Overflow Deep Quotes

The heart overflows with gladness, and leaps and dances for the joy it has found in God. In this experience the Holy Spirit is active, and has taught us in the flash of a moment the deep secret of joy. You will have as much joy and laughter in life as you have faith in God.

God is so vastly wonderful, so utterly and completely delightful that He can, without anything other than Himself, meet and overflow the deepest demands of our total nature, mysterious and deep as that nature is.

They captured in their ramble all the mysteries and magics of a March evening. Very still and mild it was, wrapped in a great, white, brooding silence -- a silence which was yet threaded through with many little silvery sounds which you could hear if you hearkened as much with your soul as your ears. The girls wandered down a long pineland aisle that seemed to lead right out into the heart of a deep-red, overflowing winter sunset.

That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, "the waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me.

The greatest secret for eliminating the inferiority complex, which is another term for deep and profound self-doubt, is to fill your mind to overflowing with faith. Develop a tremendous faith in God and that will give you a humble yet soundly realistic faith in yourself.

I was a young, & had deep loves, & my heart would overflow with enthusiasm! And I mingled with the crowd, I mixed with my fellow men, speaking my thought out loud! And they gaped back at me, without understanding. And I withdrew from them, & they said to me: Arrogant one! And from time to time in my solitude, my loves, my repressed enthusiasms broke out into odes, conversation; & my companions laughed and used to point at me as a madman. So I suffered, doubted, cursed, & no one believed me sincere. It’s as if this heart, once so full of strength & love were annihilated.

There are times...when we are in the midst of life-moments of confrontation with birth or death, or moments of beauty when nature or love is fully revealed, or moments of terrible loneliness-times when a holy and awesome awareness comes upon us. It may come as deep inner stillness or as a rush of overflowing emotion. It may seem to come from beyond us, without any provocation, or from within us, evoked by music or by a sleeping child. If we open our hearts at such moments, creation reveals itself to us in all it's unity and fullness. And when we return from such a moment of awareness, our hearts long to find some way to capture it in words forever, so that we can remain faithful to it's higher truth. ...When my people search for a name to give to the truth we feel at those moments, we call it God, and when we capture that understanding in timeless poetry, we call it praying.

Christ's boundless grace confronts our deep necessities. Christ's promised presence confronts our sad and gloomy loneliness. Jesus thus filled with grace so overflowing, with love so tender, with sympathy so exquisite, with power so illimitable, with resources so boundless, with a nature so changeless, stands before us and says to each trembling heart, "Fear not!

Aya overflows with aché or power. When the accent is taken off it, ache describes, in English, bone-deep pain. But otherwise aché is blood... fleeing and returning... red momentum. Aché is, ache is is is, kin to fear--a frayed pause near the end of a thread where the clothe matters too much to fail. The kind of need that takes you across water on nothing but bare feet. Aché is energy, damage, it is constant, in Aya's mind all the time. She was born that way--powerful, half mad, but quiet about it.

Love is not only pure joy, and delight, but also great and deep heaviness of heart and sorrow. But love too is full of joy and sweetness even in bitter sorrow, because it regards the misery and injury of others as its own. So also Christ was glowing with burning love in His last and greatest agony. According to St. Hilary, it was Christ's greatest joy that He endured the greatest woe. Thus God "giveth strength and power unto His people" (Ps. 68:15). While they experience the greatest sorrow, their hearts overflow with joy.

To experience deep gratitude, sit down and write a list of the things you are grateful for. Keep writing your list until your eyes are overflowing with tears. As the tears come, you will feel the most beautiful feeling around your heart and all through the inside of you. This is the feeling of true

Flowers bloom in spring Oh, the sky spreads in summer They’re engraved and sparkling In my heart Rain falls in the morning Even on a day when I shut the window The light overflowing to my chest Is from above the clouds Joy and sorrow I hold everything close while I’m walking They’re things that firmly join My hand And your hand together Autumn is at the waterside Winter lurks at the treetop There’s a boundless kindness Deep in the world Every time when night comes Let’s offer a prayer Let’s quietly greet The day to come tomorrow Oh, a voice calling out from far, far away Guides me As if it smiles As if it sings The sound of wind echoes Joy and sorrow I hold everything close while I’m walking They’re things that firmly join My hand And your hand together

Another sob came, harder than the first, but she couldn't cover her face and her mastectomy scars at the same time when he raised his head. When she tried, Luke merely caught her wrists and lightly pinned them on either side of her head. "It's all right, Em. Tears are part of this," he whispered, bending to kiss them away. He moved gently within her, another tender caress that soothed as much as it stimulated. It broke the seal on the dam of her tears. They came out in a quiet rush while he stayed above her, eyes on her face as he murmured soothing things she didn't quite catch. And when the tears slowed, she looked up into his handsome face with a sniffle and the smile he gave her filled her heart to overflowing. Dear God she loved him. Had always loved him and would never love another man but him. Her heart had known it all along. And so had her body. Still, she tensed when he released one of her wrists to touch the skin beneath her right collarbone. Luke shook his dark head, those liquid eyes looking right into her soul. "I won't let you hide from me. Or from yourself." Embedded deep inside her, he raised his upper body to gaze at her, and all she could do was close her eyes in resistance. "Look at me." After a long hesitation, she did. He stared down at her with a powerful mixture of tenderness and hunger. "You think a scar's going to change how I see you? Feel about you?" She swallowed and struggled to find her voice. "It's ugly." "You're beautiful to me, Em. Always." She opened her mouth to say something but he leaned down to kiss her again. "Give me your hand," he coaxed, his voice a seductive whisper. She did, tentatively, and his fingers closed around hers in a warm grip. Strong and reassuring. "Accept who you are. Be proud of your body. It's fighting a war for you.

Mary's Song Blue homespun and the bend of my breast keep warm this small hot naked star fallen to my arms. (Rest... you who have had so far to come.) Now nearness satisfies the body of God sweetly. Quiet he lies whose vigor hurled a universe. He sleeps whose eyelids have not closed before. His breath (so slight it seems no breath at all) once ruffled the dark deeps to sprout a world. Charmed by doves' voices, the whisper of straw, he dreams, hearing no music from his other spheres. Breath, mouth, ears, eyes he is curtailed who overflowed all skies, all years. Older than eternity, now he is new. Now native to earth as I am, nailed to my poor planet, caught that I might be free, blind in my womb to know my darkness ended, brought to this birth for me to be new-born, and for him to see me mended I must seen him torn.

It might cause considerable surprise to the informed observer (who does not exist) to note that Mr B's eyes begin to fill with tears. They overflow and spill down along the deep soft creases of his careworn face as he sits very still in the centre of the unstill world and weeps rivers of salty water for all the lost souls, including his own.

A Great Teacher is like a fountain; she draws from the still, deep waters of personal growth and professional knowledge to serve others from her abundant overflow.

That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, “the waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me.

Deep waters; the floods overflowed me.

My greatest hope is to be a mother who loves Jesus with a deep and abiding affection that joyfully overflows to my children.

The grace giver is patient, forgiving, and overflowing with love. Her well is deep and wide and full of the good stuff necessary for acting in grace.

Increasingly she's finding it harder to tell the 'real' NYC from translations like Zigotisopolis... as if she keeps getting caught in a vortex taking her farther back in time into the virtual world. Certainly unforeseen in the original business plan, there arises now a possibility that DeepArcher is about to overflow out into the perilous gulf between screen and face.

But what that media coverage could not capture was the collective energy that radiated in the air of the crowd. It was palpable and pulsing; the only word to describe it? Jung—that deep, shared sentiment coursing through the entirety of the stadium and bursting into the streets. Jung for our national team. Jung among the fellow fans. I witnessed that overflowing jung for myself.

Having everything isn’t what makes you feel loved,” she continued although his heart already felt like it was overflowing like the falls. “It’s knowing that you’re loved just because you’re you.

If you can manage to see yourself from the outside and accept yourself as a vulnerable organism within the biosphere, rather than focusing on the narrowness of your own needs and considering yourself the center of reality, you will be amazed at how the world positively overflows with suffering beings, each with needs and appetites of their own. Something odd occurs when one has that experience: Suddenly, the soul is filled with deep compasion for the world. This is the only attitude adequate to the task of scaling the dark mountain of the ecological catastrophe we face: without any illusion that it is possible to change human beings based on the strenght of better insights. But with full-fledged empathy for this creation, among which things are so hard precisely because it is creation. And with equally strong gratitude for this creation beneath a graciously warm sun and its affirmative light: where we have already been given everyhing we need to live, before we ever thought to desire it.

[Prayer] is the thirst of ignorance drinking deep draughts from the overflowing fulness of divine wisdom. It is the exhaustion of weakness drawing nerve into a broken will from the resources of infinite strength.

[Prayer] is the thirst of ignorance drinking deep draughts from the overflowing fulness of divine wisdom. It is the exhaustion of weakness drawing nerve into a broken will from the resources of infinite strength.

God’s mercy does not make sin tolerable; it makes sin forgivable. The proud and the depraved alike must kneel at the same feet for mercy. For those willing, God turns sin’s empty cistern into a deep wellspring overflowing with love.

