(Source: havarija)
March 16th 2012
March 13th 2012
When I was a little girl of three
I made a friend called Fantasy.
He swept me up and carried me
To a far away land - when I was three.
This is my story, short and true,
It happened just this way, you see,
In a far away land, with my friend in hand
When I was a little girl of three.
The Faeries (a true story)
I remember the faeries [in my special place in the woods] sliding in on the glinting rays of sun that filtered down through the Madrona’s. Sitting there, on branches softly tangled with fresh vines of the Oregon grape, they weaved wondrous stories of eleven kings and elemental beings that inhabited their lands. Of great looming mountains, deep green valleys, winding rivers and waterfalls, and magical ponds teeming with life, love and hidden adventure. As I kicked up the fine dry sand beneath my bare little toes, the white powder filled the air like faerie dust - at once transporting me to those faraway lands.
We laughed and sang and played the day away to the very setting of the sun. They danced ‘round me in the moonlight, and I rode in the air on their delicate gossamer wings. Deeper, deeper into their world they carried me - such sights as I had never seen. And, I might never have returned to tell my story were it not for the sound of my dear Mother’s voice calling me home to dinner.
“Stay” they would plead. “Stay with us forever!” “I must go,” I said with tears in my eyes. “I promise I will never forget you!”
“Coming Mother!”
February 18th 2012
Natures of your kind, with strong, delicate senses, the soul-oriented, the dreamers, poets, lovers are always superior to us creatures of the mind. You take your being from your mothers. You live fully; you were endowed with the strength of love, the ability to feel. Whereas we creatures of reason, we don’t live fully; we live in an arid land, even though we often seem to guide and rule you. Yours is the plentitude of life, the sap of the fruit, the garden of passion, the beautiful landscape of art. Your home is the earth; ours is the world of ideas. You are in danger of drowning in the world of the senses; ours is the danger of suffocating in an airless void. You are an artist; I am a thinker. You sleep at your mother’s breast; I wake in the desert. For me the sun shines; for you the moon and the stars.
Hermann Hesse (via atramentum)
(via atramentum)
February 18th 2012
February 16th 2012
