“Do not follow rules and principles, but paint what you see and feel. Paint boldly and without hesitation, because it is important to get your first impressions down. And do not be shy of nature! You must be bold , even at the risk of going wrong and making mistakes. There is only one teacher: nature ….”
-Camille Piasarro
“I have been bent and broken, but, I hope into a better shape.”
From Charles Dickens, Great Expectations
If we never meet again
I’ll have a rose to remember
The snows of December
Will bring you back to me
If we never meet again
I’ll fall asleep in the flowers
Dream of the hours
We spent in ecstasy
The leaves in the fall
Will wreak of the beauty
I found in your eyes
The birds in the spring
When they sing
Will tell me that love never dies
If we never meet again
As sure as heaven above you
Forever I’ll love you
If we never meet again
The leaves in the fall
Will wreak of the beauty
I found in your eyes
The birds in the spring
When they sing
Will tell me that love never dies
If we never meet again
As sure as heaven above you
Forever I’ll love you
If we never meet again
If we never meet again by Tony Bennett and k.d. lang
Staring at the sun
I just knew:
The sound of soul breathes with you.
Not all who wander are lost.
The lines have fallen to me
In pleasant places.
From Psalm 16: 6-8 (NKJV)
Il dono più grande del maestro non è il dono del sapere ma quello di saper “tacere l’amore.” Questo dono è il più prezioso perché non vincola l’allievo ad alcuna obbedienza, ma lo lascia sempre libero di andarsene, di separarsi dal maestro.
Da L’ora di Lezione di Massimo Recalcati
Translation:
The greatest gift of the teacher is not the gift of knowledge but rather that of knowing how to keep their love quiet. This is the most precious gift because it doesn’t not bind the student to any form of obedience but rather it lets them free to leave, to separate themselves from the teacher.”
Healing, he told us, depends on experiential knowledge: you can be fully in charge of your life only if you can acknowledge the reality of your body, in all its visceral dimensions.
– From The Body Keeps the Score by Bessel Van Der Kolk, M.D.
“The lack of anonymity had been claustrophobic when she was younger. Now it felt soothing, reassuring. Now she needed it. Wondrous, how so small a thing as a neighbor at the post office could set things right again when they felt off.”
By N.D. Galland, On the same page
“Engage with things that someone put a lot of work into.”
by Melissa Kirsch, New York Times
“Observance of the soul can be deceptively simple. You take back what has been disowned. You work with what is, rather than with what you wish were there.”
Thomas Moore, Care of the Soul
“A house may have a palpable soul if it is beautiful in some ways, has a personality and presence, has a visible history, shows interest beyond functionality, and has a degree of complexity. You can love such a house and miss it when you’re away or if it’s torn. This kind of love is a sign that soul is present.”
By Thomas Moore Care of the Soul
“Ce n’est donc plus aux hommes que je m’adresse ; c’est à toi, Dieu de tous les êtres, de tous les mondes et de tous les temps : s’il est permis à de faibles créatures perdues dans l’immensité, et imperceptibles au reste de l’univers, d’oser te demander quelque chose, à toi qui a tout donné, à toi dont les décrets sont immuables comme éternels, daigne regarder en pitié les erreurs attachées à notre nature ; que ces erreurs ne fassent point nos calamités.
Tu ne nous as point donné un cœur pour nous haïr, et des mains pour nous égorger ; fais que nous nous aidions mutuellement à supporter le fardeau d’une vie pénible et passagère ; que les petites différences entre les vêtements qui couvrent nos débiles corps, entre tous nos langages insuffisants, entre tous nos usages ridicules, entre toutes nos lois imparfaites, entre toutes nos opinions insensées, entre toutes nos conditions si disproportionnées à nos yeux, et si égales devant toi ; que toutes ces petites nuances qui distinguent les atomes appelés hommes ne soient pas des signaux de haine et de persécution ; que ceux qui allument des cierges en plein midi pour te célébrer supporte ceux qui se contentent de la lumière de ton soleil ; que ceux qui couvrent leur robe d’une toile blanche pour dire qu’il faut t’aimer ne détestent pas ceux qui disent la même chose sous un manteau de laine noire ; qu’il soit égal de t’adorer dans un jargon formé d’une ancienne langue, ou dans un jargon plus nouveau ; que ceux dont l’habit est teint en rouge ou en violet, qui dominent sur une petite parcelle d’un petit tas de boue de ce monde, et qui possèdent quelques fragments arrondis d’un certain métal, jouissent sans orgueil de ce qu’ils appellent grandeur et richesse, et que les autres les voient sans envie : car tu sais qu’il n’y a dans ces vanités ni envier, ni de quoi s’enorgueillir.