The Waterfall and the Sea Her love and passion are a waterfall, fed from the wellspring of her heart, gently tumbling into a pool, preparing herself to share her gifts. His passion and love are like the sea, deep and wide, waiting mysteriously, Patiently he awaits her calling out through time and space She hears his call, her pool overflowing. Her love and passion gushing over her banks she rushes toward him Winding and twisting she finds her way, destined to reach his shores He awaits her arrival and she opens her delta as his tide comes in Their waters mingle every molecule of her river with his sea Forever mixing and sharing their passion and love in that place between The Waterfall and the Sea

The endless procession of people and things that forms the world is for me an interminable gallery of pictures whose content bores me. It doesn't interest me because the soul is a monotonous thing and is always the same in everyone; it differs only in its personal manifestations and the best part of it is that which overflows into dreams, into mannerisms and gestures, and thus becomes part of the image that so captures my interest [...] This is how I experience the animate exteriors of things and beings, in pure vision, indifferent as a god from another world to their content, to their spirit. I only go deep into the surface of other people, if I want profundity I look for it in myself and in my concept of things.

I came across a contemporary version of the twenty-third Psalm entitled “Psalm 23 Revisited.” In it, the author captures perfectly where many of us are today: The clock is my dictator, I shall not rest. It makes me lie down only when exhausted. It leads me into deep depression, it hounds my soul. It leads me in circles of frenzy for activities’ sake. Even though I run frantically from task to task, I will never get it all done, for my “ideal” is with me. Deadlines and my need for approval, they drive me. They demand performance from me, beyond the limits of my schedule. They anoint my head with migraines, my in-basket overflows. Surely fatigue and time pressure shall follow me all the days of my life. And I will dwell in the bonds of frustration forever.1

quote from A. W. Tozer’s The Pursuit of God: God is so vastly wonderful, so utterly and completely delightful, that He can without anything other than Himself meet and overflow the deepest demands of our total nature, mysterious and deep as that nature is.

Words are shallow troughs for the deep water of the mind and it is only the fierce, the living, the simple, the clear, the angry mind which can overflow the troughs and go out over the mud, and over the grass, bearing the light of the sun on it like an angry shield.

The greatest secret for eliminating the inferiority complex, which is another term for deep and profound self doubt, is to fill your mind to overflowing with faith. Develop a tremendous faith in God and that will give you a humble yet soundly realistic faith in yourself.

Mrs. Duggan is settled deep into her armchair, overflowing onto the arms. She’s wearing a purple dress and battered fleece slippers; her hair, dyed a shiny black, is pulled back in a tight bun. She has the air of something geological, like the house was built around her because no one was willing to move her.

Within each one of us there is a healer. Healing has always been a way and a deep source of joy for me. Healing is basically our own energy, which overflows from our inner being, from the meditative quality within, from the inner silence and emptiness. Healing is pure love in essence. Love is what creates healing. Love is the strongest force there is. The sheer presence of love is, in itself, healing. It is more the absence of love – than the presence of love –, which creates problems. Healing is a quality, which we can freely share without any ownership. Healing is not something that we can claim as our own; healing is to be a medium, a channel, for the whole. Healing is a medium through which we can develop our inner qualities of presence, love, joy, intuition, truth, silence, wisdom, creativity and inner wholeness. Healing comes originally from the silence within, where we are already in contact with the whole, with the divine. Healing is what makes us spread our inner wings of love and silence and soar high on the sky of consciousness and touch the stars. Healing is to be in service of God. People who have a quality of heart and sensitivity are naturally healing. With some people that we meet, we feel naturally uplifted and inspired. With other people that we meet, we become tired and heavy. With people, who can listen without judging and evaluating, it is easy to find the right words to share problems and difficulties. And with other people, it seems almost impossible to find the right words. People, who have a healing presence and quality, can support our own inner source of love, truth and silence through their presence. These people also seem to have an intuitive sensitivity to saying the right words, which lift and inspires us. This is the people whose presence can mirror the inner truth, which we already know deep within ourselves. The human heart is a healer, which heals others and ourselves. It is the hearts quality of love, acceptance and compassion, plus communication through words, that creates healing. A word that comes from the heart creates healing. A silent listening with a quality of presence and an accepting attitude creates space for healing to happen. Without love it is only possible to reach the personality of the other person, to reach the surface and periphery of the other person The gift of healing comes when we see the other person with love and compassion. It is the quality of heart, which creates the love and the genuine caring for the other person. When our words are carried by the quality of heart, you can say almost anything to the other person and he will still be able to be open and receptive. But if our words lack the quality of heart, it also becomes difficult for the other person to continue to be open and receptive. Even if a therapist is very skilful, technically, or has a clear clairvoyant ability, and still lacks the natural roots in the soil of the heart, then his words will not touch the heart of the other person.

Thou hast taught me, Silent River! Many a lesson, deep and long; Thou hast been a generous giver; I can give thee but a song. Oft in sadness and in illness, I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide. And in better hours and brighter, When I saw thy waters gleam, I have felt my heart beat lighter, And leap onward with thy stream.

We have seen the kind of morality which is even now shaping itself in the ideas of the masses and of the thinkers. This morality will issue no commands. It will refuse once and for all to model individuals according to an abstract idea, as it will refuse to mutilate them by religion, law or government. It will leave to the individual man full and perfect liberty. It will be but a simple record of facts, a science. And this science will say to man: "If you are not conscious of strength within you, if your energies are only just sufficient to maintain a colorless, monotonous life, without strong impressions, without deep joys, but also without deep sorrows, well then, keep to the simple principles of a just equality. In relations of equality you will find probably the maximum of happiness possible to your feeble energies. "But if you feel within you the strength of youth, if you wish to live, if you wish to enjoy a perfect, full and overflowing life --that is, know the highest pleasure which a living being can desire-- be strong, be great, be vigorous in all you do. "Sow life around you. Take heed that if you deceive, lie, intrigue, cheat, you thereby demean yourself. belittle yourself, confess your own weakness beforehand, play the part of the slave of the harem who feels himself the inferior of his master. Do this if it so pleases you, but know that humanity will regard you as petty, contemptible and feeble, and treat you as such. Having no evidence of your strength, it will act towards you as one worthy of pity-- and pity only. Do not blame humanity if of your own accord you thus paralyze your energies. Be strong on the other hand, and once you have seen unrighteousness and recognized it as such --inequity in life, a lie in science, or suffering inflicted by another-- rise in revolt against the iniquity, the lie or the injustice. "Struggle! To struggle is to live, and the fiercer the struggle the intenser the life. Then you will have lived; and a few hours of such life are worth years spent vegetating.

The gutters in the lane overflowed with an odd, languid grace. Water filled the lane; rose from ankle-deep to knee-deep. Insects swam in circles. Urchins splashed about haphazardly, while Saraswati returned from market with a shopping-bag in her hands; insects swam away to avoid this clumsy giant. Her wet footprints printing the floor of the house were as rich with possibility as the first footprint Crusoe found on his island.

God gets us through stuff. Through the Red Sea onto dry ground (Ex. 14:22), through the wilderness (Deut. 29:5), through the valley of the shadow of death (Ps. 23:4), and through the deep sea (Ps. 77:19). Through is a favorite word of God’s: When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you. When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned, Nor shall the flame scorch you. (Isa. 43:2)1

Aya overflows with ache, or power. When the accent is taken off it, ache describes, in English, bone-deep pain. But otherwise ache is blood…fleeing and returning…red momentum. Ache is, ache is is is, kin to fear—a frayed pause near the end of a thread where the cloth matters too much to fail. The kind of need that takes you across water on nothing but bare feet. Ache is energy, damage, it is constant, in Aya’s mind all the time. She was born that way—powerful, half mad, but quiet about it.

There, in my murder theater, young Roman gladiators offered up their lives for my amusement; and all the deaths that took place there not only had to overflow with blood but also had to be performed with all due ceremony. I delighted in all forms of capital punishment and all implements of execution. But I would allow no torture devices nor gallows, as they would not have provided a spectacle of outpouring blood. Nor did I like explosive weapons, such as pistols or guns. So far as possible I chose primitive and savage weapons—arrows, daggers, spears. And in order to prolong the agony, it was the belly that must be aimed at. The sacrificial victim must send up longdrawn- out, mournful, pathetic cries, making the hearer feel the unutterable loneliness of existence. Thereupon my joy of life, blazing up from some secret place deep within me, would finally give its own shout of exultation, answering the victim cry for cry. Was this not exactly similar to the joy ancient man found in the hunt?

It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it - as I had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips - it came: in full heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, 'the waters came into my soul; I snack in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods over-flowed me

And then she started picking up trash behind the dumpster. It was ankle deep back there, blown in from all over the city to a kind of wind eddy between buildings. We picked up newspaper pages and hamburger wrappers, straws, cigarette packs, plastic bags, as well as shop trash that had fallen out when the dumpster was overflowing. There was so much, we would’ve needed snow shovels to make a real dent in it, but I didn’t think about what we were doing, more than to believe in easing a nervous breakdown with small bursts of insanity.

COMMITMENT is like rain in Oregon. You wake up every morning and there it is. It cups your house in its liquid hands and fills your gutters to overflowing. It makes green things grow tall and lush, rivers run deep and invincible. On sunny days it seeps up through petals and pine needles, roots and aqueducts. Other days, it makes mud too thick for walking, and you cannot leave the house. You pace the house, restless and lonely. Then you smell its perfume in a dry, empty room and part the curtains, watch it finger the window with long, slow rivulets. From 'A Compendium of Miniatures

My eyes were covered and closed: eddying darkness seemed to swim round me, and reflection came in as black and confused a flow. Self-abandoned, relaxed, and effortless, I seemed to have laid me down in the dried-up bed of a great river; I heard a flood loosened in remote mountains, and felt the torrent come: to rise I had no will, to flee I had no strength. I lay faint, longing to be dead. One idea only still throbbed life-like within me--a remembrance of God: it begot an unuttered prayer: these words went wandering up and down in my rayless mind, as something that should be whispered, but no energy was found to express them-- "Be not far from me, for trouble is near: there is none to help." It was near: and as I had lifted no petition to Heaven to avert it--as I had neither joined my hands, nor bent my knees, nor moved my lips--it came: in full heavy swing the torrent poured over me. The whole consciousness of my life lorn, my love lost, my hope quenched, my faith death-struck, swayed full and mighty above me in one sullen mass. That bitter hour cannot be described: in truth, "the waters came into my soul; I sank in deep mire: I felt no standing; I came into deep waters; the floods overflowed me.

