loved, but of sufferings bravely suffered. These sufferings are even the things of which I am most proud, though these are things which cannot inspire envy.

Life is a total process, the inner as well as the outer; the outer definitely affects the inner, but the inner invariably overcomes the outer. What you are, you bring about outwardly. The outer and the inner cannot be separated and kept in watertight compartments, for they are constantly interacting upon each other; but the inner craving, the hidden pursuits and motives, are always more powerful. Life is not dependent upon political or economic activity; life is not a mere outward show, any more than a tree is the leaf or the branch. Life is a total process whose beauty is to be discovered only in its integration.

There are no coincidences", Silette wrote. "Only mysteries that haven't been solved, clues that haven't been placed. Most are blind to the language of the bird overheard, the leaf in our path, the phonographic record stuck in a groove, the unknown caller on the phone. They don't see the omens. They don't know how to read the signs. To them life is like a book with blank pages. But to the detective, it is an illuminated manuscript of mysteries.

In an era characterized by incessant noise and constant distraction, we often find our minds pulled from one thought to another like a leaf in an October breeze. We are so preoccupied by modern living that we become totally disconnected from our ancient human roots in the natural world.

For decades, new-energy researchers talked about the possibility of treating a magnet so that its magnetic field would continuously shake or vibrate. On rare occasions, Sweet saw this effect, called self-oscillation, occur in electric transformers. He felt it could be coaxed into doing something useful, such as producing energy. Sweet thought that if he could find the precise way to shake or disturb a magnet's force field, the field would continue to shake by itself. It would be similar to striking a bell and having the bell keep on ringing. Sweet - who said his ideas came to him in dreams - turned for inspiration to his expertise in magnets. He knew magnets could be used to produce electricity, and wanted to see if he could get power out of a magnet by something other than the standard induction process. What Sweet wanted to do was to keep the magnet still and just shake its magnetic field. This shaking, in turn, would create an electric current. One new-energy researcher compares self-oscillation to a leaf on a tree waving in a gentle breeze. While the breeze itself isn't moving back and forth, it sets the leaf into that kind of motion. Sweet thought that if cosmic energy could be captured to serve as the breeze, then the magnetic field would serve as the leaf. Sweet would just have to supply a small amount of energy to set the magnetic field in motion, and space energy would keep it moving.

I come from the depths of infinity and from all directions of space-time. I traveled through dark tunnels, went through solar storms. I went straight, circled, parallel, rotated as a spiral. Cosmic clouds trapped me and escaped from them. Avoided collisions with meteories. I was helped by exotic particles, neutron stars and the love of gravity. Every leaf, every flower, every mountain and lake, every cloud and every star and every atom recognize me and greet me. I feel that i have live for million lifetimes. Who am i? What is my purpose? Last night i sent a question into universe, asking ”who am i or am i not? The universe responded immediately: ”You asked me the same thing billions of years ago. And then and now i answer: You’re the smile of no birth and no death, The Hidden Law!

[Most] blessed is the man who believes in, trusts in, and relies on the Lord, and whose hope and confidence the Lord is. For he shall be like a tree planted by the waters that spreads out its roots by the river; and it shall not see and fear when heat comes; but its leaf shall be green. It shall not be anxious and full of care in the year of drought, nor shall it cease yielding fruit. —JEREMIAH 17:7–8

I find sanctuaries when looking up and when looking down. A humble ochre leaf swimming in a puddle elicits as much awe from me as a soaring cathedral. One was built to evoke reverence; the other is quiet and humble, yet to me, both are achingly beautiful. In them, I see the divine light of warmth and love. I feel lifted, comforted. I appreciate their presence in my life, reminders that I am home everywhere I go.

Walking under Dusk, Moonlit leaf shadows were cast on my skin from the trees above, every step I took was taking a step deeper into magic. Silent whispers of mystical mouthes pulling me in deeper. Then the lights from inside the house turned on. A few seconds later, the fence lights went on. Just like that, the leafy ghosts on my skin ran away and the faery voices ran home. It seems like the creations of man kill magic in so many ways— even the light bulb does this! Oh to be a race of people designing magical things, if someone could capture pieces of Moonlight and place it in a jar; or other things like that, then we could stop killing the magic and be filled with it instead. Or maybe we are already always filled with it. It's the bringing out that we have trouble with. Stop being a doorknob, darling! Be magical, instead!

Let me ask you.... what pulls you into life ...when you gulp inside the hardest of ache...let me ask you.....how you still go on living... knowing the roots have grown so dull....let me ask you ....how you continue living...knowing every walk has become the hardest slog..... for beneath the leaves are the memories... you carefully pushed aside...let me ask you how you meet your eyes when all that you housed inside....is still breathing and burning you alive.....could it be a joy on the other side of loss....could it be a dream on the other side of despair.....

Take what you have of what remains, take the colors of what is still left, for this is the flame that will set your soul ablaze before that moment comes when the leaf trembles shuddering in its last joy, the robin cries knowing it is the last song. Sing, Sing, O Sojourner, no season is meant to stay. The deeps are filled with a bitter sweet nostalgia... the cinnamon, nutmeg, cider roast smell, the earth sparkling, feasting on the colors, the grounds merry making as the leaves softly play, for this is the life's sacred performance art, as the earth is playing the grand finale before it slips in the winter's white silence....

It was then that the central figure of the gospels, a historical figure whom she deeply revered and sought to imitate, began at rare intervals to flash out at her like live lightning from their pages, frightening her, turning the grave blueprint into a dazzle of reflected fire. Gradually she learned to see that her fear was not of the lightning itself but what it showed her of the nature of love, for it dazzled behind the stark horror of Calvary. At this point, where so many vowed lovers faint and fail, Mary Montague went doggedly on over a period of years that seemed if possible longer and harder than the former period. At some point along the way, she did not know where because the change came so slowly and gradually, she realized that he had got her and got everything. His love held and illumined every human being for whom she was concerned, and whom she served with the profound compassion which was their need and right, held the Cathedral, the city, every flower and leaf and creature, giving it reality and beauty. She could not take her eyes from the incredible glory of his love. As far as it was possible for a human being in this world she had turned from herself. She could say, 'I have been turned,' and did not know how very few can speak these words with truth.

Butterflies by Maisie Aletha Smikle Colorfully colored butterflies Black yellow orange and green With their beautiful specks Align the garden decks Butterfly butterfly… Lovely flies that ain't got butter Their beauty makes one stutter And their heart go pitter patter And will soon melt like butter They won’t eat from a platter And one can only mutter Butterfly butterfly .... Radiant as the sunshine Beautiful as the colors of the rainbow Harmless as a deer Adorn for all to see First it was a caterpillar Crawling on its tiny legs It's entire body stretches out on a leaf In the twinkling of an eye The caterpillar transforms And are given wings to fly And fly it must…. It was not created to crawl Miraculous indeed Is the life of a butterfly Displayed for all to see Hope in the life of a radiant butterfly

Researchers at Shanghai Jiao Tong University in China, Saga University in Japan, and the University of California, Davis, proposed creating an artificial inorganic leaf modeled on the real thing. They took a leaf of Anemone vitifolia, a plant native to China, and injected its veins with titanium dioxide-a well-known industrial photocatalyst. By taking on the precise branching shape and structure of the leaf's veins, the titanium dioxide produced much higher light-harvesting ability than if ti was used in a traditional configuration. The researchers found an astounding 800 percent increase in hydrogen production as well. The total performance was 300 percent more active than the world's best commercial photocatalysts. When they added platinum nanoparticles to the mix, it increased activity by a further 1,000 percent.

AFTER BEING IN LOVE, THE NEXT RESPONSIBILITY Turn me like a waterwheel turning a millstone. Plenty of water, a Living River. Keep me in one place and scatter the love. Leaf-moves in wind, straw drawn toward amber, all parts of the world are in love, but they do not tell their secrets. Cows grazing on a sacramental table, ants whispering in Solomon's ear. Mountains mumbling an echo. Sky, calm. If the sun were not in love, he would have no brightness, the side of the hill no grass on it. The ocean would come to rest somewhere. Be a lover as they are, that you come to know you Beloved. Be faithful that you may know Faith. The other parts of the universe did not accept the next responsibility of love as you can. They were afraid they might make a mistake with it, the inspired knowing that springs from being in love

1¼ cups white wine vinegar 1¾ cups water 2½ tablespoons sugar ½ bay leaf 4 thyme sprigs A pinch of dried chile flakes ½ teaspoon coriander seeds 2 whole cloves 4 garlic cloves, halved 1½ teaspoons sea salt Combine all the ingredients in a saucepan and bring to a boil. Add small or chopped vegetables to the brine, cooking each type of vegetable separately and removing them when they are cooked but still a little crisp. Remove the vegetables with a slotted spoon and set them aside to cool to room temperature. Once all the vegetables are cooked and cooled, allow the brine to cool as well. Stir the vegetables together gently in a large bowl, then transfer to jars or other covered containers, cover with the cooled pickle brine, and refrigerate. You can keep this basic brine in your refrigerator and reheat it to make fresh pickles when you are inspired by a trip to the farmers’ market.

day. On the other hand, the person who attacks the problems of life actively is like a man who removes each successive leaf from his calendar and files it neatly and carefully away with its predecessors, after first having jotted down a few diary notes on the back. He can reflect with pride and joy on all the richness set down in these notes, on all the life he has already lived to the fullest. What will it matter to him if he notices that he is growing old? Has he any reason to envy the young people whom he sees, or wax nostalgic over his own lost youth? What reasons has he to envy a young person? For the possibilities that a young person has, the future which is in store for him? “No, thank you,” he will think. “Instead of possibilities, I have realities in my past, not only the reality of work done and of love loved, but of sufferings bravely suffered. These sufferings are even the things of which I am most proud, though these are things which cannot inspire envy.