Puissent tous les hommes se souvenir qu’ils sont frères ! Qu’ils aient en horreur la tyrannie exercée sur les âmes, comme ils ont en exécration le brigandage qui ravit par la force le fruit du travail et de l’industrie paisible ! Si les fléaux de la guerre sont inévitables, ne nous haïssons pas, ne nous déchirons pas les uns les autres dans le sein de la paix, et employons l’instant de notre existence à bénir également en mille langages divers, depuis Siam jusqu’à la Californie, ta bonté qui nous a donné cet instant.
Prayer to God by Voltaire
“It is no longer to people that I speak; it is to you, God of all beings, of all worlds, and of all times: if we feeble creatures, lost in the immensity of the universe, and invisible to the rest of it, are allowed to ask anything of you, you who have given everything and whose decrees are as unchanging as they are eternal, then may you deign to have pity on the errors inherent in our nature; may these errors not be our undoing.
You did not give us a heart so that we could hate each other, nor hands so we could slit each other’s throats; help us to help each other endure the burden of this painful and brief life; may the tiny differences between the clothes which cover our feeble bodies, between our inadequate languages, between our ridiculous customs, between all our imperfect laws, our absurd opinions, between all our circumstances, so disproportionate in our eyes and yet so equal before yours; may all these tiny variations which differentiate the atoms called humans not be the triggers of hatred and persecution; may those who light candles at midday in adoration of you learn to tolerate those who simply bask in the light of your sun; may those who wrap a white cloth round their robes to express the command to love you not hate those who say the same thing under a coat of black wool; may it be equally acceptable to adore you in the jargon of an ancient language or of a more recent one; may those whose clothes are dyed red or violet and who rule over a small plot on a little heap of the mud of this world, and who happen to possess some rounded pieces of a certain metal, enjoy what they call greatness and riches without pride, and may others view them without envy: for you know that there is nothing to envy or boast about in these vanities.
May all men remember that they are brothers! May they abhor the tyranny wielded over souls, as they ever execrate the violent theft of the fruits of hard work and peaceful industry! If the scourge of war is inevitable, let us not hate each other, let us not tear each other apart when we are at peace. Let us spend the brief moment of our existence blessing, together and in a thousand different languages, from Siam to California, your goodness in bestowing on us this moment.
Preghiera a Dio di Voltaire
Non è più dunque agli uomini che mi rivolgo; ma a te, Dio di tutti gli esseri, di tutti i mondi, di tutti i tempi:
se è lecito che delle deboli creature, perse nell’immensità e impercettibili al resto dell’universo, osino domandare qualche cosa a te, che tutto hai donato,
a te, i cui decreti sono e immutabili e eterni, degnati di guardare con misericordia gli errori che derivano dalla nostra natura.
Fa’ sì che questi errori non generino la nostra sventura.
Tu non ci hai donato un cuore per odiarci l’un l’altro, né delle mani per sgozzarci a vicenda;
fa’ che noi ci aiutiamo vicendevolmente a sopportare il fardello di una vita penosa e passeggera.
Fa’ sì che le piccole differenze tra i vestiti che coprono i nostri deboli corpi,
tra tutte le nostre lingue inadeguate, tra tutte le nostre usanze ridicole,
tra tutte le nostre leggi imperfette, tra tutte le nostre opinioni insensate,
tra tutte le nostre convinzioni così diseguali ai nostri occhi e così uguali davanti a te,
insomma che tutte queste piccole sfumature che distinguono gli atomi chiamati “uomini” non siano altrettanti segnali di odio e di persecuzione.
Fa’ in modo che coloro che accendono ceri in pieno giorno per celebrarti sopportino coloro che si accontentano della luce del tuo sole;
che coloro che coprono i loro abiti di una tela bianca per dire che bisogna amarti, non detestino coloro che dicono la stessa cosa sotto un mantello di lana nera;
che sia uguale adorarti in un gergo nato da una lingua morta o in uno più nuovo.