The sing it together: My soul doth magnify the Lord, Laura's deep voice and Virginia's light one. The strangeness comes over Laura once again: how two different melodies can become at once single and disparate; something that overflows, as if there is too much of itself for a single note to bear. They go on to And my spirit hath rejoiced in God my savior; then, Laura is no longer Laura, but only a vessel for whatever overflowing thing is passing through her, and the sound is both hers and not hers, and she is and is not part of it, and Virginia's hair smells like candle wax, and Laura thinks, This, this is the sound Robert Lawrence heard; this is the thing that could shipwreck your soul, if you only let it; it is a thing her body can do.

The ghosts of women once girls Somewhere a little girl is reading aloud in the middle of a dirt road. she smiles at the sound of her own voice escaping the spine of the book. she feeds her hunger to know herself. She has not yet been taught to dim, she sits with the stars beneath her feet, a constellation of things to come. as if a swallowed moon, she glimmers. Her head wrap rolls out in a gutter, bare feet scat the earth, the ghosts of women once girls make bridge of the dust dancing behind her, she decorates the ground in dimples she stomps suffering out the spirit hooves drumming the earth in circles she holds gladness in her mouth like a secret teased out of a giggle joy like her sadness overflows she is not the opinions of others she is of visions and imagination somewhere a little girl is reading aloud in the middle of a dirt road. she smiles at the sound of her own voice escaping the spine of the book. She is a room full of listening, lending herself to her own words somewhere a deep remembering of what was, she survives all.

Domenico, my pen pal and the master of ceremonies, emerges from the kitchen in a cobalt suit bearing a plate of bite-sized snacks: ricotta caramel, smoked hake, baby artichoke with shaved bottarga. The first course lands on the table with a wink from Domenico: raw shrimp, raw sheep, and a shower of wild herbs and flowers- an edible landscape of the island. I raise my fork tentatively, expecting the intensity of a mountain flock, but the sheep is amazingly delicate- somehow lighter than the tiny shrimp beside it. The intensity arrives with the next dish, the calf's liver we bought at the market, transformed from a dense purple lobe into an orb of pâté, coated in crushed hazelnuts, surrounded by fruit from the market this morning. The boneless sea anemones come cloaked in crispy semolina and bobbing atop a sticky potato-parsley puree. Bread is fundamental to the island, and S'Apposentu's frequent carb deliveries prove the point: a hulking basket overflowing with half a dozen housemade varieties from thin, crispy breadsticks to a dense sourdough loaf encased in a dark, gently bitter crust. The last savory course, one of Roberto's signature dishes, is the most stunning of all: ravioli stuffed with suckling pig and bathed in a pecorino fondue. This is modernist cooking at its most magnificent: two fundamental flavors of the island (spit-roasted pig and sheep's-milk cheese) cooked down and refined into a few explosive bites. The kind of dish you build a career on.

So this is what a black pepper pork bun really tastes like!" The bun is flaky, and crispy, like a piecrust! The juicy pork filling is seasoned with just enough black pepper to give it a good bite! All the minced green onion mixed in with it makes it even better! The whole thing is overflowing with the mellow and meaty umami goodness of ground pork! "IT'S SOOO GOOD!" "Look! There it is! That's Soma Yukihira's booth!" "Really? Interesting! Wasn't he one of the finalists in this year's Classic?" "Hmm. This meat filling is way too weak as is. Juiciness, richness, umami... it's way short on all of those. The bun itself is probably good enough. Maybe I should up the ratio of rib meat..." "Yo. How're the test recipes going? There are a whole lot of other exclusively Chinese seasonings you can try, y'know. Oyster sauce, Xo spicy seafood sauce and a whole mountain of spices. I did a Dongpo Pork Bowl for the Classic, so I know all too well how deep that particular subject gets." "Oh, right! Now I see it. Chinese "Ma-La" flavor is just another combination of spices! Everything I learned about spices from my curry dish for the Prelims... ... I should be able to use in this too! Thanks, Nikumi!" "H-hey! Don't grab my hand like that!" How about this? Fresh-ground black pepper... ... and some mellow, fragrant sesame oil! When you're making anything Chinese, you can't forget the five-spice powder. I'll also knead in some star anise to enhance the flavor of the pork! Then add sliced green onions and finish by wrapping the mixture in the dough

Hymn to Mercury : Continued 71. Sudden he changed his plan, and with strange skill Subdued the strong Latonian, by the might Of winning music, to his mightier will; His left hand held the lyre, and in his right The plectrum struck the chords—unconquerable Up from beneath his hand in circling flight The gathering music rose—and sweet as Love The penetrating notes did live and move 72. Within the heart of great Apollo—he Listened with all his soul, and laughed for pleasure. Close to his side stood harping fearlessly The unabashed boy; and to the measure Of the sweet lyre, there followed loud and free His joyous voice; for he unlocked the treasure Of his deep song, illustrating the birth Of the bright Gods, and the dark desert Earth: 73. And how to the Immortals every one A portion was assigned of all that is; But chief Mnemosyne did Maia's son Clothe in the light of his loud melodies;— And, as each God was born or had begun, He in their order due and fit degrees Sung of his birth and being—and did move Apollo to unutterable love. 74. These words were winged with his swift delight: 'You heifer-stealing schemer, well do you Deserve that fifty oxen should requite Such minstrelsies as I have heard even now. Comrade of feasts, little contriving wight, One of your secrets I would gladly know, Whether the glorious power you now show forth Was folded up within you at your birth, 75. 'Or whether mortal taught or God inspired The power of unpremeditated song? Many divinest sounds have I admired, The Olympian Gods and mortal men among; But such a strain of wondrous, strange, untired, And soul-awakening music, sweet and strong, Yet did I never hear except from thee, Offspring of May, impostor Mercury! 76. 'What Muse, what skill, what unimagined use, What exercise of subtlest art, has given Thy songs such power?—for those who hear may choose From three, the choicest of the gifts of Heaven, Delight, and love, and sleep,—sweet sleep, whose dews Are sweeter than the balmy tears of even:— And I, who speak this praise, am that Apollo Whom the Olympian Muses ever follow: 77. 'And their delight is dance, and the blithe noise Of song and overflowing poesy; And sweet, even as desire, the liquid voice Of pipes, that fills the clear air thrillingly; But never did my inmost soul rejoice In this dear work of youthful revelry As now. I wonder at thee, son of Jove; Thy harpings and thy song are soft as love. 78. 'Now since thou hast, although so very small, Science of arts so glorious, thus I swear,— And let this cornel javelin, keen and tall, Witness between us what I promise here,— That I will lead thee to the Olympian Hall, Honoured and mighty, with thy mother dear, And many glorious gifts in joy will give thee, And even at the end will ne'er deceive thee.' 79. To whom thus Mercury with prudent speech:— 'Wisely hast thou inquired of my skill: I envy thee no thing I know to teach Even this day:—for both in word and will I would be gentle with thee; thou canst reach All things in thy wise spirit, and thy sill Is highest in Heaven among the sons of Jove, Who loves thee in the fulness of his love. 80. 'The Counsellor Supreme has given to thee Divinest gifts, out of the amplitude Of his profuse exhaustless treasury; By thee, 'tis said, the depths are understood Of his far voice; by thee the mystery Of all oracular fates,—and the dread mood Of the diviner is breathed up; even I— A child—perceive thy might and majesty.

Creativity is alive And thriving in my body. The energy you bring out in me Is within me infinitely. My power is overflowing. My lips are soft and welcoming To the exhale, The new Braille, The silence that persists After our moans die away, I look at myself and say, "Root down so you can burn. Beautiful girl, it's your turn To create magic within yourself. This time, without his help. Find your roots and find your fire, Be mindful of what you desire, Persist in what you know is true, Stay focused on the endless route Toward your own potential. Allow the existential Void to swallow you whole. Take on your old role: The lone seeker. Become quieter. Become meeker. Become the beauty that you seek. Embody strength if you feel weak. Find love within the walls Of this sacred temple. Let yourself shake and tremble, But keep your eyes ever fixed On the horizon Where it's rising, No revising, Fears capsizing As you sail, sail, sail Toward the wail Of your siren spirit Beckoning you to bloom The flower in your womb, The seed of creativity, Your triumphant legacy." These words, I will carry Within me as I bury Grains of wisdom In the whispers of the wind. And when I arrive To the altar of our origin, I'll be dressed in white and black, And I'll cradle that exact Feeling left on our sheets. And you'll be on your knees, Ready to receive The wholeness of my broken mind, Pried open by The sparkle gleaming in your eyes. And your hands will be full Of supple fruit and you'll Smile at me, and I will see That you have fed your hunger. You'll ooze with courage and wonder. And then, we will know That we've already lost each other A thousand times before. And I have found you As clear water after mud settles. And you have found me As a bee deep in a flower's petals. We have danced before, Pulled art out of each other's spines. We have died and birthed and died. We've already kissed a million times. This wasn't our first five act play, And it will not be the last. So when I thirst for your hands, I will sit and chant. We will meet again. We will meet again.

