You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care, nor your nights without a want and a grief, but rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound.
You shall be free indeed when your days are not without a care, nor your nights without a want and a grief, but rather when these things girdle your life and yet you rise above them naked and unbound.
Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty may touch me, or a flute that his breath may pass through me?
Even as the strings of a lute are alone though they quiver with the same music.
Is not dread of thirst when your well is full, the thirst that is unquenchable?
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
You who travel with the wind, what weather vane shall direct your course?
And as a single leaf turns not yellow but with the silent knowledge of the whole tree.
For even as love crowns you so shall he crucify you. Even as he is for your growth so is he for your pruning. Even as he ascends to your height and caresses your tenderest branches that quiver in the sun, so shall he descend to your roots and shake them in their clinging to the earth.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
They see only their shadows, and their shadows are their laws.
Your children are not your children.
And in much of your talking, thinking is half murdered. For thought is a bird of space, that in a cage of words may indeed unfold its wings but cannot fly.
For his hand, though heavy and hard, is guided by the tender hand of the Unseen,
It is not a garment I cast off this day, but a skin that I tear with my own hands.
Too many fragments of the spirit have I scattered in these streets, and too many are the children of my longing that walk naked among these hills, and I cannot withdraw from them without a burden and an ache.
Your house shall be not an anchor but a mast.
And in the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures.
For in truth it is life that gives unto life-while you, who deem yourself a giver, are but a witness.
Joy and sorrow are inseparable, together they came and where one sits alone with you at the board remember that the other is asleep upon your bed
Verily the lust for comfort murders the passion of the soul, and then walks grinning in the funeral.
Your soul is oftentimes a battlefield, upon your reason and your judgment wage war against your passion and your appetite.
© 2020 Inspirational Stories
© 2020 Inspirational Stories