I don't love you as if you were the salt-rose, topaz
or arrow of carnations that propagate fire:
I love you as certain dark things are loved,
secretly, between the shadow and the soul.
I love you as the plant that doesn't bloom and carries
hidden within itself the light of those flowers,
and thanks to your love, darkly in my body
lives the dense fragrance that rises from the earth.
I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where,
I love you simply, without problems or pride:
I love you in this way because I don't know any other way of loving
but this, in which there is no I or you,
so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand,
so intimate that when I fall asleep it is your eyes that close.
C. G. Jung
The dread and resistance which every natural human being experiences when it comes to delving into themselves is, at bottom, the fear of the journey to Hades.
From the Elders of the Hopi Nation
Here is a river flowing now very fast.
It is so great and swift that there are those
who will be afraid, who will try to hold on to the shore.
They are being torn apart and will suffer greatly.
Know that the river has its destination.
The elders say we must let go of the shore.
Push off into the middle of the river,
and keep our heads above water.
And I say see who is there with you and celebrate.
At this time in history,
we are to take nothing personally,
least of all ourselves,
for the moment we do,
our spiritual growth and journey come to a halt.
The time of the lone wolf is over.
Banish the word struggle from you attitude
in a sacred manner and in celebration.
For we are the ones we have been waiting for.
A Table in the Wilderness
I draw a window
and a man sitting inside it.
I draw a bird in flight above the lintel.
That's my picture of thinking.
If I put a woman there instead
of the man, it's a picture of speaking.
in the woman's lap, it's ministering.
A third flying below her feet.
Now it's singing.
Or erase the birds,
make ivy branching
around the woman's ankles, clinging
to her knees, and it becomes remembering.
You'll have to find your own
pictures, whoever you are,
whatever your need.
As for me, many small hands
issuing from a waterfall
The hours hung like fruit in night's tree
means when I close my eyes
and look inside me,
a thousand open eyes
span the moment of my waking.
Meanwhile, the clock
adding a grain to a grain
and not getting bigger,
subtracting a day from a day
and never having less, means the honey
lies awake all night
inside the honeycomb
wondering who its parents are.
And even my death isn't my death
unless it's the unfathomed brow
of a nameless face.
Even my name isn't my name
except the bees assemble
a table to grant a stranger
light and moment in a wilderness
of Who? Where?
if there are any heavens my mother will(all by herself)
It will not be a pansy heaven nor
a fragile heaven of lilies-of-the-valley but
it will be a heaven of blackred roses
my father will be(deep like a rose
tall like a rose)
standing near my
(swaying over her
with eyes which are really petals and see
nothing with the face of a poet really which
is a flower and not a face with
This is my beloved my
..........................................(suddenly in sunlight
he will bow,
& the whole garden will bow)
Commentary on Plato’s Phaedrus
Let me explain this a little more. Just as there are three main powers in fire-heat, light, and fleeting subtlety-so there are three similar powers in the soul's essence: the power of life, of understanding, and of desiring .... At different times the soul brings forth its variety of seeds more or less in profusion.
The Thought of the Heart
Speech is not of the tougue, but of the heart. The tongue is merely the instrument with which one speaks. He who is dumb is dumb in the heart, not in his tounge..... As you speak, so is your heart.
Woman and Nature, by
The Force Of Character, by
The Soul's Code, by
Kinds of Power, by
A Blue Fire, by
Healing Fictions, by
The Dream and the UNDERWORLD, by
Book of My Nights, by
The way of the Superior Man, by
The Theogony, by
Aeschylus (524 BC)
1st Translatation by: Edith Hamilton
God, whose law it is that he who learns must suffer.
And even in our sleep pain that cannot forget,
falls drop by drop upon the heart, and in our own despite, against our will,
comes wisdom to us by the awful grace of God.
2nd Translatation by: Edith Hamilton
Knowledge won through suffering.
Drop, drop, in our sleep, upon our hearts,
sorrow falls, memory's pain,
and to us, though against our very wills,
even in our own despite,
by the awful grace of God.
3rd Translatation by: Ann Carlson
Yet there drips in sleep before my heart
a grief remembering pain.
Good sense comes the hard way.
And the grace of the gods
(I'm pretty sure)
is a grace that comes by violence.