The pessimist resembles a man who observes with fear and sadness that his wall calendar, from which he daily tears a sheet, grows thinner with each passing day. On the other hand, the person who attacks the problems of life actively is like a man who removes each successive leaf from his calendar and files it neatly and carefully away with its predecessors, after first having jotted down a few diary notes on the back. He can reflect with pride and joy on all the richness set down in these notes, on all the life he has already lived to the fullest. What will it matter to him if he notices that he is growing old? Has he any reason to envy the young people whom he sees, or wax nostalgic over his own lost youth? What reasons has he to envy a young person? For the possibilities that a young person has, the future which is in store for him? No, thank you,' he will think. 'Instead of possibilities, I have realities in my past, not only the reality of work done and of love loved, but of sufferings bravely suffered. These sufferings are even the things of which I am most proud, although these are things which cannot inspire envy.

we might say: The pessimist resembles a man who observes with fear and sadness that his wall calendar, from which he daily tears a sheet, grows thinner with each passing day. On the other hand, the person who attacks the problems of life actively is like a man who removes each successive leaf from his calendar and files it neatly and carefully away with its predecessors, after first having jotted down a few diary notes on the back. He can reflect with pride and joy on all the richness set down in these notes, on all the life he has already lived to the fullest. What will it matter to him if he notices that he is growing old? Has he any reason to envy the young people whom he sees, or wax nostalgic over his own lost youth? What reasons has he to envy a young person? For the possibilities that a young person has, the future which is in store for him? “No, thank you,” he will think. “Instead of possibilities, I have realities in my past, not only the reality of work done and of love loved, but of sufferings bravely suffered. These sufferings are even the things of which I am most proud, though these are things which cannot inspire envy.

Logotherapy, keeping in mind the essential transitoriness of human existence, is not pessimistic but rather activistic. To express this point figuratively, we might say: the pessimist resembles a man who observes with fear and sadness that his wall calendar, from which he daily tears a sheet, grows thinner with each passing day. On the other hand, the person who attacks the problems of life actively is like a man who removes each successive leaf from his calendar and files it neatly and carefully away with its predecessors, after first having jotted down a few diary notes on the back. He can reflect with pride and joy on all the richness set down in these notes; on all the life he has already lived to the fullest. What will it matter to him if he notices that he is growing old? Has he any reason to envy the young people whom he sees, or wax nostalgic over his own lost youth? What reasons has he to envy a young person? For the possibilities that a young person has, the future which is in store for him? No thank you, he will think. Instead of possibilities, I have realities in my past. Not only the reality of work done, and of love loved, but of sufferings bravely suffered. These sufferings are even the things of which I am most proud, though these are things which cannot inspire envy.

To Dream Is To Die. I often found myself betwixt the worlds. In the sacred space where dreams and reality met, I wandered. I was chasing after hopes and dreams, … ephemerality's beyond my reach. Transient in Mind. And soul. Was I. And I was happy. Though soon, the tides changed. My body grew. And so with it did the expectations of the world around me. They are shackling me to the ground. Clipping the wings, with which my mind soared I was stripping the shadow with which my soul took flight. She was convincing me that folly was to dream. And to dream. I was to die. And so I set it aside. I stopped wandering. I stayed put. and marched along the path predestined for me. We are told to STOP dreaming as we grow. TO exit the space in between, where hopes are chased, and dreams are forged. To give up the childish whims of our youth. To come down to reality. And stay there. Many are lost in this way. Believing dreams and reality are best kept separate But fewer still realize That this life. That this here, and now. It is nothing but a dream within a dream. And I am the dreamer. We are the place between wisdom and wonder. We are the bridge between discernment and delusion We are the dream. And the dreamer. And no sooner can the two be separated.. than can the green, on the back, of the leaf, be stripped off. and tossed into the ether… Walking contradictory completions Perfectly imperfect creations Definite Death. And Limitless Life. All in one. Don't you see? To live is to dream. And to Dream is to live.

Dear me, I am happy the way you have turned out. I am happy the way you have closed in all the broken parts of your self and made them look like waves cutting across the edges of a shore that seems so distant yet alive. I am happy the way you screamed at every gust and almost fell back with choked tears and yet walked on while your mind told you otherwise. I am happy the way you caressed the numb tears of your heart and poured it out unashamedly for they made you so much more than just a piece of Earth. I am happy the way you believed in Love even when your love left you empty with scars and wounds that are yet unhealed. I am happy the way you left your wounds untouched for you knew the value of Life and the reason to walk on this pit of fire. I am happy the way you learnt to sprinkle rays from your ashes and yet remain unabsorbed in the chained hollows of your once broken soul. I am happy the way you tried to listen to your heart's cry for that led you to a paradise of a world lulled by His Mercy and Love. I am happy the way you chose to rise from your corpse and know that Life means love and light not only for your self but for everyone around. I am happy that you finally realized that your life is complete within itself and you are perfect beyond all your imperfections. I am happy that you found your calling in the horizon of smiles that you leave behind each time you cross path with a fellow Traveller of this voyage called Life. I am happy that in your solitude you found the company of your best friend that lies within. I am happy that even in the night you shine bright with the sun of your soul that knows no bound and trusts no fear. I am happy that you keep trying and pushing off all that puts you behind and never cease to wonder at the marvel of Life. I am happy that you never stopped to gaze at what you lost but stayed amazed at what you gained. I am happy that you keep stumbling through Life, waiting for the light that runs through an endless tunnel of hope, counting through the ever falling leaf of a grey rose that murmurs through an unending story of Hope and Faith. I am happy that you are all that you have become. And I am happy the way you have turned out. - A flicker, that lies inside of you.

Pieces of my self. I have come to realise that our soul is not a static element or something that we can ever put in words. It is something that we find and embrace in bits and pieces flowing through an endless journey of life. Sometimes we find a halo of it in the setting sun while sometimes we chase its harmony in a distant sunrise. We have moments in Life, defining our traits, when some incident or some part of our Life changes forever rather takes shape forever but that too is not entirely rigid, they too flow with our soul and may be years or even moments later they change shape into something that twinkles more with our soul. It is a process of learning, unlearning and relearning where everything that we assemble in this Lifetime is like a free flowing river which meanders its way onto an ocean. And the ocean is Love. Not the Love that we often imagine it be, it is something beyond any imagination or definition. It is an air that absorbs every other force of Nature and releases them through the filter of Wisdom. It is about understanding our innermost fear and fighting it out with the indomitable courage that is always lurking in the deepest part of our heart. It is about knowing how contagious kindness can be and becoming the reflector of grace through our very existence. It is about embracing every chapter of our life with gratitude for the path that our spirit has chosen beyond boundaries and limits. It is about growing and healing. Growing through a voyage that is endless in this Cosmic ocean and healing through the balm of connections. I have realised that every connection that we make even if it is for a fraction of a second stays on within our soul and every alley that we explore leads us to a place that is closer to our destination. Sometimes the Destination gets blurred through the noises of all that is tangible in our surroundings and we often grow exhausted on this journey, it is then that we grow, trying to walk over a pyre of our failures, lost bonds, detours and everything that are capable of pulling us down they become stars, like the fireflies that show us the path to bring us closer to our soul, to put back the pieces of our self. They make us all that we stand as a whole. So especially when we run out of our strength somewhere in some hidden alley of our soul, something burns in our soul, a flicker of our passion guiding us home, where the pieces of our soul dance in a mad harmony to awaken the flame that lights our way onto a destination, wandering along the edge of a purpose that breathes through scattered pieces of our self, basking in the halo of eternity.

A leaf carried away with the stream of water, it can crash along the way, or go on to the darkest parts of the unknown ocean.

In hindu tradition, before removing the herb or root from the original plant, they will do rituals called mooligai prana pratishtha, meaning any curse or impurities on that herb, the prana pratishtha will be done in such a way that even after the root is removed, it will continue to have life in it. A dead leaf cannot heal you. Only herbs with life can heal you.