Before she knew what was happening, she was leaning towards him. Ryam stiffened as she pressed her lips to his. His mouth was warm and inviting. She only tasted him for a second before his hands jerked to her shoulders to hold her away. Undaunted, she grasped at the neck of his tunic while she kissed him, brushing over his lips again, searching, pleading. Slowly, his grip loosened. He yielded with a groan, sliding his tongue past her lips to feed on her desire. She wrapped her arms around him, barely able to circle the broadness of his shoulders. A soft, aching sound rose from her throat as his fingers dug into the nape of her neck, tilting her to him, fitting their mouths together even more intimately. She clung to him, guided by nothing but the desperate beating of her heart and a sharp, sweet yearning deep within her. His hands moved restlessly to grasp her hips, but then he tore himself away from her so abruptly she made a startled sound. He gritted his teeth and turned away, his hands clenched into fists. His pulse skipped along his neck as he gulped in breath after ragged breath. ‘You can’t kiss me like that,’ he growled. ‘You can’t look at me like that.’ Ailey was staring at him. Her fingers lifted to press against lips swollen with want and sensation. Naked desire. He could see it in her eyes, smell it on her skin. She was flushed with it, overflowing. God, the silken taste of her. She didn’t know how to hide her feelings and they clawed at him until the ache between his legs reached an acute peak. ‘What do you want from me?’ he demanded. One moment she made him swear not to touch her and the next she was kissing him into madness. If she made a single move towards him, made a single sweet sound he’d take hold of her, lower her to the ground and make her his right now with the fierce throb of combat and their wild escape still in his veins. Some part of her must have known it. That was why she stayed petrified, her only movement the rise and fall of her breasts as she struggled to breathe. ‘Tell me what it is you want from me and it’s yours,’ he promised dangerously.

The fourth thing about authenticity and to create loving relationships to yourself, to others and to life is to learn to love yourself. If you love and accept yourself that is the beginning of accepting all. Then all is good as it is, in that experience life takes on a new joy, a new gratefulness.If you reject yourself, you are rejecting existence. If you accept yourself, you have accepted existence. Then life is good, you feel grateful. Then whatsoever happens is good, because it happens out of the whole. But you have been conditioned for centuries not to love and accept yourself. Nobody has ever told you that you are good as you are. Once you are incapable of loving yourself, you will never be able to love anybody. You can love others only if you are able to love yourself. A person who loves himself sooner or later starts overflowing with love.Love yourself because if you don't love yourself; nobody else will ever be able to love you. You cannot love a person, who hates himself. How can you love a person, who is condemning himself? He cannot love himself, how can you love him. He will not believe you. He cannot allow anybody to love him, because he knows that heis unworthy of love. And you know what you are: worthless. That is what you have been told by the parents, the priests and the politicians. Nobody has ever accepted you as you are. Nobody has given you the feeling that you are loved and respected, that you are needed and that this existence will miss you, that without you this existence will not be the same. Without you this existence will lose some joy, love, beauty, truth and poetry. Nobody has told you that you are love and respected by existence. Love and accept yourself,relax into your being, you are cherished by the whole. Once you start feeling this love and respect of the whole in you, you will start growing roots in your being. Only then you can love people, you can love the trees and the animals. Love is only possible when there is a deep love and acceptance of oneself, of the other and of the world. And then you will be surprised: life is always ready to shower you with gifts. Life is always ready to give abundantly, but we cannot receive it, because we don't feel that we are worthy of receiving it. Accept yourself, love yourself, you are God's creation. 

Land and Sea The brilliant colors are the first thing that strike a visitor to the Greek Isles. From the stunning azure waters and blindingly white houses to the deep green-black of cypresses and the sky-blue domes of a thousand churches, saturated hues dominate the landscape. A strong, constant sun brings out all of nature’s colors with great intensity. Basking in sunshine, the Greek Isles enjoy a year-round temperate climate. Lemons grow to the size of grapefruits and grapes hang in heavy clusters from the vines of arbors that shade tables outside the tavernas. The silver leaves of olive trees shiver in the least sea breezes. The Greek Isles boast some of the most spectacular and diverse geography on Earth. From natural hot springs to arcs of soft-sand beaches and secret valleys, the scenery is characterized by dramatic beauty. Volcanic formations send craggy cliffsides plummeting to the sea, cause lone rock formations to emerge from blue waters, and carve beaches of black pebbles. In the Valley of the Butterflies on Rhodes, thousands of radiant winged creatures blanket the sky in summer. Crete’s Samaria Gorge is the longest in Europe, a magnificent natural wonder rife with local flora and fauna. Corfu bursts with lush greenery and wildflowers, nurtured by heavy rainfall and a sultry sun. The mountain ranges, gorges, and riverbeds on Andros recall the mainland more than the islands. Both golden beaches and rocky countrysides make Mykonos distinctive. Around Mount Olympus, in central Cyprus, timeless villages emerge from the morning mist of craggy peaks and scrub vegetation. On Evia and Ikaria, natural hot springs draw those seeking the therapeutic power of healing waters. Caves abound in the Greek Isles; there are some three thousand on Crete alone. The Minoans gathered to worship their gods in the shallow caves that pepper the remotest hilltops and mountain ranges. A cave near the town of Amnissos, a shrine to Eileithyia, goddess of childbirth, once revealed a treasure trove of small idols dedicated to her. Some caves were later transformed into monasteries. On the islands of Halki and Cyprus, wall paintings on the interiors of such natural monasteries survive from the Middle Ages. Above ground, trees and other flora abound on the islands in a stunning variety. ON Crete, a veritable forest of palm trees shades the beaches at Vai and Preveli, while the high, desolate plateaus of the interior gleam in the sunlight. Forest meets sea on the island of Poros, and on Thasos, many species of pine coexist. Cedars, cypress, oak, and chestnut trees blanket the mountainous interiors of Crete, Cyprus, and other large islands. Rhodes overflows with wildflowers during the summer months. Even a single island can be home to disparate natural wonders. Amorgos’ steep, rocky coastline gives way to tranquil bays. The scenery of Crete--the largest of the Greek Isles--ranges from majestic mountains and barren plateaus to expansive coves, fertile valleys, and wooded thickets.

There are two fundamentally different ways for the strong to bend down to the weak, for the rich to help the poor, for the more perfect life to help the “less perfect.” This action can be motivated by a powerful feeling of security, strength, and inner salvation, of the invincible fullness of one’s own life and existence. All this unites into the clear awareness that one is rich enough to share one’s being and possessions. Love, sacrifice, help, the descent to the small and the weak, here spring from a spontaneous overflow of force, accompanied by bliss and deep inner calm. Compared to this natural readiness for love and sacrifice, all specific “egoism,” the concern for oneself and one’s interest, and even the instinct of “self-preservation” are signs of a blocked and weakened life. Life is essentially expansion, development, growth in plenitude, and not “self-preservation,” as a false doctrine has it. Development, expansion, and growth are not epiphenomena of mere preservative forces and cannot be reduced to the preservation of the “better adapted.” ... There is a form of sacrifice which is a free renunciation of one’s own vital abundance, a beautiful and natural overflow of one’s forces. Every living being has a natural instinct of sympathy for other living beings, which increases with their proximity and similarity to himself. Thus we sacrifice ourselves for beings with whom we feel united and solidary, in contrast to everything “dead.” This sacrificial impulse is by no means a later acquisition of life, derived from originally egoistic urges. It is an original component of life and precedes all those particular “aims” and “goals” which calculation, intelligence, and reflection impose upon it later. We have an urge to sacrifice before we ever know why, for what, and for whom! Jesus’ view of nature and life, which sometimes shines through his speeches and parables in fragments and hidden allusions, shows quite clearly that he understood this fact. When he tells us not to worry about eating and drinking, it is not because he is indifferent to life and its preservation, but because he sees also a vital weakness in all “worrying” about the next day, in all concentration on one’s own physical well-being. ... all voluntary concentration on one’s own bodily wellbeing, all worry and anxiety, hampers rather than furthers the creative force which instinctively and beneficently governs all life. ... This kind of indifference to the external means of life (food, clothing, etc.) is not a sign of indifference to life and its value, but rather of a profound and secret confidence in life’s own vigor and of an inner security from the mechanical accidents which may befall it. A gay, light, bold, knightly indifference to external circumstances, drawn from the depth of life itself—that is the feeling which inspires these words! Egoism and fear of death are signs of a declining, sick, and broken life. ... This attitude is completely different from that of recent modern realism in art and literature, the exposure of social misery, the description of little people, the wallowing in the morbid—a typical ressentiment phenomenon. Those people saw something bug-like in everything that lives, whereas Francis sees the holiness of “life” even in a bug.

