Your mind must be like a tipi. Leave the intrance flap open so that the fresh air can enter and clear out the smoke and confusion. Chiefeagle, Teton Sioux
You must speak straight so that your words may go as sunlight into our hearts. Cochise, Chiricahua Apache
It does not require meny words to speak the truth. - Chief Joseph, Nez Perse
A Sioux Prayer:
As quietly as little rabbit's feet, The morning glory sun arrives to greet The Red Man as he worship in his way. For this he ask the Spirit every day; Before I judge my friend, O let me wear His moccasins for two long weeks, and share The path that he would take in wearing them; Then I shall understand and not condemn.
One has to face fear or forever run from it. Hawk Crow
Do not complain under the stars in need of points of light in your life. Henrik Wergeland
I found hearts of gold here at care2, thank you friends!
I want to live, I want to give I've been a miner for a heart of gold. It's these expressions I never give That keep me searching for a heart of gold And I'm getting old. Keeps me searching for a heart of gold And I'm getting old.
I've been to Hollywood I've been to Redwood I crossed the ocean for a heart of gold I've been in my mind, it's such a fine line That keeps me searching for a heart of gold And I'm getting old. Keeps me searching for a heart of gold And I'm getting old.
Keep me searching for a heart of gold You keep me searching for a heart of gold And I'm getting old. I've been a miner for a heart of gold.
Sorry I had to steel this from one good man that sent this - its just sooooo true..
"The Second 10 Commandments"
1. Thou shall not worry, for worry is the most unproductive of all human activities.
2. Thou shall not be fearful, for most of the things we fear never come to pass.
3. Thou shall not cross bridges before you come to them, for no one yet has succeeded in accomplishing this.
4. Thou shall face each problem as it comes.You can only handle one at a time anyway.
5. Thou shall not take problems to bed with you, for they make very poor bedfellows.
6. Thou shall not borrow other people's problems. They can better care for them than you can.
7. Thou shall not try to relive yesterday for good or ill, it is forever gone. Concentrate on what is happening in your life and be happy now!
8. Thou shall be a good listener, for only when you listen do you hear ideas different from your own. It is hard to learn something new when you are talking, and some people do know more than you do.
9. Thou shall not become "bogged down" by frustration, for 90% of it is rooted in self-pity and will only interfere with positive action.
10. Thou shall count thy blessings, never overlooking the small ones, for a lot of small blessings add up to a big one
Anouk - a Dutch wonderful singer:
Did you ever wake up in the morning With a freight-train running through your head An empty whiskey bottle by your pillow And a burned out unfinished cigarette The night went up in smoke, yeah But life is but a joke man But I see nobody laughing Nobodys laughing
Did you ever live the day Like the next day would never come Blood's dripping on the floor, but who cares Who needs you anyway You're a stranger to yourself And this ain't no joke man But I can't stop laughing
[chorus] Greedy, angry people make me Run around in circles backwards Down the lonely road that keeps me Run around in circles
How I want to try again Excuse me can you lead the way I just want to try again Excuse me can you lead the way
Just take me by the - greedy angry people make me run around in circles backwards, down the only road that keeps me run around in circles - how I want to try again; excuse me can you lead the way, just take me by the - hand...
How I want to - try - how I want to Try How I want to Try How I want to Try How I want to How How
Have you ever find yourself drowning In a dark and crowded bar The barman keeps on pouring and you're kissing everyone The night will never end no 'Cause my horse is still saddled up That's why I can't stop laughing
Joy and sorrow
Your joy is your sorrow unmasked.
And the selfsame well from which your laughter rises was oftentimes filled with your tears.
And how else can it be?
The deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that hold your wine the very cup that was burned in the potter's oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirit, the very wood that was hollowed with knives?
When you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.
Some of you say, "Joy is greater than sorrow," and others say, "Nay, sorrow is the greater."
But I say unto you, they are inseparable.
Together they come, and when one sits alone with you at your board, remember that the other is asleep upon your bed.
Verily you are suspended like scales between your sorrow and your joy.
Only when you are empty are you at standstill and balanced.
When the treasure-keeper lifts you to weigh his gold and his silver, needs must your joy or your sorrow rise or fall.
Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.
You may give them your love but not your thoughts.
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that is stable.