The Leaf by Maisie Aletha Smikle Am sometimes green Am sometimes yellow Am sometimes brown And sometimes black I shade the Amazon I cushion the ground I feed hungry mouths And feed the soil Am kind always giving Never asking anything in return I retain dew to keep you cool I excrete oxygen so you may breathe I give I only give I am a giver A tree with all its branches is naked without me I clothe the tree to hide its shame In shades of green In shades of yellow And many shades in between In Spring I bloom In Summer am scorch In Winter I freeze In the Fall I fall to crown the surface of the ground My aim is to please I bloom to give you joy Am scorched so that I may fall To moisten the soil and make it fertile To cushion the ground For another round Always giving Never taking Tree branches unclothe Naked without their leaves Bare ground exposed Without unfallen leaves Compelling you to leave Leaves sustain and leaves maintain Leaves leave you living Always giving while taking nothing

Wow! How can this simple act - he goes and plucks one Bilva leaf from a tree, Bilva tree and offers it on a statue, how can such a simple act liberate him? Why is he so blissful? Why is he in ecstasy? If you approach the happening with tremendous love, you will grasp the Truth. You will grasp the Truth. You will understand something more than the action is happening. ~KAILASA's SPH JGM Nithyananda Paramashivam

Dear Poet/ Writer, Hope you are finding time to reflect, ponder, and observe life. Each leaf, each stone, each flower, and each tree has a story to tell us. You must understand the language of the leaves, and the flowers. You must allow yourself to feel the music of nature. The breeze serenades us. The waves bring their own music. Do not worry about getting rejections from magazines, newspapers, and publishers. A writer's work is to go on writing. And a writer must keep on writing. The rejection letters become good souvenirs for our stories. Regards, Avijeet

Constantly keeping your seeking alive makes you grasp the Truth, you will not try to grab them. Understand, for example you see somebody melting down, overflowing, with that melting devotion offers a Bilva leaf to Mahadeva and he is liberated. You see that and then you also decide, Yes, if I pluck that tree, leaf and put it on this statue I will have liberation. That is what is grabbing the Truth. Understand, you are not grasping it, you are grabbing it. You only see the action. ~ KAILASA's SPH JGM Nithyananda Paramashivam

You are the big drop of dew under the lotus leaf, I am the smaller one on its upper side'', said the dewdrop to the lake.

Mind without heart The leaf had fallen, The branch still stood there intact, It was a gradual event and not at all sudden, The fallen leaf, the still existing branch was an undeniable fact, But why did the branch still hang on, waiting for something? As the leaf from the floor looked at it while time consumed it, Maybe the branch wanted to see the leaf on the floor dying, And with its shadow touch it, and feel it; and whisper to it, “There where you grew you shall grow again next season, I will wait for you here throughout the winter, And to do so, I need no motivation because I have my reason, I have loved you and I do not wish to be a quitter,” And finally there was nothing left of the leaf, the fallen and dead leaf, There was only its trace, a faint impression on the soil, This added to the branch’s anguish and grief, For time had robbed her of its every moment of toil, People passed by and trampled the leaf’s almost fossilised impression, Until there was nothing left of the leaf neither on the branch nor on the soil, The branch chided the fate’s paucity and time’s baseless aggression, For they even erased the leaf’s last impression that was as thin as silver foil, By the time winter entered its prime, The branch stood there waiting for it to pass, Not because it wanted to feel the joys of summer time, But it wanted the leaf to re-appear and re-grow so that it could undo time’s act so crass, Time passed by, spring arrived, the branch was filled with leaves, But that leaf never grew again, the same leaf, the fallen one, So the branch misses him and it continuously grieves, But she shows it to no one, because no leaf compares to her dear leaf, the fallen one, Maybe that is why it is beginning to bend, Though it is converted in thousands of fresh leaves, The branch has been unable to cope with the dear leaf’s premature end, So she keeps peeping into time’s graves, To find the grave of the leaf that she lost prematurely, And lie there beside him, and finally fall, Then be together with him timelessly, And say, “For you I too had to fall afterall!” Today the sun has risen but the branch has fallen forever, Exactly where the leaf had fallen, It is a love of different kind, and the branch is a special lover, Who would never let go of what time from her had stolen, After a year the branch too disappeared from the floor, Now there is neither the branch nor the leaf, Time knows it, fate planned it, but I witnessed it; and this I cannot ignore, But knowing they are somewhere together now, even if that be the graveyard of time, is a relief, Time and fate are never obsequious, Because they neither love nor hate, But they are masquerading and pretentious, And they never know how it feels when the branch lies naked in a leafless state, That is time’s and fate’s irony of which they may never know, But you and I who have minds and hearts, Yet become part of a fake and grotesque show, Where either mind thinks without the heart or the heart from mind’s innocence departs!

Time, much like the ever-changing seasons, dances through our lives, each moment a petal of a tulip, a sunflower, a maple leaf, or a mistletoe leaf.

Roses and they She had shown him many things, She had made him feel joys of many springs, They had been to many places together, They had found love in each other, He had believed in her and her every word, He had erected on the highways of his heart her every memories’ billboard, She had travelled on them for many years, She had never let time’s brevity be the reason for her fears, So they felt every passing day, they experienced life of love, So much, that they even felt loved by the feeling of love, She waited for him in every moment, She felt it was him whenever a leaf fell or she felt some movement, He too felt the same; the way she felt, He too with her in his own heart dwelt, They lived a life that was unlamented by all virtues, They were kissed by life’s joys and and beauty’s all possible hues, He was unremitting when it came to loving her, He always wanted to be with her, forever together, Then one day they slept under a rose bush in full bloom, Then I beheld them being woven together on the life’s loom, He now lives within her and she lives within him, She is the rose bush that radiates with a different light under the moonlight dim, He is these roses which only bloom for her, And she is the rose bush that only grows for him forever!

Reasoning is never enchanting but aimless wandering is for the breeze flirts with the murmur of leaves and the eyes behold the virgin beauty of morn. The waves flirt with the shores for the sands call the waves to come home and there begins the gentle teasing of life.

Pindar turned his thoughts back to time. What exactly was a moment? Was it the shortest span of time that could be represented by art? Perhaps moments were like sheets of gold leaf, hammered ever so thin, each leaf the locus for new thoughts. Time would then be a matter of layering, so that each second had a stack of moments on top, a baklava of time. Was this why his new Babylonian fragment had the word layers, then a gap where a piece was chipped out, then time? Or was that word branches rather than layers? Perhaps time wasn't flat after all. In that case, no sheaves like baklava, but filaments like kataifi, those nests made of shredded pastry drenched with syrup or honey. He saw the pastry threads as silver, now, each strand branching into new trees of silvery time growing out from each second, all of them inhabited by breath. For breathing had become necessary to his conception of time, inspiration and expiration. He needed the gods to breathe into him, breathe through him like a flute.

Each leaf tells us a story. The story of its struggle. The story of the storms that it faces in life.

Each leaf tells us a story. The story of its struggle. The struggle against the storms that it faces in life.

Pieces of my self

Roses and they She had shown him many things, She had made him feel joys of many springs, They had been to many places together, They had found love in each other, He had believed in her and her every word, He had erected on the highways of his heart her every memories’ billboard, She had travelled on them for many years, She had never let time’s brevity be the reason for her fears, So they felt every passing day, they experienced life of love, So much, that they even felt loved by the feeling of love, She waited for him in every moment, She felt it was him whenever a leaf fell or she felt some movement, He too felt the same; as she felt, He to with her in his own heart dwelt, They lived a life that was unlamented by all virtues, They were kissed by life’s joys and and beauty’s all possible hues, He was unremitting when it came to loving her, He always wanted to be with her, forever together, Then one day they slept under a rose bush in full bloom, Then I beheld them being woven together on the life’s loom, He now lives within her and she lives within him, She is the rose bush that radiates with a different light under the moonlight dim, He is the roses which only bloom for her, And she is the rose bush that only grows for him forever!

After the completion of the spiritual journey, you will become like a new leaf. Either devoted to religion or to reason. You have to make this final decision yourself.

I acted like a friend, just so I can be near you. I let you talk about her. I listened with both ears, picked up every detail. Gave you helpful little tips to get the golden girl. I said everything with a smile, with every passing minute of pain and pleasure. Days and nights. You never needed to know. Or maybe you did but enjoyed the best of both worlds. You get to explore new mountains and come home to a safe bed. I sang the songs of all the unrequited love of a friend. I let it hurt me. I let it consume me. Pain it seems is comforting.

I lost myself helping you find yourself. You can’t take that back. You can’t have me back.

I live in my own world where the trees know me and the leaves whisper gently to my ears for this is home where there is no war with the world, only unending peace.....

Listen to the leaves for they sing the song of trees....how the trunk carries the story of the storms it withstood, the battles it fought with grace and silence yet stand tall, holding it in one piece....