Fa’ che coloro il cui abito è tinto in rosso o in violetto, che dominano su una piccola parte di un piccolo mucchio di fango di questo mondo,
e che posseggono qualche frammento arrotondato di un certo metallo, gioiscano senza inorgoglirsi di ciò che essi chiamano “grandezza” e “ricchezza”,
e che gli altri li guardino senza invidia: perché tu sai che in queste cose vane non c’è nulla da invidiare, niente di cui inorgoglirsi.
Possano tutti gli uomini ricordarsi che sono fratelli!
Abbiano in orrore la tirannia esercitata sulle anime,
come odiano il brigantaggio che strappa con la forza il frutto del lavoro e dell’attività pacifica!
Se sono inevitabili i flagelli della guerra, non odiamoci, non laceriamoci gli uni con gli altri nei periodi di pace,
ed impieghiamo il breve istante della nostra esistenza per benedire insieme in mille lingue diverse,
dal Siam alla California, la tua bontà che ci ha donato questo istante.
by Small Circle Big Circle
Should I be gone forever,
yes, do weep for me.
But also,
look in the mud
your little feet
will want to step in.
Look in the grass,
in the trunks of the trees;
look in the raindrops,
in the drops of dew on the leaves.
Look in the snowflakes
that caress gently your face;
look in the sand at the beach,
in the stars up in space.
I know I’ll be there,
Please come and look for me.
Hear me in the song of the crows,
in the call of the owl;
Hear me in the sound of the waves,
in the wind, in the brook,
in the rain, in the fire.
I know I’ll be there;
Please come and look for me.
Feel me in your heart
laughing hard, singing loud;
holding your hand,
brushing your hair,
hugging you tight;
can you see
I am really there?
I’ll tuck you in at night.
I’ll whisper a prayer;
I’ll bake you a cake in the morning,
I will be there.
I will always be there.
My heart in your heart
Will forever be.
For ever and ever
You three and me.
Parole scoperte,
perse,
poi ritrovate
qui
sulla carta
bianca e deserta.
Parole cadute
come gocce di sudore,
o saliva filante,
o lacrime involontarie.
Parole scritte
per capire,
per pensare,
per scoprire
la realtà delle cose,
nelle cose stesse.
Parole lette
per poter vivere,
per poter essere,
per poter rispondere
a quella mano che bussa
insistente e violenta.
E per poi poter dire
un giorno:
“Arrivo, arrivo!
Adesso apro.”
Di Small Circle Big Circle
Nelle strade di Roma,
nelle vie, nei vicoli e nei vicoletti,
nelle piazze e nelle piazzette,
sulle fontane,
fra le statue e fra i ruderi,
nelle chiese,
sui muri rosa, gialli,
e su quelli arancioni,
ai mercati e sui palazzi antichi,
sui monumenti e
sulle scalinate di marmo
sporco o restaurato,
sempre
mi ritrovo
alla ricerca
di qualche avanzo di storia.
Della mia storia.
Di qualche traccia del
mio
passato.
O di impronte
da me
lasciate.
o di qualche
mia
forma
fossilizzata
dal tempo.
Ma
in mezzo a così tanta
storia non mia
mi sembra di trovare
solo qualche ricordo
futile
e
occasionale
che
come il rumore di un motorino
appena lo si avverte
scompare
subito
nel nulla.
To Emily Dickinson
by Small Circle Big Circle
Sister,
you are to me.
Though I have never met you.
Nor have I ever heard
the sound of your voice;
nor held your hand into mine,
nor tasted the flavor
of your bread.
Sister,
you are to me.
The words you left behind,
hoping
they would be destroyed
one day,
feed me
day and night.
“It is not the words,” someone said
“but the power within them,
the light, the truth in them
is what gives them life.”
Your verse,
my sister,
is
Alive.
O
so Alive!
It breathes the known and the unknown
of the universe.
It is a constant
reflection
of Being;
in your eyes,
always so perfectly clear and distinct.
You are a sister to me.
And though I have never met you
Nor heard the sound of your voice
Nor held your hand into mine,
You walk with me,
Side by side.