Have I spoken this day of aught else? Is not religion all deeds and all reflection, And that which is neither deed nor reflection, but a wonder and a surprise ever springing in the soul, even while the hands hew the stone or tend the loom? Who can separate his faith from his actions, or his belief from his occupations? Who can spread his hours before him, saying, "This for God and this for myself; This for my soul, and this other for my body?" All your hours are wings that beat through space from self to self. He who wears his morality but as his best garment were better naked. The wind and the sun will tear no holes in his skin. And he who defines his conduct by ethics imprisons his song-bird in a cage. The freest song comes not through bars and wires. And he to whom worshipping is a window, to open but also to shut, has not yet visited the house of his soul whose windows are from dawn to dawn.
Your daily life is your temple and your religion. Whenever you enter into it take with you your all. Take the plough and the forge and the mallet and the lute, The things you have fashioned in necessity or for delight. For in revery you cannot rise above your achievements nor fall lower than your failures. And take with you all men: For in adoration you cannot fly higher than their hopes nor humble yourself lower than their despair.
And if you would know God be not therefore a solver of riddles. Rather look about you and you shall see Him playing with your children. And look into space; you shall see Him walking in the cloud, outstretching His arms in the lightning and descending in rain. You shall see Him smiling in flowers, then rising and waving His hands in trees.
You would know the secret of death. But how shall you find it unless you seek it in the heart of life? The owl whose night-bound eyes are blind unto the day cannot unveil the mystery of light. If you would indeed behold the spirit of death, open your heart wide unto the body of life. For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.
In the depth of your hopes and desires lies your silent knowledge of the beyond; And like seeds dreaming beneath the snow your heart dreams of spring. Trust the dreams, for in them is hidden the gate to eternity. Your fear of death is but the trembling of the shepherd when he stands before the king whose hand is to be laid upon him in honour. Is the sheered not joyful beneath his trembling, that he shall wear the mark of the king? Yet is he not more mindful of his trembling?
For what is it to die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? And what is it to cease breathing, but to free the breath from its restless tides, that it may rise and expand and seek God unencumbered?
Only when you drink from the river of silence shall you indeed sing. And when you have reached the mountain top, then you shall begin to climb. And when the earth shall claim your limbs, then shall you truly dance.
"What is the Soul?"
The creator gathered together all of creation and said," I want to hide something from the humans until they are ready for it. It is the realization that... they create their own reality. The eagle said "Give it to me I will take it to the moon" "The Creator said, "No. One day they will go there and find it". The salmon said, "I will take it to the bottom of the ocean." "No they will go there too." The buffalo said, "I will bury it on the great plains. "The Creator said, "They will cut into the skin of the earth and find it even there." Then the Grandmother mole, who lives in the breast of Mother Earth, and who has no physical eyes but sees with spiritual eyes, said: "Put it inside them." And the Creator said, "It is done."
Terje Vigen - by Henrik Ibsen - Norways most wonderful poem, by our gratest author. Of course fantastic in my own language, but the translater has done a very, very good job.
Well, this is a looooooooong story/poem. But I love it, and must just have it here on my site, just by pride ;-)
And it all happend here, one mile from where I live.
Terje Vigen, written probably during 1861, first published 1862. Terje rowed across to Denmark for his supplies. Fjære, where his grave still exists, is on the south cost of Norway, not far from Grimstad. Prisoners such as he were kept on hulks in Chatham. Lyngør is a harbour north of Grimstad where in 1812 British ships sank Norway's last frigate. Though ostensibly historically epic, the poem may well express Ibsen's own sense of having survived, with self respect, the personal difficulties which burdened his stay in Christiania.