A leaf and you! A leaf from tree, in Autumn fell, It had a story to tell, As it swayed in the lap of air, Nobody noticed the act unfair, For it alone fell, The rest clung to the branches and didn’t experience hell, Which they all would someday, Few early, few later, few did yesterday and the leaf that just fell, experienced it today, It did not shout, it did not scream or yell, As it thought of moments, few lived in agony and few lived so well, Finally it rested on the surface of the bare ground, And every natural force leapt on it like a famished hound, To consume it in their own ways, For death has a game that it with all plays, So time kissed it, life forsook it, gravity constricted it; and finally it was lost, there was nothing left of it, Just a memory of a falling leaf that everyone consumed bit by bit, bit by bit, Surprising that time sometimes moans its departure, Because it had reared it in its lap with love and composure, Alas time the greatest force of all, is the most cursed of all, For in the end it loses everything to its own existential virtues, and kills us all, Then it lies there moaning the loss, Whenever a beautiful corner of life that it loved it does happen to pass, Just like the leaf that fell and was forever lost, There on the branch a moment of time hangs still seeking the past, For it loved the leaf, but it had duty to perform as well, So it mournfully stood there as the leaf fell, It buried it too, And then it hurried too, For it had new leaves to tend, A new leaf to break and bend, To keep gravity happy, who blames time for all crimes, But it is someone else who in shadows creates these moments of depraved times, And lays the blame on time, the eternal subject of everyone's hate, But time has a companion who shares this blame, we all know it as fate, However, the real force lies in the shadows always plotting to bend and break a leaf, And blame it all on time, the eternal and infamous thief, Who actually steals nothing, because it is always losing a part of it, Whenever present becomes past, it loses its own precious bit, It always has been so, and maybe it will always be so, until time has nothing to spare any more, Then the Universe shall fall apart because then it shall not be needed anymore, And a new order shall rise, a new leaf shall emerge and grow, Then time shall rule every place high and low, Then my darling Irma, I will love you again, and again, Because then my love, a moment of love, shall be a lifelong gain, Where every kiss shall be remembered and felt again and again, And you shall not hurt me, and I shall not have the power to cause you any pain, Because now time will be judging us all in the present, A gift that indeed is the precious moment in the present, So my love Irma, love me now, but love me true, Before another leaf falls and as long as the sky is still happy and blue!

Nature’s fall There was a theatrical taste to it all, The experiencing of seasons and the morbidness of the fall, When nothing seems to have any sort of animation left, As if everything and everyone is suffering from the trauma of a theft, Where they have been robbed of every lively moment and life’s pleasure, As they were busy indulging in moments of leisure, Unlike nature that only and always grows, And no signs of regression shows, But there is a sort of slight indignation in it all, And you can tell it from every pale leaf falling and tossing against the great wall, The wall that is the only barricade between life and lifelessness, The wall that prevents sensibility from the invasion of senselessness, Where leisure is a moment of enjoyment with one's self and someone you love, It can be a moment in the future or a moment you are experiencing now, But if it indulges with the present to such a degree that it invades the future, Then you are bound to exhaust beforehand life’s true treasure, That of moments of leisure offering life’s authentic pleasure, In quantities with a perfect taste and measure, Because nature too enjoys in summer complete state of leisure, But then spring is for grooming and growing, and not for pleasure, While winter and fall, are for regeneration, A self introspection and kind of inward meditation, But if it spends all seasons in leisure and soaks itself in one feeling alone, that of pleasure, Then it shall be left with no beauty’s treasure, And it shall turn into the desert, where only desert roses grow, And remind you of nature’s follies, its oversights, and its over indulgence in leisure, about which it shall never everything know, Because pleasures have no end, they are a road that has no end, That is why nature created seasons, so that it realised when it was time to bend, And not be left lonely like the desert rose, Who moans the death of beauty lost to nature’s long repose, In the lap of leisure, until it entered a state, Where it was always summer like sunny now, and from this reality it could no longer obviate, Because there was nothing left, to remind it, to end the merriments of summer time, So, it rested in prolonged slumber until the winter robbed it of all its moments sublime, And then, when summer returned and somehow the desert rose bloomed, The nature in this act of callousness was doomed, It was summer always here now, bright light everywhere, Until nature forgot of the desert rose that still bloomed somewhere, And then it all ended and the beauty got buried under the sands of time, And it became the nature’s most infamous crime, To have relied only on summer joys and thinking they will last forever, And when fall took over; the summer and the spring, now returned never!

In the tin-covered porch Mr Chawla had constructed at the rear of the house she had set up her outdoor kitchen, spilling over into a grassy patch of ground. Here rows of pickle jars matured in the sun like an army balanced upon the stone wall; roots lay, tortured and contorted, upon a cot as they dried; and tiny wild fruit, scorned by all but the birds, lay cut open, displaying purple-stained hearts. Ginger was buried underground so as to keep it fresh; lemon and pumpkin dried on the roof; all manner of things fermented in tightly sealed tins; chilli peppers and curry leaves hung from the branches of a tree, and so did buffalo curd, dripping from a cloth on its way to becoming paneer. Newly strong with muscles, wiry and tough despite her slenderness, Kulfi sliced and pounded, ground and smashed, cut and chopped in a chaos of ingredients and dishes. ‘Cumin, quail, mustard seeds, pomelo rind,’ she muttered as she cooked. ‘Fennel, coriander, sour mango. Pandanus flour, lichen and perfumed kewra. Colocassia leaves, custard apple, winter melon, bitter gourd. Khas root, sandalwood, ash gourd, fenugreek greens. Snake-gourd, banana flowers, spider leaf, lotus root …’ She was producing meals so intricate, they were cooked sometimes with a hundred ingredients, balanced precariously within a complicated and delicate mesh of spices – marvellous triumphs of the complex and delicate art of seasoning. A single grain of one thing, a bud of another, a moist fingertip dipped lightly into a small vial and then into the bubbling pot; a thimble full, a matchbox full, a coconut shell full of dark crimson and deep violet, of dusty yellow spice, the entire concoction simmered sometimes for a day or two on coals that emitted only a glimmer of faint heat or that roared like a furnace as she fanned them with a palm leaf. The meats were beaten to silk, so spiced and fragrant they clouded the senses; the sauces were full of strange hints and dark undercurrents, leaving you on firm ground one moment, dragging you under the next. There were dishes with an aftertaste that exploded upon you and left you gasping a whole half-hour after you’d eaten them. Some that were delicate, with a haunting flavour that teased like the memory of something you’d once known but could no longer put your finger on. Pickled limes stuffed with cardamom and cumin, crepuscular creatures simmered upon the wood of a scented tree, small river fish baked in green coconuts, rice steamed with nasturtium flowers in the pale hollow of a bamboo stem, mushrooms red – and yellow-gilled, polka-dotted and striped. Desire filled Sampath as he waited for his meals. Spice-laden clouds billowed forth and the clashing cymbals of pots and pans declared the glory of the meal to come, scaring the birds from the trees about him.

The Ascending Eagle by Stewart Stafford I shall not stray down spurious alleys, In pursuit of such desiccated husks, To be a leaf adrift in vacuous air, Bewildered on my windswept path. Past the labyrinth of rustling choices, Swirl fragments of doubt and error. Life's force is a finite magic spark, Some squander before they depart, When climbing into our grave pits, Twisted wreckage we leave behind. Yet, in regret's deepening shades, Lie orphans of our broken dreams. The eagle, in cerulean-skied flight, Took wing as a frightened chick, Victory plucked from disaster's beak, Trial and error are brick-tough fellows. Guided by shimmering thermals below, Soaring to its future beyond the horizon. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

Like a feather in the air, like a leaf in the sea, I surrender to Thee, I surrender to Thee.-RVM

and thought to tart it up with a few Shakespeare quotations, having a vague recollection from my undergraduate days that the Bard was fond of joking about the great pox. I dusted off my battered copy of the Riverside Shakespeare and started leafing through it. Holy crap, I thought, there is a lot of stuff here on syphilis. My curiosity was piqued, and I did some more digging. Was there a connection between Shakespeare’s syphilitic obsession, contemporary gossip about his sexual misadventures, and the only medical fact known about him with certainty—that his handwriting became tremulous in late middle age? I wrote an article that appeared in Clinical Infectious Diseases, supposing it to be of scant interest beyond its immediate specialty audience. To my surprise, it generated a fair amount of Internet buzz, and inspired a segment on The Daily Show. I began to think that there might be interest in a book on the topic of writers and disease, written from a medical perspective.

The world looks too small when you believe in your eyes

When we're together, I'm a leaf floating on a pond. Weightlessly in love.

The Reward of Nature” If you’ll go with me to the mountains And sleep on the leaf carpeted floors And enjoy the bigness of nature And the beauty of all out-of-doors, You’ll find your troubles all fading

Sometimes life will not accommodate your fondest hopes. You must let go of these treasured dreams. They were never real. Just let the image of each illusive hope flow away from you like an imaginary leaf on a river of daydreams.

Next thing she knew, Portia hurried into the Fairway Market on Broadway. The grocery store was unlike anything she had seen in Texas. Bins of fruit and vegetables lined the sidewalk, forming narrow entrances into the market. Inside, the aisles were crowded, no inch of space wasted. In the fresh vegetables and fruit section she was surrounded by piles of romaine and red-leaf lettuce, velvety thick green kale that gave away to fuzzy kiwi and mounds of apples. Standing with her eyes closed, Portia waited a second, trying not to panic. Then, realizing there was no help for it, she gave in to the knowing, not to the fluke meal inspired by Gabriel Kane, but to the chocolate cake and roast that had hit her earlier. She started picking out vegetables. Cauliflower that she would top with Gruyere and cheddar cheeses; spinach she would flash fry with garlic and olive oil. In the meat department, she asked for a standing rib roast to serve eight. Then she stopped. "No," she said to the butcher, her eyes half-closed in concentration, "just give me enough for four." Portia made it through the store in record time. Herbs, spices. Eggs, flour. Baking soda. A laundry of staples. At the last second, she realized she needed to make a chowder. Crab and corn with a dash of cayenne pepper. Hot, spicy.