For unknown ages after the explosive outpouring of matter and energy of the Big Bang, the Cosmos was without form. There were no galaxies, no planets, no life. Deep, impenetrable darkness was everywhere, hydrogen atoms in the void. Here and there, denser accumulations of gas were imperceptibly growing, globes of matter were condensing-hydrogen raindrops more massive than suns. Within these globes of gas was kindled the nuclear fire latent in matter. A first generation of stars was born, flooding the Cosmos with light. There were in those times, not yet any planets to receive the light, no living creatures to admire the radiance of the heavens. Deep in the stellar furnaces, the alchemy of nuclear fusion created heavy elements from the ashes of hydrogen burning, the atomic building blocks of future planets and lifeforms. Massive stars soon exhausted their stores of nuclear fuel. Rocked by colossal explosions, they returned most of their substance back into the thin gas from which they had once condensed. Here in the dark lush clouds between the stars, new raindrops made of many elements were forming, later generation of stars being born. Nearby, smaller raindrops grew, bodies far too little to ignite the nuclear fire, droplets in the interstellar mist on their way to form planets. Among them was a small world of stone and iron, the early Earth. Congealing and warming, the Earth released methane, ammonia, water and hydrogen gases that had been trapped within, forming the primitive atmosphere and the first oceans. Starlight from the Sun bathed and warmed the primeval Earth, drove storms, generated lightning and thunder. Volcanoes overflowed with lava. These processes disrupted molecules of the primitive atmosphere; the fragments fell back together into more and more complex forms, which dissolved into the early oceans. After a while the seas achieved the consistency of a warm, dilute soup. Molecules were organized, and complex chemical reactions driven, on the surface of clay. And one day a molecule arose that quite by accident was able to make crude copies of itself out of the other molecules in the broth. As time passed, more elaborate and more accurate self replicating molecules arose. Those combinations best suited to further replication were favored by the sieve of natural selection. Those that copied better produced more copies. And the primitive oceanic broth gradually grew thin as it was consumed by and transformed into complex condensations of self replicating organic molecules. Gradually, imperceptibly, life had begun. Single-celled plants evolved, and life began generating its own food. Photosynthesis transformed the atmosphere. Sex was invented. Once free living forms bonded together to make a complex cell with specialized functions. Chemical receptors evolved, and the Cosmos could taste and smell. One celled organisms evolved into multicellular colonies, elaborating their various parts into specialized organ systems. Eyes and ears evolved, and now the Cosmos could see and hear. Plants and animals discovered that land could support life. Organisms buzzed, crawled, scuttled, lumbered, glided, flapped, shimmied, climbed and soared. Colossal beasts thundered through steaming jungles. Small creatures emerged, born live instead of in hard-shelled containers, with a fluid like the early ocean coursing through their veins. They survived by swiftness and cunning. And then, only a moment ago, some small arboreal animals scampered down from the trees. They became upright and taught themselves the use of tools, domesticated other animals, plants and fire, and devised language. The ash of stellar alchemy was now emerging into consciousness. At an ever-accelerating pace, it invented writing, cities, art and science, and sent spaceships to the planets and the stars. These are some of the things that hydrogen atoms do, given fifteen billion years of cosmic evolution.

Lies come in many forms, ranging from slight exaggerations and likely excuses to complete fabrications. Their primary motivations are self-protection and self-exaltation. Unfortunately, the tendency of the natural man toward deception is as deep and pulsing as the heart within us. Because the mouth speaks from the overflow of the heart, an untreated heart will easily give way to a lying tongue. Each of us could regularly use a fresh work of healing and purification at the very source of our deception problem. The Lord desires “integrity in the inner self ” (Ps. 51:6). We should too.

Love is the radiance, the fragrance of knowing oneself, of being oneself. Love is overflowing joy. Love is when you have seen that you are not separate from Existence. Love is not a relationship, love is a state of being. Fear is the opposite of love. In love, one expands. In fear, one shrinks. In fear, one becomes closed. In love, one opens. In fear, one doubts. In love, one trusts. Do not be afraid, this Existence is not your enemy. This existence loves you, this existence is ready to support you in any way. Trust and you will feel a new overflowing energy. That energy is love. That energy wants to bless the whole existence. Because of this energy, one feels blessed. Love is a deep desire to bless the whole Existence.

THE JOURNEY The Journey is home, to the heart. The awareness of your loving self . The Love that awaits you right now! This is the spiritual journey,awakening to the Realization of The Divine within you,of you and through you. Now awareness overflows from you onto all. Now questions are replaced with awareness and a deep relaxation! Now you are the Breath of Life and Love!

The Waterfall and the Sea" Her love and passion are a waterfall, fed from the wellspring of her heart, gently tumbling into a pool, preparing herself to share her gifts. His passion and love are like the sea, deep and wide, waiting mysteriously, Patiently he awaits her calling out through time and space She hears his call, her pool overflowing. Her love and passion gushing over her banks she rushes toward him Winding and twisting she finds her way, destined to reach his shores He awaits her arrival and she opens her delta as his tide comes in Their waters mingle every molecule of her river with his sea Forever mixing and sharing their passion and love in that place between The Waterfall and the Sea

The Waterfall and the Sea" "Her love and passion are a waterfall, fed from the wellspring of her heart, gently tumbling into a pool, preparing herself to share her gifts. His passion and love are like the sea, deep and wide, waiting mysteriously, Patiently he awaits her, calling out through time and space She hears his call, her pool overflowing. Her love and passion gushing over her banks she rushes toward him Winding and twisting she finds her way, destined to reach his shores He awaits her arrival as she opens her delta and his tide comes in Their waters mingle every molecule of her river with his sea Forever mixing and sharing their passion and love in that place between The Waterfall and the Sea

Prayer: Father God, I can’t thank You enough for all that You have given me. I have so much to be thankful for. My barns are overflowing, and grain is spilling out over the top. Thank You. Thank You. Amen.   Action: Take a risk and say “Thank You” in God’s presence.   Today’s Wisdom: For three things I thank God every day of my life: thanks that he has vouchsafed me knowledge of his works; deep thanks that he has set in my darkness the lamp of faith; deep, deepest thanks that I have another life to look forward to—a life joyous with light and flowers and heavenly song. —HELEN KELLER

MAY 5 I RULE THE SEA AND THE WATERS BY MY STRENGTH I RULE THE sea and waters by My strength, and I am mightier than the noise of many waters or the mighty waves of the sea. The sea is Mine, for I made it, just as I formed the dry land. When you go down to the sea in ships and do business on great waters, you will see My works and My wonders in the deep. It is I who commands and raises the stormy wind and who lifts up the waves of the sea. I cause them to mount up to the heavens and to go down again to the depths. I will calm the story so that its waves are still and guide you to your desired haven. I will make a way in the sea and a path through the mighty waters. PSALMS 93:4; 107:23–30; ISAIAH 43:16 Prayer Declaration Lord, You rule the sea and the waters by Your strength, and You will not let any evil waters overflow my life. Your power will protect me, and no evil waves will rise up against me, nor will I be cast into the depths of the sea. Just as You dried up the sea and the waters of the great deep to make a road for the Israelites, so too You will make a road through the sea for the redeemed to cross over.

Given the situation I had gotten myself into, I just chose the path that seemed most likely to succeed and did the best I could. But Shota died so suddenly. His death ripped open a deep fissure in my life. It was a cruel and heedless truth that I will never be able to comprehend. No matter what I do, I cannot change it. Is there any meaning in this world where Shota could die such an inexplicable death? That fissure spread through me unexpectedly. A responsible person would probably tell me to smile even though he’s gone. They’d probably say Shota, even though he was only a child, would have wanted me to lead a good life. But I don’t need to hear those words. This world is overflowing with hackneyed expressions like that. They can comfort most people, but they make me suffer. Words that most people nod along to make those who can’t nod along suffer. They alienate them. What about words that can reach someone like me? Do those exist? I am twisted. I can’t look at the world straight. But why am still trying to live on? Even though I think it would be better to curse the world, smile perversely and die.

My lady—” Lock began but Kat held up a hand. “Okay, I just have to say this. Before we go any farther, could both of you please stop calling me ‘my lady?’ It’s getting really old. We’re not at the freaking Renaissance Fair, you know. I mean, what’s next? Are you going to offer to buy me a tankard of mead and joust for my honor?” Both the brothers looked thoroughly confused. “Buy you what?” Deep said. “What’s a joust?” Lock asked. Kat blew out a breath in frustration. “Never mind. The point is, I want you to stop calling me ‘my lady.’ All right?” Lock frowned. “But it’s the only proper term of address for an elite female.” Kat had a feeling she was getting in deeper and deeper, but she couldn’t help asking. “What’s an elite female?” Lock’s dark brown eyes were suddenly as hot as his brother’s had been earlier when he’d scented her. “One with a shape like yours, my lady.” His big hands described a generous hourglass in the air. “Most of the females on Twin Moons are lean and tough—our lifestyle and diet make them that way.” “But there are a few,” Deep went on, taking up where his brother had left off. “A lucky few whom the Mother has marked with curving hips and ripe breasts, full to overflowing.” His black eyes flickered hungrily over her body as he spoke and Kat had to fight the urge to cover herself. She suddenly felt naked under the blue silk gown. “They are blessed by the Mother—goddesses who walk among us. We call them the elite,” Lock continued, still eyeing her. “And naturally we thought you were an Earth elite. Were we wrong?” Kat stared at them, unbelieving. “Uh, I guess so. But on Earth we call it ‘plus sized.’” “Plus sized?” Deep raised an eyebrow at her. “You know—more to love? Pleasingly plump? Big beautiful woman?” His eyes gleamed. “Most intriguing. I like all those descriptions.” “I do, too.” Lock gave her a ravenous look. Kat felt the sudden urge to pinch herself. Are they seriously saying they come from a planet of skinny-minnies but they think plus sized girls are hotter? Did somebody slip me some crazy pills? She shook her head, trying to clear away the mental images the brothers’ words brought to mind. “Look,” she said sternly. “It’s great you’re so into women with curves, but we are getting way, way, way off point here. One, I’d prefer if you just called me Kat. And two, we need to do this…whatever it is we’re going to do and try to locate Sophie and Sylvan. They’ve been missing for hours now.” “Very

The burst of life that took centuries to build, revealed in an old tree trunk's cross section. At its center, material memories of the sapling that this tree once was. Year after it grew by accretion, adding successive layers of the interplay of xylem and phloem, water in and water out, sap traveling up and down, transporting complexities under the corky protection of callous bark. If we could read the code of this great being, we would hear tales of drought summers or deep winter snows melting into spring overflow. The history of a life much longer than any human's tells its tale in concentric rings.