Translation by John Northam
There lived a remarkably grizzled man on the uttermost, barren isle he never harmed, in the wide world's span, a soul by deceit or by guile; his eyes, though, sometimes would blaze and fret most when a storm was nigh,- and then people sensed he was troubled yet and then there were few that felt no threat with Terje Vigen by. Distant the day, and that only day I saw him with fish by the quay; his hair was white, but he sang as gay and blithe as a boy may be. The lasses he used as a light banter toward, he joined in the town-lads' talk, he waved his sou-wester, and leaped aboard; then homeward he sailed with the jib set broad in sunshine, the agèd hawk. And now, all I've heard about Terje I'll try to tell from the first to last, and if it should sometimes strike you as dry at least it is truly cast; it came to me not as a firsthand piece but from others, his intimates then,- from those who stood by at his last release and closed up his eyes in the sleep of peace when he died at near three-score and ten. He proved quite a scamp in his early days, his family soon outgrew, he learned about hardship's chastening ways as youngest lad in the crew. Later, jumped ship once in Amsterdam but pined, in the end, for home, and came on the 'Union', captain Pram; but home there was no-one to care a damn, he'd left it so young to roam. Now he'd filled out, and he fairly shone as a chap who would dress with pride. But father and mother both were gone and all of his kin beside. He drooped for a while, but his miseries where shed in a day or so. With land underfoot he was never at ease; no, better by far then to dwell on the seas, on the mighty ebb and the flow. The year that followed saw Terje wed,- the die seemed hastily cast. Folk thought he repented the thing he'd sped that suddenly bound him fast. So under a roof of his own he stayed one winter in wild carouse- though clear as daylight the windows displayed their little curtains and blooms arrayed in the tine red-painted house. When thaw-winds ended the ice's drouth then Terje's brig took to the main; in autumn, when wild-geese were winging south he met with their flying skein. A heaviness fell on the sailor's breast; he knew himself strong, in bloom, he came from shores that sunlight blessed, life lay astern with its fire and zest- and ahead lay a winter's gloom. They anchored, and off his crewmen went with leave for a wild carouse. He watched them with envy and discontent while he stood by his silent house. He stooped to peer through the curtain of white,- indoors there were two bestowed,- his wife sat and span in the peaceful light, but in the crib held a rosy, healthy mite, a baby girl, and it crowed. That instant, and Terje's mind, men say, turned sober upon the spot. He toiled and he slaved, but at end of day would be rocking his baby's cot. On Sunday evenings, when the dance-tunes blare wild from the nearest-by farm, he would sing his happiest ditties there where little Anna tugged his brown hair and lay in his folding arm. Life ambled along till the year of war in eighteen-hundred and nine. The tale's still told of what people bore, where want and distress combine. Cruisers from England blockaded each port, by land there was dearth far and wide, the poor people starved, and the wealthy went short, two powerful arms were no longer support with death and disease outside. Then Terje drooped for a day or two but his miseries quickly go; he thought of a comrade, ancient and true, the sea's great ebb and it's flow. Out west men are still by his deeds beguiled, his daring the legends still quote: "When winds stopped blustering quite so wild Terje Vigen roved for his wife and child, crossed the sea in an open boat!" The smallest dory there was to hand he chose for his Skagen trip. Sail and mast he left home on land,- such gear he thought best not ship. He reckoned, did Terje, the boat would steer though seas ram a bit a-beam; the Jutland reef was the devil to clear,- but worse, he'd the English blockade to fear, its look-out's eagle-eyed gleam. Then trusting to fortune's grace profound he smartly took on the oars. At Fladstrand, reaching there safe and sound, he gathered his precious stores. God knows his cargo was nothing grand: three casks of barley, that's all; but Terje came from a wretched land,- and here was the staff of life to hand; and his wife and baby call. He slaved on the thwart for three nights and days, that brave and powerful man; the fourth, at dawn, by sun's first rays, a blurred, misty line to scan. It wasn't the skeltering clouds he spied, it was mountain and summit and brae: but high above the ridges' pride, Imenes-Saddle, blue and wide. He knew then just where he lay. Near home at last; a wretched time he'd weathered with strength unflawed! In hope and in trust his spirits climb, he was ready to thank his Lord. That instant the phrases froze on his lip; he stared but his sighting was true,- he could see, as the mist had relaxed its grip, in Hesnes-sound lay an English ship with canvas a-back and hove-to.