Consciousness is life; life is consciousness. Without consciousness, there is no life. Without life, we can't find any consciousness. There is a consciousness which is omnipotent, omniscience, and omnipresent. It can exist beyond our existence. It is in every atom, every molecule, every cell, and every leaf. We may call it universal consciousness or atomic consciousness. When, we as a conscious being, learn the abilities to harmonize different levels of consciousness, we attain a state called higher consciousness.

Well! Being born into this world there are, I suppose, many aims which we may strive to attain. The Imperial Throne of the Mikado inspires us with the greatest awe; even the uttermost leaf of the Imperial Family Tree is worthy of honour and very different from the rest of mankind. As to the position of a certain august personage (i.e. the Mikado's regent) there can be no question, and those whose rank entitles them to a Palace Guard are very magnificent also - their sons and grandsons, even if they fall into poverty, are still gentlefolk. But when those who are of lower degree chance to rise in the world and assume an aspect of arrogance, though they may think themselves grand, it is very regrettable. Now there is no life so undesirable as that of a priest. Truly indeed did Sei Shô-nagon write, 'People think of them as if they were only chips of wood.' Their savage violence and loud shouting does not show them to advantage, and I feel sure that, as the sage Zôga said, their desire for notoriety is not in accordance with the sacred precepts of Buddha. To retire from the world in real earnest, on the contrary, is indeed praiseworthy, and some I hope there may be who are willing to do so. A man should preferably have pleasing features and a good style; one never tires of meeting those who can engage in some little pleasant conversation and who have an attractive manner, but who are not too talkative. It is a great pity, however, if a man's true character does not come up to his prepossessing appearance. One's features are fixed by nature; but, if we wish to, may we not change our hearts from good to better? For, if a man though handsome and good-natured has no real ability, his position will suffer, and in association with men of a less engaging aspect his deficiency will cause him to be thrown into the background, which is indeed a pity. The thing to aim at, therefore, is the path of true literature, the study of prose, poetry, and music; to be an accepted authority for others on ancient customs and ceremonies is also praiseworthy. One who is quick and clever at writing and sketching, who has a pleasant voice, who can beat time to music, and who does not refuse a little wine, even though he cannot drink much, is a good man.

Well! Being born into this world there are, I suppose, many aims which we may strive to attain. The Imperial Throne of the Mikado inspires us with the greatest awe; even the uttermost leaf of the Imperial Family Tree is worthy of honour and very different from the rest of mankind. As to the position of a certain august personage (i.e. the Mikado's regent) there can be no question, and those whose rank entitles them to a Palace Guard are very magnificent also - their sons and grandsons, even if they fall into poverty, are still gentlefolk. But when those who are of lower degree chance to rise in the world and assume an aspect of arrogance, though they may think themselves grand, it is very regrettable. Now there is no life so undesirable as that of a priest. Truly indeed did Sei Shô-nagon write, 'People think of them as if they were only chips of wood.' Their savage violence and loud shouting does not show them to advantage, and I feel sure that, as the sage Zôga said, their desire for notoriety is not in accordance with the sacred precepts of Buddha. To retire from the world in real earnest, on the contrary, is indeed praiseworthy, and some I hope there may be who are willing to do so. A man should preferably have pleasing features and a good style; one never tires of meeting those who can engage in some little pleasant conversation and who have an attractive manner, but who are not too talkative. It is a great pity, however, if a man's true character does not come up to his prepossessing appearance. One's features are fixed by nature; but, if we wish to, may we not change our hearts from good to better? For, if a man though handsome and good-natured has no real ability, his position will suffer, and in association with men of a less engaging aspect his deficiency will cause him to be thrown into the background, which is indeed a pity. The thing to aim at, therefore, is the path of true literature, the study of prose, poetry, and music; to be an accepted authority for others on ancient customs and ceremonies is also praiseworthy. One who is quick and clever at writing and sketching, who has a pleasant voice, who can beat time to music, and who does not refuse a little wine, even thoughhe cannot drink much, is a good man.

People that you meet, are pebbles in your river, but those that you hold true shall follow your current, like a leaf atop a stream. The boulder that blocks your path however, you just have to be willing to climb, or break it down with time.

what if you get most of what the eye sees? what if love came in seeds? what if we plant them and they grow trees? what if they form hearts instead of leafs? what if hate was to freeze? what if there was no honeybees? what if your heart stops when you sneeze? what if the evil uses the word please? what if we get down on our knees? what if we pray to the creator of the earth, heavens ,and seas? what if the heartless bleeds? what if the poor needs? what if the wealthy and greedy feeds? what if the illiterate reads what if hearts had keys? what if we aim for our dreams? what if we do all good deeds? what if the only brew was teas? what if we all wore white tees? what if we could accomplish some of these? WHAT IF ?

Before you turn over a new leaf, dog-ear the old one; lest you forget.

From birth rocks have a desire to go nowhere, from birth leafs have a desire to be somewhere with the wind. Both get their desires.

If you have to fall, fall like a dry leaf, follow the wind, drop on the river; you will meet the ocean and your life will never ne the same.

If you have to fall, fall like a dry leaf, follow the wind, drop on the river, you will meet the ocean and your life will never be the same

The lounge of the private terminal in Delhi. A place of beige leather sofas and cappuccinos, set deep in that world where a seeling modernity has yet to close over the land, and where in the empty spaces that lie between the elevated roads and the coloured glass buildings there are still, like insects taking shelter under the veined roof of a leaf, the encampments of families who built them. Black pigs still thread their way through the weeds, there are still patient lorry-loads of labourers, waiting among the dazzle of the new cars, for the lights to change. One India, dwarfed and stunted, adheres like a watchful undergrowth to another India which, in very physical ways, as with the roads that fly up out of the pale land, or the chunks of monorail that rise up from the ground like the remnants of an ancient wall, or the blank closed faces of the glass buildings, wishes to shrug off its poorer opposite: to leave it behind; to shut it out; to soar over it. One man, above all, captures the mood of this time: the security guard. In him, this man of expectation – a man not rich himself, but standing guard at the doorway to a world of riches – it is possible to feel the boredom and restlessness of a world that inspires ambition, but cannot answer it. Skanda watches him watching the lounge, with eyes glazed and yellowing from undernourishment. A favourite phrase from college returns: Quis custodiet ipsos custodes?

The lotus is one of the most commercially successful sources of inspiration for biomimetic products. Apart from their intoxicating, heavenly fragrance, lotus plants are a symbol of purity in some major religions. More than two thousand years ago, for example, the Bhagavad Gita, one of India's ancient sacred scriptures, referred to lotus leaves as self-cleaning, but it wasn't until the late 1960s that engineers with access to high-powered microscopes began to understand the mechanism underlying the lotus' dirt-free surface. German scientist Dr. Wilhelm Barthlott continued this research, finding microstructures on the surface of a lotus leaf that cause water droplets to bead up and roll away particles of mud or dirt. Like many biomimics, this insight came quickly, while its commercialization took many years more. The "Lotus Effect"-short for the superhydrophobic (water-repelling) quality of the lotus leaf's micro to nanostructured surface-has become the subject of more than one hundred related patents and is one of the premier examples of successfully commercialized biomimicry.

Weeping Willow Weeping willow, how your elongated leaves dangle in the mist of the air, you bring such true comfort into the needful eye. How your leaves sway from left to right, providing your own intricate dance so divine. Weeping willow, you provide the most comforting shade upon your layer of leaves making me feel encircled with love and safety. Weeping willow, as I lay under your silvery leaves, I look up for a helping hand, I see strength within your structure, can you help me? Weeping willow, as I climb upon you will you make sure I won't fall, will you catch me if I do? Weeping willow, as I sit upon you looking to the sky through your rustling leaves, will you hear my pain? Can I overcome such things? The weeping willows long leafed branches sway back and forth providing the gentlest of winds across one's face. The eyes close so slowly, a sigh escapes one's mouth. As one sits on the branch they feel if there is someone watching over them, comfort arises as the branches nestle one's sorrows. A tear slowly slides down their cheek as if all emotion was escaping them. The wind starts to slowly blow, once again the elongated leaved branches sway back and forth against the song of the wind, creating one's smile to appear slowly but surely. The long silvery leaves brush against ones cheek, as if it was the hand of comfort, wiping the sadness away. Weeping willow, I will climb down now, I have heard what you have had to say... The one steps down and walks around to the back of the willow tree as it faces such gleaming waters. They look at the carving at the back of the tree, something that has been carved there for years upon the dark bark. Their body slumps to the ground as their back presses against the bark, fingers reaching up to trace the well known loved one. The carved initials of a beloved memory. The one whispers, "Thank you for hearing me, Dad.

If I can’t sing, then let me listen to the songs of the wilderness and let me watch the dance of a lonely leaf.

Floating along like a leaf after fall I land soft on the crisp ground below still tempted to fly, God hold me in place.

Like a feather in the air, like a leaf in the sea, I surrender to Thee, I surrender to Thee.

Let your life lightly dance on the edges of Time like dew on the tip of a leaf. -Rabindranath Tagore

Life is an open book where secrets are hidden in between unread pages like a dried leaf!