Never mind. Let’s just hope you’re marked well enough that my scent throws them off.” “Am I? I mean, can’t you tell?” Grabbing her arm he pulled her close. Leaning over her, he inhaled deeply, his eyes closed for a moment as if in deep concentration. When he opened them, there was a troubled look on his face. “I think you are but it’s hard for me to tell. I’m so sensitive to your scent now I smell it even when I shouldn’t be able to.” “What? What does that mean?” She looked at him worriedly. “It means your scent is imprinted on my brain—like everything else about you.” He cupped her cheek and stared down into her face. “The color of your eyes, the exact tone of your voice when you’re nervous, or frightened, or in need. The shade of pink your cheeks turn when you’re embarrassed. I’m full of you, Sophia. Full to overflowing…but it does me no good.” “I…” She wanted to look away from the frightening intensity of his gaze but somehow she couldn’t. “I don’t know what that means,” she whispered at last. “It means I’m damned.” His tone was desolate. “Completely and utterly damned.

A woman is blessed with a tender sense of pity, and she is pleased by affection and adoration from men; their sympathetic actions or considerate words often win her gratitude. On the other hand, if a man acts aggressively, like a rascal, the woman’s gratitude will soon vanish. But then a clever man pretends to have been wronged and humiliated—and then the woman’s tenderness returns as deep as the overflowing sea.

The imagery of intoxication pervades the mystical poetry of Islam, from Attar to Hafiz to Rumi to Ibn al-Arabi and Ibn al-Farid, to Sidi Ahmed al-Alawi and Ibn al-Habib. „The Tavern“, „Wine“, „the Cup“, „Drunkenness“ are powerful mystical symbols that indicate the deep rapture and illumination experienced by the lovers of God. Those who deny the intoxication that comes from worship and remembrance are those who have never experienced it […] hearts overflowing with remembrance of God, filled with Light. Through worship and self-abnegation, they share a taste of the intoxication experienced by those who have entered the Tavern of the Presence and drunk the wine of Light. To deny the possibility of spiritual intoxication is to remove a powerful incentive for purification and worship: an intoxication that removes confusion, a drunkenness with no hangover. What a difference between effulgent rapture and the darkness of an alcoholic stupor! (p. 273)

August 8 August 8, Morning I SPEAK TO YOU from deepest heaven. You hear Me in the depths of your being. Deep calls unto deep. You are blessed to hear Me so directly. Never take this privilege for granted. The best response is a heart overflowing with gratitude. I am training you to cultivate a thankful mind-set. This is like building your house on a firm rock, where life’s storms cannot shake you. As you learn these lessons, you are to teach them to others. I will open up the way before you, one step at a time.

God is so vastly wonderful, so utterly and completely delightful that He can, without anything other than Himself, meet and overflow the deepest demands of our total nature, mysterious and deep as that nature is. Such worship as Faber knew (and he is but one of a great company which no man can number) can never come from a mere doctrinal knowledge of God.

Education was still considered a privilege in England. At Oxford you took responsibility for your efforts and for your performance. No one coddled, and no one uproariously encouraged. British respect for the individual, both learner and teacher, reigned. If you wanted to learn, you applied yourself and did it. Grades were posted publicly by your name after exams. People failed regularly. These realities never ceased to bewilder those used to “democracy” without any of the responsibility. For me, however, my expectations were rattled in another way. I arrived anticipating to be snubbed by a culture of privilege, but when looked at from a British angle, I actually found North American students owned a far greater sense of entitlement when it came to a college education. I did not realize just how much expectations fetter—these “mind-forged manacles,”2 as Blake wrote. Oxford upholds something larger than self as a reference point, embedded in the deep respect for all that a community of learning entails. At my very first tutorial, for instance, an American student entered wearing a baseball cap on backward. The professor quietly asked him to remove it. The student froze, stunned. In the United States such a request would be fodder for a laundry list of wrongs done against the student, followed by threatening the teacher’s job and suing the university. But Oxford sits unruffled: if you don’t like it, you can simply leave. A handy formula since, of course, no one wants to leave. “No caps in my classroom,” the professor repeated, adding, “Men and women have died for your education.” Instead of being disgruntled, the student nodded thoughtfully as he removed his hat and joined us. With its expanses of beautiful architecture, quads (or walled lawns) spilling into lush gardens, mist rising from rivers, cows lowing in meadows, spires reaching high into skies, Oxford remained unapologetically absolute. And did I mention? Practically every college within the university has its own pub. Pubs, as I came to learn, represented far more for the Brits than merely a place where alcohol was served. They were important gathering places, overflowing with good conversation over comforting food: vital humming hubs of community in communication. So faced with a thousand-year-old institution, I learned to pick my battles. Rather than resist, for instance, the archaic book-ordering system in the Bodleian Library with technological mortification, I discovered the treasure in embracing its seeming quirkiness. Often, when the wrong book came up from the annals after my order, I found it to be right in some way after all. Oxford often works such. After one particularly serendipitous day of research, I asked Robert, the usual morning porter on duty at the Bodleian Library, about the lack of any kind of sophisticated security system, especially in one of the world’s most famous libraries. The Bodleian was not a loaning library, though you were allowed to work freely amid priceless artifacts. Individual college libraries entrusted you to simply sign a book out and then return it when you were done. “It’s funny; Americans ask me about that all the time,” Robert said as he stirred his tea. “But then again, they’re not used to having u in honour,” he said with a shrug.

Vanessa,” he whispered. She moved in her bed. She sniffed. “Cameron?” she asked. “What is it?” he whispered. “Nothing, it’s nothing,” she whispered back. He went to her bed and sat on the edge. He looked down at eyes that, even in the darkness of her room, were filled and overflowing, her nose pink. “God, Vanessa, if I made you cry, I’ll hate myself.” “It’s not your fault. You’re completely innocent. You’ve been wonderful. I think too much sometimes. I have to learn to let some things go.” “Oh, honey,” he said, pulling her close. “It’s all right. These things take time.” “I’m sorry,” she said. “You don’t have to be sorry. I knew—we both knew—you’ve had so much to deal with, to try to put into perspective. It’s okay.” He crawled onto the bed and, on top of the coverlet, slipped an arm under her head to hold her. “You take your time, Vanni. There’s lots of time.” She turned in his arms and cried against his bare chest, and he held her, understanding the pain. He ached for her. The woman had buried the husband of her heart right before delivering his child. Moving on to the next part of her life wasn’t going to be that easy. He didn’t care. He was willing to go through this with her, because this was exactly the kind of woman he wanted in his life. A woman who could show commitment this powerful, emotion this deep, love this enduring. When

Stop thinking of her,” Paris snarled, grabbing Romeo’s shoulder and wrenching him back around. Romeo flinched, his eyes going very wide, and cold horror clutched at Paris. He had ordered Romeo how to think. If it broke his mind— Then Romeo huffed out a laugh and said, “I can’t. I can’t stop thinking of her.” He smiled. “Your magic isn’t strong enough for that.” “You have no right,” Paris muttered, relieved and ashamed at once. He felt Romeo’s flicker of anger at the same moment he saw his mouth tighten. “She was my wife,” Romeo snapped, and remembered something that Paris had never, ever wanted to see. The next thing Paris knew, he was three paces away from Romeo, his face burning, palms pressing into his temples. He stared at the cobblestones, trying to imagine them lining his head. Romeo must have realized what had happened, because he sounded rather strangled when he said, “How—how do we stop it?” Paris took a slow, deep breath and didn’t meet his eyes. “Imagine a wall,” he said. “Between us.” There was a short, awkward silence as they both tried. Paris didn’t feel any more overflowing thoughts from Romeo, but that might just be because his own wall was so solidly built. He never wanted to feel any of Romeo’s thoughts again. He never wanted to look at Romeo again, but he didn’t really have a choice about that. So he raised his head.

Gracious and beloved Lord, at the beginning of this time of prayer, I lift up to you my heart overflowing with gratitude for the many gifts and blessings that you have given me. I dedicate this time of worship and prayer, and the graceful energy that shall flow outward from the altar of my heart as an offering for the welfare of all your children. May your Holy Spirit take me by the hand and lead me deep into the center of my heart, into your Holy of Holies. Amen.

The exhilarating smell of sex permeated the love chamber. I, invigorated to the point of no return, shook involuntarily, shooting my seed onto the highly-polished rosewood floor. Mario filled my sex to overflowing capacity with his seminal releases. Before I had a chance to turn around, Andy had mounted me from behind. His heavy breathing from the vigorous onslaught threw him into a frenzy. Holding tightly onto my slender waist, he unleashed his semen, burying his sacred ishq (love, in Arabic) deep into my willing soul. I gave myself fully to my lover. In return he did the same to me.

that God is so vastly wonderful, so utterly and completely delightful that He can, without anything other than Himself, meet and overflow the deepest demands of our total nature, mysterious and deep as that nature is.