The boat was sighted; a challenged was heard, and the handiest route was barred; the dawn-breeze flickered and barely stirred- so Terje went westwards, hard. They lowered the jolly-boat over the side he heard how the sailor men sang ,- - he pressed on the ribs with his feet braced wide, he rowed till the waters seethed to the stride, and blood from his fingernails sprang. Gjæsling's the shoal with hidden top just east of the Hombor sound. An onshore wind makes an ugly chop, and but two feet under, there's ground. Its spraying foaming white, its spray flashing gold the deadest of calms won't soothe;- but heavy swells, run they never so bold, shatter and break and lose their hold; inshore it is most times smooth. Inshore Terje Vigen's dory sped like an arrow, through surf and spray; but there on his track, by wake-waters led, the jollyboat held its way. 'Twas then that he cried through the thunderous roar to God in the depths of his dread; 'there on the most innermost beach a-shore watches my wife at our pitiful door and waits with our baby for bread!' The crew's yell, of course, drowned the prayer one voice cried; it was Lyngør, happening once more. Fortune preferred the Englishman's side who preyed upon Norway's shore. Then Terje rammed on the shelving top, the jollyboat grounded as well; the English officer shouted 'stop'! He hoisted an oarbutt and let it drop and stove in the dory's shell. Rib was parted from shattered plank, torrents of water gushed through; in two feet depth all that treasure sank, but Terje's defiance grew. He hurled him self at the armed men and cleared the far side with one bound,- he dived and he swam and he dived yet again; the jollyboat cleared; though he struggled like ten, the sabres and muskets sound. They lifted him out, and over the side, the victory salvo rolled; there on the poop-deck, stiff with pride, the captain, an eighteen-year-old. His first sea-encounter was Terje's boat, his arrogance knew no check:- but Terje knew any help was remote,- that strong man collapsed, with sobbing throat to plead on his knees on deck. He offered his sorrow, they sold him their glee, they bartered with scorn for prayer. It blew from the east, so with speed to sea stood England's conquering heir. Then Terje fell silent; all hope was past, he locked up his grief in his soul. Yet non of his captors but marked how fast, like warning of storm before the blast, the clouds on his brow would roll. He languished in prison for many a day, for all five years, say some; his shoulders rounded, his hair it turned grey from dreaming about his home. Something he brooded but hid like some hoard, his only resource, from men's view. Then eighteen-fourteen came and with it accord; a Swedish frigate brought home onboard Norways's prisoners, and Terje too. Back at the jetty he came ashore, a pilot by King's decree; but few recalled in the greybeard they saw the youngster who braved the sea. His house was a stranger's; and how they fared those two,- that was easily found: 'The husband forsook them, and nobody cared, they came to the plot that the paupers shared in the parish burial-ground.'- Years went by, and he kept to his trade as a pilot out there on the isle; and never in world's wide span he made foes by deceit or by guile. His eyes, though, sometimes would blaze and fret, when the reef to the breakers rang high,- and then people sensed he was troubled yet, and then there were few that felt no threat with Terje Vigen by. One moonlit night, with onshore wind, there was stir where the pilots sit; an English yacht being carried in with mainsail torn and jib split. The foretop dispatched with a flag of red its wordless appeal abroad. Close-reached to the weather, a cutter sped, it tacked and it tacked, but it still drew ahead till the pilot stood firm on board. He seemed so assured, the grey-beard, so grand, like a hero he seized on the wheel;- the yacht responded, stood out from the land, the pilot-boat towing at heel. The lord, with his lady and babe she bore, uncovered his head and came aft: 'Preserve us alive from the breakers' roar I'll make you as wealthy as wretched before.'- The pilot let go of the craft. His cheeks, they went white, and his mouth shaped a sound like a smile that at last can break free. They yacht was broached and ran squarely aground, his lordship's queen of the sea. 'Abandon the ship! to the boats I say! My lord and my lady, stay near! We'll shiver to pieces - it's plain as day; but there just inshore runs a sheltered way; my wakeline will show where we steer!' Phosphorus blazed as they sped along towards shore with the precious load. Aft stood the pilot, tall and strong, his eyes, they were keen, and glowed. To leeward he glanced at Gjæslingen's top, and to windward at Hesnes' swell; he let go helm and the foresail strop, he hoisted an oarbutt and let it drop and stove in the cutter's shell. Sea rushed in and a foam-white spray - - confusion swept over the wreck-; but pale, the mother in stark dismay had snatched up her child from deck. 'Anna, my child!' She cried out in dread; the greyhaired man started and stared; he caught up the mainsheet, he turned the boat's head, it steadied, and trim as a bird it sped, through surf and through spray it fared. They grounded and sank; but calmness itself inshore of the arc of rough seas; under the surface a shoal of shelf, the water but reached their knees. The lord cried out: 'But look! look! - this reef - it's shifting - it cannot be rock!' The pilot smiled: 'here is no cause for grief; a sunken dory supplies our relief, three barleygrain casks our dock!' A deed half-lost in the memory like a lightning the lord's face swept- he knew, now, the sailor that on his knees had crouched on his deck and wept. Then cried Terje Vigen 'You held my all in your hand, it was spent on renown. One moment longer and vengeance will fall - -' 'Twas then that the pilot, the Norseman, stood tall while the proud English lord knelt down. But Terje stayed poised with the oarshaft's length, as straight as he'd stood years before; his eyes, they blazed with a frenzy's strength, the wind at his grey hair tore. 