When every leaf is shed, the branches still remain and faraway in the woods though a robin cries, the song still remains for as the days unwind, they bring you sadness in the moments that should have held joy....

The song of leaves as they fall, that life is to be celebrated, to fill your soul with colors, so they can ignite you when winter comes..

This is the place where I want to be young To breathe the beginning breath Through newborn lungs To run barefoot chasing butterflies To sleep beneath wondrous skies To stand on stony mountains Far above the birch and pine Looking down at all about me I’ll call this world mine ….. When the wild wind sings I will hear its song That beckons to my heart, Tells me that I belong And all these hills and every tree Become a part of my story ….. Yet, as the pages of a story grow Characters learn, develop, go May it be granted, if I leave If I change in any way That this place will always remain The same as I saw it today ….. If my feet wander If life’s paths take me far Time may alter youthful face But let not it change a tree or star Let not it touch a leaf Nor a river, nor a stream Or raise a cloak of shadow Over even one sunbeam The years may not lift their hand To crumble any stone Or free their feet to trample Fields where flowers have grown ….. If I tarry long The song will bring me back If in the journey I am lost The wind will steer my track I will be changed when I come Grey hair and marred face But the hills will recall That I am one with this place Standing, just the way I used to Upon the mountain height Breathing, just the way I once did The crisp, star filled night And praying, just the way I always have That I might be young here.” — ‘Where I Want to Be Young

Deep inside, all of us desire to love and be loved. Love is our true nature because love is the nature of our spirit. That is why when we get in touch with our spirit, we get in touch with love. Composting the Ego Leaf Lessons

Everyone has their 'little thing." (Revolutions, Leaf Press 2008). 'A Powerful Obsession' page 32

I take out my crumpled piece of loose-leaf paper, look at the Guarnizo family, and read: “Gracias por ustedes.” I continue, in my stumbling Spanish: “I now understand more about all the work that goes into making my morning cup of coffee, and I will not take it for granted again. “Thank you for picking the beans and washing them and drying them. “Your coffee has given me great happiness every morning, and helped give me the energy to write books and articles and take care of my kids. “From now on, I’ll think of you when I drink my morning coffee. And perhaps you will think of people like me in the United States, and the joy you give to us. And perhaps you will think of all the artists and architects and salespeople and engineers in New York who are inspired by what you produce.

When does this happen! What about your conscious mind, your brain, which shows you the truth at its own whims, ignores the data of the senses as it wants, and interprets it as it wants, enslaves you, colonizes you, marginalizes yourself and your truth, to survive in the body and enjoy. -How does he do it? Do you need me to tell you? After we agreed, my friend, that physical and psychological torment makes you imagine things that do not exist, contrary to the truth, and who is the one who controls the transmission of nerve signals for pain? Who controls the hormones and secretion of those that control your psychological state? Who is capable of subjecting you to the worst kinds of physical and psychological torment, to make you think that the bird is a leaf, who has the full power to do this to you? If I had a description then, it would not be more accurate than the weapon of your subconscious mind, with which it fights that devil in your head, its way to answer, find me, arrange my whole life, so that it can transcend your brain’s control over you.

Plastic Painting He smiled as he looked at the studio in the outer hall, each of these paintings she painted here, enjoying very much observing them immersed in the colors. Her spiritual intelligence is high, as every other plastic artist, he holds the paint brush, and does things, lines and colors, he does not know what he is doing, or what he wants, he only paints, his hand and mind are just a tool, and something else inside him moves it. At the end, their paintings are sold at the most expensive price. She once told him, the reason for the distinction of fine art is that the painter paints with his soul, not with his hands. And every time she grabbed her brush and started doing things on the canvas, he felt her telling the story of his life, he just always did things, he did not know why and what would result be, but he just wanted to do them. His motto when things come down is, go with the wind, let it take you where it wants to go. He stood before a mediocre painting, a bridge suspended in the sky, punctuated by chaotic colors, a bit of haphazard smoke, and what seemed to be flying leaves. When she painted this painting, she stood in front of it for a whole day, she almost went crazy, the painting was complete but something was missing in it. In the end, it was this deficiency that relieved her of finding it, a red dot in the lower-left corner of the painting! It fell right under what appeared to be a leaf. That is crazy, it was actually completed by it!

With that kind of fear out of the way--fear of what is out there at the next stepping-stone or around the next bend in the road or under the next leaf of the calendar--we're just about ready to start living. For it's not all out there ahead somewhere. If we're going to live, now is where we shall have to do it. For one thing--as of this moment, now is all we've got.

With that kind of fear out of the way--fear of what is out there at the next stepping-stone or around the next bend in the road or under the next leaf of the calendar--we're just about ready to start living. For it's not all out there ahead somewhere. If we're going to live, now is where we shall have to do it. For one thing--as of this moment, now is all we've got.

The fall of a leaf is not the end of its journey, but the beginning of something greater.

In the dance of the elements, a stone's weight becomes a guardian's embrace, sheltering a delicate leaf from the tumultuous winds of life.

I've been strongly influenced, in technique as well as subject matter, by some of the early 20th-century book illustrators — Arthur Rackham and Edmund Dulac in particular, Burne-Jones and other Pre-Raphaelites, and the Arts-&-Crafts movement they engendered. I'm continually inspired by Rembrandt, Breughel (I've wondered whether his brilliant "Tower of Babel" had inspired Tolkien's description of Minas Tyrith), Hieronymous Bosch, Albrecht Durer, and Turner; it's not necessarily that they influence my work in any particular direction, more that their example raises my spirits, re-affirms my belief in the power of images to move and delight us, and shows me how much further I have to go, how much is possible. Having visited Venice and Florence for the first time, I am besotted with the Italian Renaissance artists — Botticelli, Bellini, da Vinci and others. Their work is calm, controlled, and yet each face and landscape contains such passion. In Botticelli's paintings, every pebble and every leaf is rendered with a religious devotion; there is reverence inherent in paying such close attention to every stone, turning painting itself into a form of worship, an act of prayer.

The scars are written ...in the stars...and from it flowers.... the unrhymed poems ....and somewhere out there...a leaf trembles...a bird cries....for it breaks ....through the frigid ground....as the rain falls....and the earth makes music again..... .....Jayita Bhattacharjee

Getting in touch with the beauty of nature makes life much more beautiful, much more real, and the more mindful and concentrated you are, the more deeply the sunset will reveal itself to you. Your happiness is multiplied by ten, by twenty. Look at a leaf or a flower with mindfulness, listen to the song of a bird, and you will get much more deeply in touch with them. After a minute of this practice, your joy will increase; your breathing will become deeper and more gentle; and this gentleness and depth will influence your body.

Kitchens have their seasons. And in this subterranean world, hidden from rainstorms and eager winds, is a world of wheat, wine and herbs. Always herbs. Herbs with balm in their leaves and flavor in their throats. A harvest of herbs on the windowsill. Parsley, coriander, tarragon. Basil, of different varieties, Greek with its anise-clove flavor and 'Sweet Genovese' with its jumbo cinnamon leaves. By the stove, I am chopping mint, coriander, tarragon, basil and parsley. The leaves and stems will go into a soup inspired by a region that taught me just what can be done with herbs, the South Caucasus--- that is Armenia, Azerbaijan and Georgia. From springtime until winter, whole bouquets of herbs arrive ceremoniously to the table, sometimes so fresh that clumps of earth still cling to their pale whiskery roots. Vital as bread, drawing eyes and senses forward, they are the centerpiece of the table. Intensely fresh and fragrant, unbruised and unwilted, they are a meal, a feast. Vitamins after a long winter. Never an afterthought, a mere sprinkling, or worse, 'a pinch'. At breakfast, oozing omelettes filled with molten white cheese and blades of tarragon. At lunch, bulgur salad, always more leaf than wheat. Ice cream is mint, sorbet is basil, soda is tarragon. In warmer months, they are refreshing, health-giving and sanity-saving as the sun starts hammering down. So today, in this kitchen of a hundred crossroads, to welcome the beginning of spring, I will bless this soup with a crop of fresh herbs.

The Ginkgo Leaf Jet was developed by the last remaining eco-engineers, a response to the war-torn skies dominated by traditional fighter jets. While the old machines roared with fire, the Ginkgo whispered through the clouds—silent, unseen, unstoppable.

Loving earth, more of love flows out of me, for in the leaves is music, in the flowers, a poem, In the trees is a story of centuries of storms, endured and stayed as secrets of ages.

The joy that awakens the creative core, resides in the tiniest of things such as raindrops dancing on the grass, or dewdrops sitting on the petals. There explodes the creative depth as the faintest light speaks of a morning burst, and the tide of unspoken emotions awakens a soul of light.

...but the eyes. These deep eyes were now surveying them, slow and solemn, but very penetrating. They were brown, shot with a green light. Often afterwards Pippin tried to describe his first impression of them. 'One felt as if there was an enormous well behind them, filled up with ages of memory and long, slow, steady thinking; but their surface was sparkling with the present; like sun shimmering on the outer leaves of a vast tree, or on the ripples of a very deep lake. I don't know, but it felt as if something that grew in the ground--asleep, you might say, or just feeling itself as something between root-tip and leaf-tip, between deep earth and sky had suddenly waked up, and was considering you with the same slow care that it had given to its own inside affairs for endless years...' '...For one thing it would take a long while: my name is growing all the time, and I've lived a very long, long time; so my name is like a story. Real names tell you the story of the things they belong to in my language, in the Old Entish as you might say. It is a lovely language, but it takes a very long time to say anything in it, because we do not say anything in it, unless it is worth taking a long time to say, and to listen to.