Two decades later, Ferdinand Hiller had proposed in a long essay—published in a special issue of the magazine Salon that celebrated Beethoven’s centenary—precisely where the light of his genius shone most brightly. He had concluded that the fundamental brilliance of the master’s music was that it achieved softness without weakness, enthusiasm without hollowness, longing without sentimentality, passion without madness. He is deep but never turgid, pleasant but never insipid, lofty but never bombastic. In the expression of love, fervent, tender, overflowing, but never with ignoble sensuality. He can be cordial, cheerful, joyful to extravagance, to excess—never to vulgarity. In the deepest suffering he does not lose himself—he triumphs over it. . . . More universal effects have been achieved by others, but none more deep or noble. No, we may say without exaggeration that never did an artist live whose creations were so truly new—his sphere was the unforeseen.

It is a great truth that you will rise again. It is a sweeter truth that you will "always be with the Lord." Whatever else you draw comfort from, neglect not this deep, clear, and over-flowing well of delight. There are other sources of good cheer in connection with the glory to be revealed, for heaven is a many-sided joy, but still none can excel the glory of communion with Jesus Christ, wherefore comfort one another in the first place and most constantly, with these words, "So we will always be with the Lord.

If we dream of faith leading to the accumulation of profit—as so many Christian preachers are quick to say on television, in great cathedrals, and in overflowing stadiums—we betray our deep-seated desire for a treasure that exists over and above faith. Yet, compared with faith itself, all else is but straw.

In many companies, the path from idea to a fully implemented innovation is lined with overflowing brainstorming sessions, specifications, deep bureaucracy, regular budget cuts, eternally long project durations, lack of resources, and much more - all of which makes the path to innovation virtually impossible. In addition, countless great proposals are lying in a drawer somewhere, never to be implemented—the result: disillusioned and frustrated employees.

Your mother will die some day, and you and I will have to die some day, too. Yet My God has never died. Perhaps you haven’t heard clearly the story that tells how He goes on living for ever and ever. In appearance only did He die. But three days after He had died He came to life again and with great pomp He rose up to heaven.” “How often?” the chief asked in a dry tone. Astonished at this unexpected question, the monk answered, “Why . . . why . . . eh . . . once only, quite naturally once only.” “Once only? And has he, your great god, ever returned to earth?” “No, of course not,” Padre Balmojado answered, his voice burdened with irritation. “He has not returned yet, but He has promised mankind that He will return to earth in His own good time, so as to judge and to . . .” “. . . and to condemn poor mankind,” the chief finished the sentence. “Yes, and to condemn!” the monk said in a loud and threatening tone. Confronted with such inhuman stubbornness he lost control of himself. Louder still he continued: “Yes, to judge and to condemn all those who deny Him and refuse to believe in Him, and who criticize His sacred words, and who ignore Him, and who maliciously refuse to accept the true and only God even if He is brought to them with brotherly love and a heart overflowing with compassion for the poor ignorant brethren living in sin and utter darkness, and who can obtain salvation for nothing more than having belief in Him and having the true faith.” Not in the least was the chieftain affected by this sudden outburst of the monk, who had been thrown off routine by these true sons of America who had learned to think long and carefully before speaking. The chieftain remained very calm and serene. With a quiet, soft voice he said: “Here, my holy white father, is what our god had put into our hearts and souls, and it will be the last word I have to say to you before we return to our beautiful and tranquil tierra: Our god dies every evening for us who are his children. He dies every evening to bring us cool winds and freshness of nature, to bring us peace and quiet for the night so that we may rest well, man and animal. Our god dies every evening in a deep golden glory, not insulted, not spat upon, not spattered with stinking mud. He dies beautifully and glori¬ously, as every real god will die. Yet he does not die forever. In the morning he returns to life, refreshed and more beautiful than ever, his body still trailing the veils and wrappings of the dead. But soon his golden spears dart across the blue firmament as a sign that he is ready to fight the gods of darkness who threaten the peoples on earth. And before you have time to realize what happens, there he stands before wondering human eyes, and there he stays, great, mighty, powerful, golden, and in ever-growing beauty, dominating the universe. “He, our god, is a spendthrift in light, warmth, beauty, and fertility, enriching the flowers with perfumes and colors, teaching the birds to sing, filling the corn with strength and health, playing with the clouds in an ocean of gold and blue. As my beloved mother does, so does he give and give and never cease giving; never does he ask for prayers, not expect¬ing adoration or worship, not commanding obedience or faith, and never, never condemning anybody or thing on earth. And when evening comes, again he passes away in beauty and glory, a smile all over his face, and with his last glimmer blesses his Indian children. Again the next morning he is the eternal giver; he is the eternally young, the eternally beautiful, the eternally new-born, the ever and ever returning great and golden god of the Indians. “And this is what our god has put into our hearts and souls and what I am bound to tell you, holy white father: ‘Do not, not ever, beloved Indian sons of these your beautiful lands, give away your own great god for any other god.’ ” ("Conversion Of Some Indians")

Cares for Something/Someone Outside the Self “It is the capacity to care — to care intensely about something beyond the limited self — that we seem to find our best clue to what mature individuality is.” —The Mind Alive The Overstreets convincingly argue that, for several reasons, the capacity to deeply care for someone or something forms the very core of the mature mind. First, it slays adolescent ego-absorption by shifting an individual’s focus outside the self, and training that focus on something bigger than the self. Second, it requires the “emotional overflow” of well-developed inner resources, particularly the development of courage, as sincerely caring is underrated as a truly frightening endeavor: “Caring — whether for another person, a line of work, a field of knowledge, or a conviction — is, in a sense, the most hazardous of human experiences. The emotionally impoverished person cannot afford it; for it means choosing to be vulnerable. . . . There is, in psychological truth, a certain terror that is part of the experience of deep caring: the terror of letting one’s self go; putting one’s whole capacity to feel and suffer at the disposal of something beyond the self. No one, it seems safe to assume, who has ever deeply and genuinely loved another human being or a chosen vocation or a social cause or a religious faith has ever wholly escaped this terror.” Third, it is the only way to catalyze one’s full potential: “If the risks of caring are great, so are the rewards; for it is one of the basic facts of human life that the ungiven self is the unfulfilled self. Only the individual who builds a strong, sound relationship with his world can himself become strong, sound, and resourceful: ready for what happens; able to be affirmative and creative in his dealings with experience.” Caring is such a key element of human fulfillment, in part because it provides a non-duplicable source of motivation:   “If a person never greatly cares about anything beyond himself, he has little spontaneous reason to get over the hump of inertia and submit himself to the discipline of a working material or a body of knowledge. . . . an individual’s area of caring and the strength of his caring determine the inconveniences he will willingly suffer and the risks he will run.” Finally, the practice of caring for things outside the self — a process in which the arrows of influence and need work both ways — disabuses you of delusional notions of complete autonomy and control (ideals maturity approaches, but can never completely attain, nor would find desirable to attain); it serves as a visceral, humbling reminder of where you remain (wonderfully) dependent. In caring for some person or idea, you come to an understanding of humanity’s interconnectedness, a “sense of how things hang together; not just the thing itself, but the meaning of it.” As the Overstreets conclude, “the capacity to care — to enjoy richly, love deeply, feel strongly, and if need be, suffer intensely — is, in short, the best guarantee any one of us can have against” the complete stagnation of the self.

In that moment, I was not sad about any one thing, but about everything. The tragedies I had witnessed in the previous months all piled up and overflowed into one big, clumped-together sadness and suffering that I couldn’t escape. It is what my friend William Paul Young calls the “Great Sadness,” a pain so huge and deep, it feels as though it will never end. And yet the sadness was focused not on one particular issue but on all of them at once.

Bhakti Spurana Programs (BSP) HDH has engineered this program in such a way that it enriches one's emotional well-being. It teaches the language of man’s innermost being, and frees us from the base emotions of lust, fear, greed, anger, greed, envy, etc., bringing equanimity to the mind and deep fulfilment within. This fulfilment takes us beyond our wants into the blissful realm of service out of overflowing joy and compassion.

I don’t like living with scarcity. I don’t like having just enough to meet my needs. I don’t like being dependent. It makes me feel vulnerable. In my economy, I want a full oil flask and overflowing flour jar. I want to see exactly how and when God will provide for my needs. I want a guarantee I can independently verify. That’s because, deep down, I’d rather depend on myself than on God. Though I want to serve him with my whole heart, trusting him in the dark can be frightening; it’s far easier when the future looks bright. I’d rather praise God for his abundant provision than daily depend on him to meet my basic needs.