And your words,
yes,
feed me
day and night.
The bread
of my every day.
“How do I put together into a coherent image the pieces of my life? How do I find the basic plot of my story?”
James Hillman, The Soul’s Code
“Is that what they call vocation, what you do with joy as if you had fire in your heart, the devil in your body?
Josephine Baker
Living here
You are probably wondering
What makes habits of the mind
Last a lifetime:
LOVE,
Support all creatures great and small,
collaboration and community,
history,
culture,
local music.
You get one mind.
Feed it well.
Use it for good.
Spring comes.
Explore living.
Find your stories.
“In a time when we have more access than ever before to the traumas of this world, how will you resist the tide of despair? Let beauty be your anchor. If you find the lake view too bright, bring your gaze closer, perhaps all the way to your own flesh and blood. Life is monstrous on the threshold of apocalypse. The practice of beholding, this fidelity to beauty in all things, I’ve come to believe, is no small form of salvation.”
From Black Liturgies by Cole Arthur Riley
This being human is a guest house.
Every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
As an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all!
Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
– Rumi
Seeing is believing.
Drawn this way, head over heels,
What makes a woman in the city the gift,
Is the staying power of perpetual beat and
Planting for the future with love.
“Making art is dangerous and revealing. Making art precipitates self-doubt, stirring deep waters that lay between what you know you should be, and what you fear you might be.”
From Art & fear by D. Bayles and T. Orland
Art is all about starting again.
From Art and Fear by David Bayles & Ted Orland
“L’uomo non è libero nella misura in cui non dipende da nulla o da nessuno: è libero nell’esatta misura in cui dipende da ciò che ama, ed è prigioniero nell’esatta misura in cui dipende da ciò che non può amare.
Così il problema della libertà non si pone in termini di indipendenza, ma in termini di amore. La potenza del nostro attaccamento determina la nostra capacità di libertà. Per terribile che sia il suo destino, colui che può amare tutto è sempre perfettamente libero, ed è in questo senso che si è parlato della libertà dei santi. All’estremo opposto, coloro che non amano nulla, hanno un bello spezzare catene e fare rivoluzioni: rimangono sempre prigionieri. Tutt’al più arrivano a cambiare schiavitù, come un malato incurabile che si rigira nel suo letto.”
“Human beings are not free in the measure in which they depend on nothing or no one: they are free in the exact measure in which they depend on what they love, and they are captive in the exact measure in which they depend on what they cannot love.
Therefore, the problem of freedom cannot be tackled in terms of independence but in terms of love. The power of our attachment determines our ability to be free. As terrible as their destiny might be, those who can love everything are perfectly free and that’s how we can talk of the freedom of the saints. On the other hand, those who love nothing, have a good amount of chains to break free from and revolutions to make: they will always remain captive. All they can do is perhaps change their bondage, like a sick person, who can turn over again and again in their bed.”
(translated from the Italian by Small Circle Big Circle)
(to remind myself)
i
Make a place to sit down.
Sit down. Be quiet.
You must depend upon
affection, reading, knowledge,
skill—more of each
than you have—inspiration,
work, growing older, patience,
for patience joins time
to eternity. Any readers
who like your poems,
doubt their judgment.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath
the unconditioned air.
Shun electric wire.
Communicate slowly. Live
a three-dimensioned life;
stay away from screens.
Stay away from anything
that obscures the place it is in.
There are no unsacred places;
there are only sacred places
and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence.
Make the best you can of it.
Of the little words that come
out of the silence, like prayers
prayed back to the one who prays,
make a poem that does not disturb
the silence from which it came.
AS it fell upon a Day,
In the merry Month of May,
Sitting in a pleasant shade,
Which a grove of Myrtles made,
Beastes did leap, and Birds did sing,
Trees did grow, and Plants did spring:
Every thing did banish mone,
Save the Nightingale alone.
Shee (poor Bird) as all forlorne,
Leand her breast up-till a thorne,
And there sung the dolefulst Ditty,
That to heare it was great Pitty,
Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry
Teru, teru, by and by:
That to hear her so complaine,
Scarce I could from teares refraine,
For her griefes so lively showne,
Made me thinke upon mine owne.