True communion with nature becomes possible when the energy sense is turned on and heightened. You’re moved by the sounds of a bird singing in the morning, and you can feel the principles of nature even in a single leaf falling with its back to the setting sun. You come to realize that you were never alone, that you have always been breathing surrounded by the massive energy of life.

For you to make meaningful headway in your life you must borrow a leaf from Steve Jobs; appreciate the undeniable fact that we are actually living on borrowed time. In that case, you make a commitment to wake up every day with an overriding objective of making a difference; of focusing on the most important things for that particular day.

You have shown me the best of you. Its time to turn a new leaf. -New Leaf Book:Unrequited Love

Real Fact about Angles: Angels are material but ethereal (Latif), more ethereal than the gaseous phase of matter. They are Nurani( Luminous, Spiritual). They are alive. They have reason ( ). Evils peculiar to human beings do not exist of angles. They can take any shape. As gases turn into liquid and solid and take any shape when becoming solid, likewise angles can form beautiful shapes, Angles are not souls that have parted from the bodies of great men. Christians presume that the angles are such spirits. Unlike energy and power, they are not immaterial. Some ancient philosophers supposed so. all of them are called Malaika "Malak" (angel) means 'envoy, messenger' or 'power.' Angles were created before all other living creatures. Therefore, we were commanded to believe in them before believing in the heavenly books, which come before belief in prophets; and in the Holly Quran the names of these tenets of belief are given in thes succession. Belief in angles has to be as follows: angels are creatures of Allahu Talal (God). They are not His Partners, nor are they His daughters as disbelievers and polytheists suppose. They Obey His Commands (God's Commands) and never commit sins or disobey the commands. They are neither male or Female. They are do not get married. They do not have children. They have life; that is, they are alive. When Allah (the God) announced the He was going to create human beings, angels asked, "Ya Rabbi! (Oh God) Are You going to create creatures who will corrupt the world and shed blood?" Such questions, called Dhella, from angles do not changes the fact the they are innocent. Of all creatures, angels are the most plentiful. No one but Allah (the God) knows their number. There is no empty space in the skies where angels do not worship. Every place in the skies is occupied by angels in Ruku (blowing during Namaz) " a kind of worship or pray" or in the Sujda (Prostrating) " a kind of worship or pray to God". In the skies, on the earth, in grass, on stars, in every living and lifeless creature, in every rain-drop, plant leaf, atom molecule, in every reaction, motion, in everything, angels have duties. They carry out Allahu Tala's (the God) commands everywhere. They are intermediaries between Allahu tala (The God) and creatures. Some of them are the commanders of other angels. Some of them brought messages to Prophets among human beings. Some angels bring good thoughts, called "Ilham" (inspiration), to the human heart. Some others are unaware of all human beings and creatures and have lost consciousness upon feeling Allah Tala's (The God) beauty. Each of theses angels stays in a certain place and connot leave its place. Some angels have two wings and some have four or more. Angels belonging in Paradise stay in Paradise. Their superior is Ridwan. Angels of Hell, Zabanis carry out in Hell what they are commanded. The fire of Hell does not harm them, as the sea is not harmful to fish. There are nineteen leading Zabanis. Their chief Is Malik. For each human being, there are four angels who record all their good and bad acts. Two of them come at night and the other two come during the day. They are called Kiram Katibin or angels or Hafaza. There is another scholarly report stating that the on one’s right side is superior to the one on the left and records the good deeds. The one on the left writes down the evil deeds. There are angels who will torment disbelievers and disobedient Muslims in their graves, and angels who will ask questions in graves. The questioning angles are called Munkar and Nakir. Angels who will question Muslims are also Called mubashshir and Bashir. At the first sound of the “Sur”, all angels except the Hamalat al-Arsh and the four archangel’s will be annihilated. Then the Hamalat al-Arsh and then the four archangels will be annihilated. At the second sound all angels will be annihilated after all the living creatures, as they were created before all.

You know, you just kind of do the best you can and hold on to moments that feel a little better than others. You fall asleep and try not to think about the pressing time of past and future, compressing you from both ways, but you can’t let yourself get worried about it. You just have to try to fall asleep. And you put both feet on the ground when you wake up, seeing the sun that rose once again, despite it all, knowing that this is one of very few limited mornings that you will get to experience and you just have to stop carrying life like a burden. Life is not a burden. It’s not heavy to be alive. It’s weightless. It’s light as air. You’re just floating, a leaf through space, for a little while. You just have to learn to close your eyes more, or open them, when you can. You just have to learn to float with the current more, not fight against things. Change, movement, transitions ... you have to become one with the current. So what if you find yourself homeless and aimless, broke to the bones with no one to hold or call or care for? Go climb a mountain and sit above the world for an hour or two. Breathe in cleaner air and drink water falling through the cracks of the stones. Don’t take the photo and don’t share it with anyone. It’s still beautiful even if only you know about it. You hold this moment in your heart and you go forward for here, one step at a time, and you try to get moments like this, even with other people, down on the ground, and maybe sometimes you will find yourself crying at 4am by yourself but that’s all good. It’s all okay. Just soak up whatever life offers and don’t think too much about it. It’s all beautiful. Stop seeing life as a burden. Something heavy to carry. Life is not heavy. Life is weightless and you can dance through it like a thin fog a summer’s morning. It’s all beautiful.

Leonora is a floating leaf of paper that will combust itself,

Krishan Kant said ".......... Have to take a leaf from the philosophy of Mussolini to run train on time? Have we to follow Hitlerian methods to bring discipline in offices and the economy?... (great leaders of India) looked behind such cosmetic measure and saw the real nature of the state. This is why Sir, we choose a different path under the inspiration of Gandhiji...

DAWN TREADER SOUP When Caspian, King of Narnia, in the company of Reepicheep the mouse knight, Lucy, Edmund, and Eustace, decides to go in search of the lost Lords of Narnia, he sets sail on a ship called the Dawn Treader. The crew experiences many adventures at sea and on land, and have to live off the food on board and what they can find around them. This soup was a particular favorite of Eustace…. At least, until he turned into a dragon! This recipe can easily be made on board a ship, using produce from the sea and supplies from the hold. INGREDIENTS • serves 4 1 lb 2 oz clams 2 3/4 oz smoked bacon 1 shallot 1 1/2 oz butter 3 sprigs thyme 1 bay leaf 1 T flour 2 cooked potatoes, chopped into chunks 1 3/4 oz crème fraîche or sour cream Salt and pepper PREPARATION TIME • 15 mins COOKING TIME • 25 mins Collect the clams on the island of Felimath, rinse them carefully, and place in a cauldron with about 4 oz of water. Boil them for 2 minutes, until the clams open, and discard any that remain closed. Drain the clams, saving the juices, and remove them from their shells. Strain and reserve the juices through a piece of cheesecloth. Chop the bacon and let it brown for a few minutes in a nonstick frying pan. Drain off the excess fat and set the bacon aside on paper towels. Peel the shallot, sauté it for 5 minutes in the butter without browning, then add the bacon, thyme, and bay leaf before the ship reaches the Dark Island. Sprinkle with the flour and let the shallot and bacon cook for 1 minute, stirring constantly. Slowly add the clam juice, stirring at the same time to prevent lumps forming, then add the potato chunks and simmer for 10 minutes. Remove bay leaf and purée with a blender until the soup is quite smooth. Add the clams and the crème fraîche or sour cream, reheat for 2 minutes, season with salt and pepper, and serve. Note: Reepicheep likes to add a handful of samphire to nibble with this soup.

Like a Feather in the Air, like a Leaf in the Sea, I surrender to Thee, I surrender to Thee. #Inspiration #Motivation #RVM #Quotes

Mauve cream Kabuki actors use conceal dark circles under my eyes. I brush soothing sable bristles of coral blush across high cheekbones, smudge taupe color on eye lids, darken thick lashes, dot ash rose gloss across my lips. Heavy red frame glasses and rose lenses cover grey eyes. I rip the telephone from the wall and stumble, drunk and crying, to the door, batter the facing with the phone handle, counting arrhythmic phlegmatic beats. Splinters and fragments of wood fall to the floor, a lingering catarrh lying among pale turquoise and gold threads. The scent of roses and jasmine lingers. The sky and dot and window refracture. I look into the gold leaf mirror, pleased with the effect: A perfect face reflects no inner turmoil.

I will go and I will turn every twig and leaf to find the smallest act of you, I'll dive to deepest reef For who am I and why all this if I were to lose my faith that you're my father holding me, that in your arms I bathe If I surrender to this world it can only be in you for there is no will or want if I'm just passing through Hold me, Father, act through me, never let me go I don't want the ego mind I don't want control I know I'm here to make a change, to sing a song that's you, from the dawn and till the night That's all I wish to do I am but a tiny drop, a little drop of sea, and when I've served my time down here, shine your light on me Like a drop of ocean life I'll return to you, all I wish to leave behind is memory of You

We are directly responsible for what we choose to think about and dwell on, and we make these decisions in the privacy of our own thinking.