Inside, it was even more opulent. Black-and-white checkered marble shone at my feet, flowing to countless doors and a sweeping staircase. A long hall stretched ahead to the giant glass doors at the other end of the house, and through them I glimpsed a second garden, grander than the one out front. No sign of a dungeon- no shouts or pleas rising up from hidden chambers below. No, just the low growl from a nearby room, so deep that it rattled the vases overflowing with fat clusters of hydrangeas atop the scattered hall tables.

not yet allowing himself to wallow in the wave of relief coursing through his body, and pushed through it, ignoring questions barked at him in a foreign language. He galloped down a set of steps, past another pair of cops rushing in the opposite direction, barely meriting a second glance on this occasion. As he left the park, crossing a road that was cordoned off to traffic at either end, he breathed out a long, deep, endless sigh of relief that flooded out of him with the relentless power of the Nile emptying into the Mediterranean Sea. It was only now that he recognized how fast his heart was beating, or felt the beads of sweat dripping off his forehead – both more a result of tension than exertion. “That was close,” he groaned, cursing himself for breaking the cardinal rule of espionage and thrusting himself into the center of attention. “Too damn close.” And it was far from over. He might have escaped the first cordon of cops, but before long the whole of central Moscow would be on lockdown. He needed to get out before it was too late. Trapp fought against his instincts and slowed his pace, walking casually down a side street, past a government building with a small brass plaque outside which read, ‘Federal Agency for State Property Management’ in English letters under the Cyrillic. He kept his head low, pointed at the ground, hoping that it would obscure him from the surveillance cameras that dotted the area, but knowing that it probably wouldn’t. That’s a problem for another day. He cast a quick look around to make sure no one was paying him any attention, and when he was certain that they were not, he ducked into a space between two parked cars, crouched down, and pulled on the neon vest he had previously stowed by his breast. Again, the disguise was skin deep, but if one of the cops he’d just passed managed to radio in a description, then perhaps this costume change might add a layer of distance. It was better than nothing. He started walking again, slowly enough not to draw the eye, fast enough to put as much distance between himself and what was about to turn into a very hot crime scene as possible. As he walked, his fingers played with the rock he had carried all this time, searching for a seam or a catch. He knew that it would not be locked, or contain the kind of self-destruct device so beloved of Hollywood movies. There wasn’t the space, and besides, any competent intelligence agency would be able to defeat such protections quickly enough. Trapp found it, worked the bottom of the rock open, and saw a memory stick sitting in a foam indentation. He pulled it free, put it into the coin pocket of his denim jeans, and dumped the two halves of the rock into an overflowing trash can. It was only then that the question came to him. What the hell do I do now? 35 The village of Soloslovo was 20 miles from Central Moscow, about thirty minutes by car in light traffic, or twenty on a high-powered motorcycle the likes of which Eliza Ikeda rode as she zipped past, around

You know, Eris,' he said, a hand wrapping around the doorknob. 'I think you might be a decent male, deep down, trapped in a terrible situation.' He looked over his shoulder and found Eris's gaze blazing again. But only pity stirred in his chest, pity for a male who had been born into riches, but had been destitute in every way that truly mattered. In every way that Cassian had been blessed- blessings that were now overflowing. So Cassian said, 'I grew up surrounded by monsters. I've spent my existence fighting then. And I see you, Eris. You're not one of them. Not even close. I think you might even be a good male.' Cassian opened the door, turning from Eris's curled lip. 'You're just too much of a coward to act like one.

Deep meditation means emptiness, nothingness, a state of utter silence, where not even the idea of "I" exists. One is, but with no idea of "I". It is a state of egolessness. Deva Emanuel said after a satsang that when I tolled the Tibetan bells for the second time at the end of the satsang, he suddenly came back from the deep silence, where there is no "I". There are three things that happens out of the silence and emptiness: prayer, grace and compassion. The first flower is prayer, which is not of words, but of silent gratitude. One has to be absolutely silent, but there is gratitude because it is to experience the splendor of life. Thousand and one flowers bloom within you, and suddenly the spring has come.  The silence and emptiness is overflowing with fragrance. The moment you drop the "I", the beyond descends into you. You create a silence and  a vacuum, and immediately the beyond fills it.  The second flower is grace, because when you are silent, prayerful and thankful, a subtlegrace surrounds you. Grace means that the beyond has touched you. God has touchedyou. This very touch is transforming, and you are no longer ordinary. You become silent and extraordinary when you drop the ego. And by dropping the ego, you become touched by God. That is what grace is.  The third flower is compassion. When you are silent and prayerful that is your inner experience. That prayerfulness will radiate from your body, your words,your actions and the way you are silent. And all your actions will come out of compassion. Passions are unconscious, compassion is conscious. You act, but your actions are totally different. Now they come out of love. When there is silence, prayer and compassion, you have come home. 

You’re so sweet, Jesse. You come so good for Daddy, don’t you?” “Yes!” I cry. Because yes. Yes yes yes, Daddy… that sounds good. “I’m coming for you… I’m coming… fucking… everywhere.” “Mmm… Good boy, baby. You want me to pour into your ass nice and deep?” My body is humming. I have no idea what’s happening or where I am. “Yes. Please…” “You want me to fill you up until your warm, tight hole is overflowing with my cum?” “God, fuck yes… fuck fuck…” What am I even saying??

The second tactic that helps is the use of overflow conditional blocks. If you’re not sure how long a given activity might take, block off the expected time, then follow this with an additional block that has a split purpose. If you need more time for the preceding activity, use this additional block to keep working on it. If you finish the activity on time, however, have an alternate use already assigned for the extra block (for example, some nonurgent tasks). This allows unpredictability in your day without requiring you to keep changing your schedule on paper.

Nature will welcome us back, as she always does with open arms. We are part of her as she is of us. Her love is so deep that it overflows our hearts, spreading out into the rest of the world. But don’t take my word

Praying in tongues consistently paves the way for a deeper dimension of the same Spirit of God. You could go ankle-deep, knee-deep, waist-deep till you experience the overflow. Even at that, you could still go deeper. No holds barred!

Eminent physicist and mathematician Freeman Dyson styled it this way: we need both focused frogs and visionary birds. “Birds fly high in the air and survey broad vistas of mathematics out to the far horizon,” Dyson wrote in 2009. “They delight in concepts that unify our thinking and bring together diverse problems from different parts of the landscape. Frogs live in the mud below and see only the flowers that grow nearby. They delight in the details of particular objects, and they solve problems one at a time.” As a mathematician, Dyson labeled himself a frog, but contended, “It is stupid to claim that birds are better than frogs because they see farther, or that frogs are better than birds because they see deeper.” The world, he wrote, is both broad and deep. “We need birds and frogs working together to explore it.” Dyson’s concern was that science is increasingly overflowing with frogs, trained only in a narrow specialty and unable to change as science itself does. “This is a hazardous situation,” he warned, “for the young people and also for the future of science.” Fortunately, it is possible, even today, even at the cutting edge, even in the most hyperspecialized specialties, to cultivate land where both birds and frogs can thrive.

But upon the eighth day dark clouds overspread the heavens. There followed the muttering of thunder and the flash of lightning. Soon large drops of rain began to fall. The world had never witnessed anything like this, and the hearts of men were struck with fear. All were secretly inquiring, “Can it be that Noah was in the right, and that the world is doomed to destruction?” Darker and darker grew the heavens, and faster came the falling rain. The beasts were roaming about in the wildest terror, and their discordant cries seemed to moan out their own destiny and the fate of man. Then “the fountains of the great deep” were “broken up, and the windows of heaven were opened.” Water appeared to come from the clouds in mighty cataracts. Rivers broke away from their boundaries, and overflowed the valleys. Jets of water burst from the earth with indescribable force, throwing massive rocks hundreds of feet into the air, and these, in falling, buried themselves deep in the ground.

These Things I've Done (Part 1) I have emptied the cup that overflowes, From the garden clipped the finest rose... Interrupted the poet with my praise, Smothered butterflies - Then pinned them in collector's trays... Made the silent initiate shout in frustration, Brought a child to tears with my intonation... These Things I've Done (Part ll) I have drunk the last of the rationed water; And struck the last match to light a cigar; Thrown the baby out with the bath; And didn't bother to check my math... I didn't look - I just leapt, And just like Sagittarius - Aiming right, looking left - Gazed at stars, at the mercy of puddles: Deep in quicksand, I struggled... These Things I've Done (Part lll) I've accepted the fact that einmal ist keinmal, And disregarded the family motto: Did the things that one ought not to: Again, once more, y a infinito... "Yes, I've done these things," said I. "Well - you should be an addict - why! - "At the very least, dead! "None should bear those things you carry..." or, So the doctor said.

The real explanation of this failure of Hindu-Muslim unity lies in the failure to realize that what stands between the Hindus and Muslims is not a mere matter of difference, and that this antagonism is not to be attributed to material causes. It is formed by causes which take their origin in historical, religious, cultural and social antipathy, of which political antipathy is only a reflection. These form one deep river of discontent which, being regularly fed by these sources, keeps on mounting to a head and overflowing its ordinary channels. Any current of water flowing from another source however pure, when it joins it, instead of altering the colour or diluting its strength becomes lost in the main stream. The silt of this antagonism which this current has deposited, has become permanent and deep. So long as this silt keeps on accumulating and so long as this antagonism lasts, it is unnatural to expect this antipathy between Hindus and Muslims to give place to unity.

The undulating terrain was cloaked in lush abundance, the vineyards like garlands of deep green and yellow, orchards and farms sprouting here and there, hillocks of dry golden grass crowned by beautiful sun-gilt houses, barns and silos. And overhead was the bluest sky she'd ever seen, as bright and hard polished as marble. There was something about the landscape that caught at her emotions. It was both lush and intimidating, its beauty so abundant. Far from the bustle of the city, she was a complete stranger here, like Dorothy stepping out of her whirling house into the land of Oz. Farm stands overflowing with local produce marked the long driveways into farms with whimsical names- Almost Paradise, One Bad Apple, Toad Hollow. Boxes and bushels were displayed on long, weathered tables. Between the farms, brushy tangles of berries and towering old oak trees lined the roadway.

The characters who go to make up my stories and novels are not portraits. Characters I invent along with the story that carries them. Attached to them are what I've borrowed, perhaps unconsciously, bit by bit, of persons I have seen or noticed or remembered in the flesh - a cast of countenance here, a manner of walking there, that jumps to the visualizing mind when a story is under way. I don't write by invasion into the life of a real person: my own sense of privacy is too strong for that; and I also know instinctively that living people to whom you are close - those known to you in ways too deep, too overflowing, ever to be plumbed outside love - do not yield to, could never fit into, the demands of a story. Characters take on life sometimes by luck, but I suspect it is when you can write most entirely out of yourself, that a character becomes in its own right another human being on the page.