I do not stand alone...

“Even if our efforts of attention seem for years to be producing no result, one day a light that is in exact proportion to them will flood the soul.” - Simone Weil

 “The beauty of the world is the mouth of a labyrinth. The unwary individual who on entering takes a few steps is soon unable to find the opening. Worn out, with nothing to eat or drink, in the dark, separated from his dear ones, and from everything he loves and is accustomed to, he walks on without knowing anything or hoping anything, incapable even of discovering whether he is really going forward or merely turning round on the same spot. But this affliction is as nothing compared with the danger threatening him. For if he does not lose courage, if he goes on walking, it is absolutely certain that he will finally arrive at the center of the labyrinth. And there God is waiting to eat him. Later he will go out again, but he will be changed, he will have become different, after being eaten and digested by God. Afterward he will stay near the entrance so that he can gently push all those who come near into the opening.” Simone Weil, Waiting for God

“The beauty of the world is the mouth of a labyrinth. The unwary individual who on entering takes a few steps is soon unable to find the opening. Worn out, with nothing to eat or drink, in the dark, separated from his dear ones, and from everything he loves and is accustomed to, he walks on without knowing anything or hoping anything, incapable even of discovering whether he is really going forward or merely turning round on the same spot. But this affliction is as nothing compared with the danger threatening him. For if he does not lose courage, if he goes on walking, it is absolutely certain that he will finally arrive at the center of the labyrinth. And there God is waiting to eat him. Later he will go out again, but he will be changed, he will have become different, after being eaten and digested by God. Afterward he will stay near the entrance so that he can gently push all those who come near into the opening.” Simone Weil, Waiting for God

This LIFE with all its many moving parts torn and tattered hearts playing out our countless fruitless parts… frayed and forlorn we carry on.

I do not walk ALONE.

Through tall grass and cobblestone learning from the past on the path of light a beacon set for our true home.

I do not stand alone.

Among the many splendored things all shines amidst the lands that sing of a country claimed and yet unknown

to people walled in glass and concrete, metallic skies forsaking past for a future that moves too fast into a vast perpetual storm.

Islands filled with cash high tech bunkers built to last while our lands and oceans filled with trash

Frayed and forlorn we carry on.

The false gods we treasure so, who rant, prance, and boast, and do not speak of what matters most.

Countries collective minds filled with hate while earths shores and oceans filled with toxic waste

Learning from the past you can no longer take it back

frayed and forlorn we carry on…

On the path of light a beacon set for our true home.

I do not walk ALONE.

-H.C.Love

Lost yesterday somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours...

Lost yesterday somewhere between sunrise and sunset, two golden hours, each set with sixty diamond minutes. No reward is offered for they are gone forever. - Horace Mann

Beside a massive gateway built up in years gone by. Upon whose top the clouds in eternal shadow lie, while streams the evening sunshine on quiet wood and lea. I stand and calmly wait till the hinges turn for me.

- William Cullen Bryant

 

Gateway H.C.Love 2017
 gift of presence golden gateway

gift of presence golden gateway

Sweet, silent, crescent moon child dreams...

Whatever causes night in our souls may leave stars
— Victor Hugo
We are sun and moon dear friend; we are sea and land. It is not our purpose to become each other; it is to recognize each other, to learn to see the other and honor him for what he is; each the other’s opposite and complement
— Herman Hesse
 moon shine H.C.Love

moon shine H.C.Love

Sweet, silent, crescent moon child dreams... 

Lit from within.

Shining through the long, slow, dark fade into night.

A strange, mad, raw desire haunts this humble heart...

Mother moon, momentary marvel... Full self melting into the endless void.

Singing the stars to sleep as you disappear and dissolve into the dawns early light.

H.C.Love

 

...light rekindles and waxes, fleeing through the parted branches...

The whole garden will dissolve, with its stones, its metals its pulps its seeds, its powders its branches, its waters... and as a torrent foams and glides, and leaps from green crest

light rekindles and waxes, fleeing through the parted branches... and we watch it shrink and perish, exhausting itself in force and color... fiber after fiber it will fray leaving nothing behind but blue, blue air, blue water, azure vibrant hue, of this gardens fabulous array.

Comptess de Noailles

  Blown Away, H.C.Love

 Blown Away, H.C.Love

Making many promises to the sun to make it halt...

IF thou came by water Now, virgin, thou go by land. That despite my sin God for thee wipes away and dries. Conversations, dances, song. All, virgin celebrate thee that though they feel thy ire, with thy visit they rejoice. Everyone joyfully crying They follow thee, sacred Queen, Making many promises to the sun to make it halt... Good journey my lady.

Our lady Guadalupe known as The liberator of waters, they began to call her having a special relationship with that special creature, water... No one better than her to calm the fury of this element... excerpt from Guadalupe by Carla Zarebska

 

 Pilgrimages, Villa of Guadalupe 1960 Hermanos Mayo Collection Archivo General de la Nacion

Pilgrimages, Villa of Guadalupe 1960 Hermanos Mayo Collection Archivo General de la Nacion

THE THATCHED HOUSE UNROOFED BY AN AUTUMN GALE

BY TU FU

IT is the Eighth Month, the very height of Autumn.
The wind rages and roars.
It tears off three layers of my grass-roof.
The thatch flies – it crosses the river – it is scattered about in the open spaces by the river.
High-flying, it hangs, tangled and floating, from the tops of forest trees;
Low-flying, it whirls – turns – and sinks into the hollows of the marsh.
The swarm of small boys from the South Village laugh at me because I am old and feeble.
How dare they act like thieves and robbers before my face,
Openly seizing my thatch and running into my bamboo grove?
My lips are scorched, my mouth dry, I scream at them, but to no purpose.
I return, leaning on my staff. I sigh and breathe heavily.

Presently, of a sudden, the wind ceases. The clouds are the colour of ink.
The Autumn sky is endless – endless – stretching toward dusk and night.

[Page 105] 

My old cotton quilt is as cold as iron;
My restless son sleeps a troubled sleep, his moving foot tears the quilt.
Over the head of the bed is a leak. Not a place is dry.
The rain streams and stands like hemp – there is no break in its falling.
Since this misery and confusion, I have scarcely slept or dozed.
All the long night, I am soaking wet. When will the light begin to sift in?
If one could have a great house of one thousand, ten thousand rooms –
A great shelter where all the Empire's shivering scholars could have happy faces –
Not moved by wind or rain, solid as a mountain –
Alas! When shall I see that house standing before my eyes?
Then, although my own hut were destroyed, although I might freeze and die, I should be satisfied.