As you take the river, the flow, the leaves, and the play of light into your soul, you become more of yourself. You become you.

The music is in the trembling of a leaf, the murmuring of a trunk of how it holds itself into the roots, yet reaches the sky to utter its dreams.

The music is in the trembling of a leaf, the murmur of a trunk of how it holds itself into the roots, yet reaches the sky to utter its dreams.

Chapter by chapter, as you write your story, it becomes a reclamation of the self. The roots grow further into the deep, as the words plant new trees. Fresh flowers grow in your soul.

Every time I think I’ve had enough, I see something that inspires me to keep going. A little flash of… something beautiful, here or there. A gold leaf in a sea of red and yellow ones. That first sip of coffee… the memory of what it was like to be loved by another person… being out here… far away from it all.

Sometimes grief comes as the autumn leaf, unspoken, yet rain-washed, for the tears gather silently, not knowing how to speak.

Leaves sing the song of seasons, the song of change.

With a leaf, a flower, and a river in your soul, you will eternally remain fresh.

The seeds that grief had planted grew slowly as if God had nurtured them. From the deep, fresh leaves appeared, and buds broke, working wonders. Slowly, they uncurled, flooding the earth with scent and filling our cups with ecstasy.

Let me ask you what pulls you into life when you gulp inside the hardest of ache, let me ask you how you continue living, knowing every footstep makes the hardest slog, for beneath the leaves are the memories you pushed aside, let me ask you how you meet your eyes when all that you buried inside is burning you alive. Could it be a thirst to live despite the loss? Could it be a longing despite the despair?

Let me ask you what pulls you into life when you gulp inside the hardest of ache, let me ask you how you continue living, knowing every footstep makes the hardest slog, for beneath the leaves are the memories you pushed aside, let me ask you how you meet your eyes when all that you buried inside is burning you alive. Could it be a thirst to live despite the loss? Could it be the deep longing despite the despair?

Let me ask you what pulls you into life when you gulp inside the hardest of ache, let me ask you how you continue living, knowing every footstep makes the hardest slog, for beneath the leaves are the memories you pushed aside, let me ask you how you meet your eyes when all that you buried inside is burning you alive. Could it be a thirst despite the loss? Could it be the deep longing despite the despair?

Autumn is a love affair with the earth, where every leaf is a love letter.

Let the earth speak to you, let the earth fill you in with its whispers.

Once, in a rainstorm, I witnessed the creation of a rivulet. The water had come down, the stream had begun in a hollow of earth the size of a leaf. Then it filled and began to flow. The rivulet rolled down the hill between some stalks of grass and weed, it moved in spurts, down the fall of a ledge, down to a brook. It did not know it was not a river.

The mellow melancholy makes the music of autumn.

Autumn! The season's parting song! The guitar plays one last time.

Filled with Autumn The earth, drowned in colors, I am the river-born soul of rippling water, when the sky breaks down in torrents, I am the color-bathed soul of feasty meadows. With baskets of gold in autumn fields. The spark, the fire, the seed of life, Let the earthly desires burn and burn. The sun rises, and the sky is painted with gold. The sun drowns, and the forest wears a face of red and russet The drowning sun brings dusky dreams. On the fields, I walk to capture autumn's fragrance. October has brought colorful dreams. The fall footsteps have enlivened the earth, The blank pages of my book fill up with poems of light, For colors break through the cloudy skies. Summer left, and I drowned in silence at its hushed goodbye. But in the forest, I heard the footsteps of autumn, Suddenly, verses float, for the quiet evenings now feast in colors, The cinnamon smell fills the home, and the scent of nutmeg wafts in the air.

Filled with Autumn I am the river-born soul of rippling water, when the sky breaks down in torrents, I am the color-bathed soul of feasty meadows. With baskets of gold in autumn fields. The spark, the fire, the seed of life, Let the earthly desires burn and burn. The sun rises, and the sky is painted with gold. The earth, drowned in colors, The sun drowns, and the forest wears a face of red and russet The drowning sun brings dusky dreams. On the fields, I walk to capture autumn's fragrance. October has brought colorful dreams. The fall footsteps have enlivened the earth, The blank pages of my book fill up with poems of light, For colors break through the cloudy skies. Summer left, and I drowned in silence at its hushed goodbye. But in the forest, I heard the footsteps of autumn, Suddenly, verses float, for the quiet evenings now feast in colors, The cinnamon smell fills the home, and the scent of nutmeg wafts in the air.

I love you the way a river loves an ocean. I love you the way a star loves the deep dark night. I love you the way a leaf loves the tree even in the parting autumn breeze. You and I will meet again the way a dawn meets the night, the way a brook meets the sea, the way a tree meets the sky. It is not over, my friend, it is not over.

The slip was writhing. I reached in to rescue it, even as the brown paper charred and the letters written on it turned to shadows. I thought I might hold it like an oak leaf, faded and winter-crisp, but when I wrapped my fingers around the word, it shattered.

Winter comes, and the earth is stripped of beauty. The leaves have departed. Suddenly, the grounds are blanketed with snow, and the sounds are muffled. Life seems so hushed, but beneath everything, the soil may be preparing for the explosion of spring.

A leaf is a silent proverb. Did you ever consider that? When it buds on the tree, people rejoice. Throughout its prime, they love it for the shade it provides. But only when it reaches its time on the tree does its brilliance come through. Sometimes yellow, sometimes orange, sometimes deep red. Dazzling in its artistry, like a drop of sunset you can see at all hours of the day. A leaf has the most extraordinary death. There is so much beauty in it.

Autumn wears the gown of gold. The sadness becomes the burning flames, the longing to live, one last time. Behind the wheels of life, it is God, the painter, who awakens colors in farewell moments, as if the lamp of light is burning before it dies.

When the world slows down in its song of melancholy, I know, it's October, gently coming.

Autumn gold is moments and memories blazing into fire.

The skewers in the top left are inspired by those colored mochi balls people like to eat at this time of year. Shrimp dumplings, baby cucumber, and quail meatballs, all speared onto a willow branch. The thick omelet next to that is the sort of tamagoyaki you'd get at a Tokyo sushi restaurant--- cooked with shrimp paste. Then you have the sawara mackerel, grilled Kyoto-style in a sweet white miso marinade, and in the small bowl below, a selection of steamed vegetables. Baby taro, Kintoki carrot, pumpkin, lotus root, and Shogoin turnip. On that tissue paper in the middle are various edible wild plants, all deep-fried: ostrich fern, butterbur buds, momiji-gasa, angelica buds, and mugwort. Those are good with a bit of matcha salt, or you might want to try dipping them in Worcestershire-style sauce in that little pot. To the left of that, wrapped in the green bamboo leaf, is cherry-bass sushi, while the small bowl next to that is flash-boiled Omi beef, with a ponzu vinegar gelée.

It would have been easy to create the illustrations in this book on a computer -- to take a photo of an original artwork and edit Kitten in digitally. It was a greater challenge, and a whole lot more fun, to see if I could actually make pieces of art that looked like the originals in the Metropolitan Museum of Art and blend Kitten's headlong pursuit of the mouse into them. Everything you see Kitten encountering and exploring in this book was handmade, using acrylic and oil paints, gouache, ink, plaster, wood, gold leaf, clay, paper, glass, lead, and more. Some of the techniques I used were ones that I'd done before, and some were new to me. So yes, it could have been done digitally. And now, artificial intelligence even allows us to enter a description of what we want, and in seconds, the computer spits out an image. But where's the satisfaction in that? The computer created it, not us. If you like making things, practice. Practice makes better! It takes time to develop skills so things turn out the way you want them to; the way you see them in your imagination--you can't simply leap ahead and skip all that work. But it's fun to write stories and to make pictures and build things, and I hope you'll do these things because they're satisfying. Focus on the enjoyment you get while your skills are coming along. You can make pretty much anything you want to, if you teach yourself how. If people before us could do it, why not me? Why not you?

No. Let me continue," he says, his eyes flashing. "You are incredible. You see the world like an artist. You notice every color in the sky, you stop and marvel at the sight of a sparrow flying by or a ripple in the lake or an autumn leaf in the sun. You're always the first person to sense of someone else is having a bad day, and you can't watcha a sad movie without crying, and you always skip the ending if you know it's going to be tragic, you can make up something better in your head. Once, you teared up after your elderly neighbor asked you to read the expiration date on a loaf of bread for him because his eyesight was fading. You also tear up every time you watch that cereal commercial about the border collie who runs away from home. When we found a dead bird in the forest, you insisted on building a grave for it out of twigs and wildflowers. You hate small spaces, but you still came to sit with me in the attic for hours when my father was mad at me. You're sarcastic, but never in a mean way. You're dramatic, and you can make anything sound like poetry. You're sensitive, and maybe that means you feel pain and fear and humiliation more sharply, but you also feel joy more beautifully and completely than anyone I know. You make me feel the same joy just by looking at you.