This site is dedicated to the memory of Dr. Alan William Smolowe who gave birth to the creation of this database.
He showed me a sketch he'd drawn once during meditation. It was an androgynous human figure, standing up, hands clasped in prayer. But this figure had four legs, and no head. Where the head should have been, there was only a wild foliage of ferns and flowers. There was a small, smiling face drawn over the heart. To find the balance you want, Ketut spoke through his translator, this is what you must become. You must keep your feet grounded so firmly on the earth that it's like you have four legs, instead of two. That way, you can stay in the world. But you must stop looking at the world through your head. You must look through your heart, instead. That way, you will know God.
Imagine mental Port… he is probably a dilapidated port, torn by storms, but the location is good and suitable depth. Port mind is an open bay, it is the only entrance to the island of self (the young and volcanic island, yes, but fertile and promising). This island has fought some wars, but is now committed to peace, led by a new leader (i) develop new policies to protect the place. now, there is much more stringent laws regarding who enters this port... if you can, my dear my thoughts commitment these new laws, Welcome, Otherwise, Feltrdjaa the sea, from where I came from.
Elizabeth Browning, fully Elizabeth Barrett Browning
An ignorance of means may minister to greatness, but an ignorance of aims make it impossible to be great at all.
Elizabeth Browning, fully Elizabeth Barrett Browning
All men are possible heroes: every age, heroic in proportions, double-faced, looks backward and before, expects a morn and claims an epos. Ay, but every age appears to souls who live in it (ask Carlyle) most unheroic.
Elizabeth Browning, fully Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Deep violets, you liken to the kindest eyes that look on you, without a thought disloyal.
Looks |
There's a joke about a very funny Italian poor man who goes to church every day to pray before the statue of a great saint, begging, Dear saint, please, please, please ... Give me the grace of winning the lottery. This lament goes on for months. Finally the exasperated statue comes to life, looks at him and says with a wearily: My son, please, please, please ... buy a ticket. '
You know, it's a funny thing. The only Romance language Felipe doesn't happen to speak is Italian. But I go ahead and say it to him anyway, just as we're about to jump.
There's a power struggle going on across Europe these days. A few cities are competing against each other to see who shall emerge as the great 21st century European metropolis. Will it be London? Paris? Berlin? Zurich? Maybe Brussels, center of the young union? They all strive to outdo one another culturally, architecturally, politically, fiscally. But Rome, it should be said, has not bothered to join the race for status. Rome doesn't compete. Rome just watches all the fussing and striving, completely unfazed. I am inspired by the regal self-assurance of this city, so grounded and rounded, so amused and monumental, knowing she is held securely in the palm of history. I would like to be like Rome when I am an old lady.
Elizabeth Browning, fully Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The charm, one might say the genius, of memory is that it is choosy, chancy and temperamental; it rejects the edifying cathedral and indelibly photographs the small boy outside, chewing a hunk of melon in the dust.
Teacher |
Elizabeth Browning, fully Elizabeth Barrett Browning
O brave poets, keep back nothing; nor mix falsehood with the whole! Look up Godward! speak the truth in worthy song from earnest soul! Hold, in high poetic duty, truest Truth the fairest Beauty.
Looks |
Elizabeth Browning, fully Elizabeth Barrett Browning
The cypress stood up like a church that night we felt our love would hold, and saintly moonlight seemed to search and wash the whole world clean as gold; the olives crystallized the vales' broad slopes until the hills grew strong: the fireflies and the nightingales throbbed each to either, flame and song. The nightingales, the nightingales.
How does Love speak? In the faint flush upon the telltale cheek, and in the pallor that succeeds it; by the quivering lid of an averted eye-- the smile that proves the parent to a sigh thus doth Love speak.
The misnamed "feminine" woman, so admired by her creator, man — the woman who is acquiescent in her inferiority and who has swallowed man's image of her as his ordained helpmate and no more — is in reality the "masculine" woman. The truly feminine woman "cannot help burning with that inner rage that comes from having to identify with her exploiter's negative image of her," and having to conform to her persecutor's idea of femininity and its man-decreed limitations.
Authority | Children | Father | Looks | Mother | Respect | Respect | Child |