Ah (thought I) thou mournst in vaine,
None takes pitty on thy paine:
Senselesse Trees, they cannot heare thee,
Ruthlesse Bears, they will not cheer thee.
King Pandion, he is dead.
All thy friends are lapt in Lead.
All thy fellow Birds doe sing,
Carelesse of thy sorrowing.
Whilst as fickle fortune smild,
Thou and I, were both beguild.
Every one that flatters thee,
Is no friend in misery.
Words are easie, like the wind,
Faithful friends are hard to find;
Every Man will be thy friend,
Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend:
But if store of Crowns be scant,
No man will supply thy want.
If that one be prodigal,
Bountiful they will him call:
And with such-like flattering,
Pity but he were a King.
If he be addict to vice,
Quickly him they will intice.
If to women he be bent,
They have at Commaundement.
But if Fortune once do frown,
Then farewel his great renowne.
They that fawn’d on him before,
Use his company no more.
He that is thy friend indeed,
He will helpe thee in thy need.
If thou sorrow, he will weep;
If thou wake, he cannot sleep.
Thus of every grief in heart,
He with thee doeth beare a part.
These are certain signs to know
Faithful friend from flatt’ring foe.
(attr. W. Shakespeare; probably by R. Barnfield)
How surely gravity’s law
strong as an ocean current,
takes hold of even the strongest thing
and pulls it toward the heart of the world.
Each thing
– each stone, blossom, child –
is held in place.
Only we, in our arrogance,
push out beyond what we belong to
for some empty freedom.
If we surrendered
to Earth’s intelligence
we could rise up, rooted, like trees.
Instead we entangle ourselves
in knots of our own making
and struggle, lonely and confused.
So, like children, we begin again
to learn from the things,
because they are in God’s heart;
they have never left him.
This is what the things can teach us:
to fall,
patiently to trust our heaviness.
even a bird has to do that
before he can fly.
Rainer Maria Rilke Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God New York: Riverhead, 1996 (Translated by Anita Barrows and Joanna Macy)
“My deepest belief is that to live as if we’re dying can set us free. Dying people teach you to pay attention and to forgive and not to sweat the small things.”
from Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott
Listen friends, yes you have to listen:
Dance, the best way you can,
It’s thanks to the sounds of the drum.
Dance, the best way you know how,
You can dance as much as you can…
It’s thanks to the sounds of the drum,
Oh, how beautiful
Without which, there would not be any dancing.
Dance, the best way you know how,
It’s thanks to the sounds of the drum.
Oh how beautiful it would be,
If everyone could find a drum.
Ayibobo! (Victory cry)
The apple does not fall far from the tree;
All good things derive from good things
Thank you, drumbeats.
It is thanks to the sounds of the drum.
Ayibobo! (Victory cry)
– Original text in Creole by Gabriel Guillaume and translated into English by: Lodz Deetjen
Mezanmi tande, wi se poun tande: Kalinda, jan ou ka kalinda,
Se gran mesi kout tanbou.
Kalinda, jan ou ka kalinda, Ou te mèt byen banda…
Se gran mesi kout tanbou, San li pata gin Kalinda.
Oh, Ala bèl, wi sa ta bèl,
Oh bèl, oh bèl,
Si tout moun teka jwen tanbou.
Ayibobo!
Kalinda, jan ou ka kalinda, Se gran mesi kout tanbou,
Joumou pa donnin kalbas,
Zannanna pa donnin pengwen;
Tout bon bagay, se prodwi bon bagay. Tout sa ki byen, soti nan sa ki byen. Mèsi kout tanbou, gran mèsi kout tanbou.
Ayibobo!
-Gabriel Toussaint Guillaume
Que signifie la chanson Kalinda?
L’Homme peut accomplire des choses merveilleuses et se vanter meme de reussites spectaculaires. Mais en realite, tout vient du createur.
Tous dons et toutes richesses sont des faveurs divines qui doivent servir du bien-etre de tous. Rendons grace a Dieu et partageons genereusement.
– Gabriel Toussaint Guillaume
What does the song Kalinda mean?
Humans can make wonders and can even be proud of spectacular accomplishments; but in reality, everything comes from The Creator.
All talents and all treasures are divine blessings that must be used to the benefit of all. Let’s praise God and let’s share generously.
small circle big circle 