'You sailed at your ease in your mighty corvette, I rowed in my humble boat; I toiled for my own in my forehead's sweat, you robbed them of bread, and could mock me yet and over my salt griefs gloat. Your wealthy lady is bright as a Spring and her hand is as soft as silk fine; but my wife's hand was a calloused thing, yet for all that she counted as mine. Your child is golden, her eyes as blue as a little guest of our Lord; my daughter was nothing worth pointing to, was thin, God help us, and sallow of hue- what else can the poor afford? See, those where my riches upon this earth, it was all that I could reckon my own. To you it appeared a trifle's worth but it counted to me a throne.- It's time for my vengeance to strike, beware,- for your turn to suffer comes round to match all the pain of long years' despair that bowed down my shoulders and whitened my hair and buried my joy in the ground!' Seizing the child from it's mother's care while his left grasped her waist in a vice- 'Stand back there, my lord! On step if you dare,- and your wife and child is the price!' It seemed that the Englishman meant to raise new war, but his arm lacked might;- his breath was burning, unsure was his gaze, and his hair,-it showed in the dawn's first rays- turned grey in that one single night. But Terje's forehead showed peaceful and fair, his breast moved relaxed and free. He set the child on its feet with care and kissed its hands solemnly. he breathed as though freed from a prison den, his voice calm and level to say: 'And now Terje Vigen's himself again. Like a rocky stream flowed my blood till then; for I had to-I had to repay! The years I spent in the prison's roar, they bred my hert's sickliness. And after, I lay like a heathland straw, I peered in a foul abyss. But now it is over; we two are quit; your debtor's not sly or low. I gave all I had-and you squandered it, and ask, if you think you've been dealt unfit, ask God, who fashioned me so.'- - When daylight had broken, then all was well; long lay the yacht in the port. The night's events they chose not to tell, But Terje's great fame still caught. Vanished the dreamer's clouded grey, clear by one storm-night swept; and Terje held straighter than most that day the shoulders that bowed when, in deep dismay he knelt on that deck and wept. One day milord and lady came by and many, many folk more; they shook him by hand, bad 'farewell' and 'goodbye' as they stood by his humble door. They thanked him for rescue from storm's shrill blare, for rescue from reef and from sea; but Terje patted the child's long hair: 'No, rescue came in the nick out there from this little mite by me!' The yacht the headed for Hesnes-sound, with Norway's own flag for wear. And further west, near a foam-washed ground, it fired a broadside there. Then teardrops glistened in Terje's eyes; he watched from the rising shores; 'Great are my losses, but great my prize. Perhaps it was all for the best, in some wise,- so thanks, God, are rightly yours!' And such was the man on that only day I saw him with fish by the quay. His hair was white, but he sang as gay and blithe as a boy might be. The lasses he used a light banter towards, he joined in the town-lads' talk: he waived his sou-wester and leaped aboard, the homeward he sailed with the jib broad in sunshine, the agèd hawk. In Fjære churchyard I saw a plot, that lay in a weathered sward; it looked all neglected, a mean sunken spot, but kept still its blackened board. It read 'Thærie Wiighen' in white, the date his final repose had been. He lay to the sun and the winds' keen weight, and that's why the grass was so stubborn-straight, but with wild field-flowers between.
I am a sensitive, openhearted, spiritual, humouristic, deepthinking, easally glad - easally sad, artistical, liberate and non-judging woman from Norway.
I am creative and writes short stories, poems, songs, and writes on a "novel" - that I never going to finish... Good to have something to brag about, though ;-).
I love to write anyway, wish I could shown my Norwegian "writings" here at Care2.
- I really love music, it can really get me high. And another great hobbie is to shoot photo's and edit them.
And I must not forget my love for grandmother Earth, which also get's me full of serenity and peace, and happy.
To grow by failing, experions..... failing and learning. Try to live after one of Jesus wonderful word.. though it's not easy: Do to others as you expect others will do to you.. And never be the one to through the first stone..
What Gives Me Hope
The kind, wise and whitedressed Jesus from my childhood.
If I were Mayor, I'd make the world a better place by
Sharing, it's enough for all of us.
What/who changed my life and why
It didn't really change my life, but I finally saw it written: What's life is all about! In: The Prophet by Kahlid Gibran - what they call: The world's most beautiful book.
I can tell you that it has been written by God himself!
Let's push Conyers over the edge by flooding his office with phone calls, faxes, and Emails on Monday and Tuesday. Let him know that only impeachment hearings
1-will make it on TV, 2-will force compliance with subpoenas by eliminating "executive privilege", 3-will hold brazen criminals accountable, and 4-will convince voters that Democrats care about the Constitution.
Plus just search on here or wherever for more thing to do, but just DO SOMETHING !
Impeach Bush AND Cheney!
If you are from another country than the US, we still need you to speak up and help us, this affects the whole world!