Be kind to yourself, dear.
If you put your hands on this oar with me,
they will never harm another, and they will come to find
that they hold everything you want.
If you put your hands on this oar with me, they would no longer
lift anything to your mouth that might wound your precious land –
that sacred earth that is your body.
If you put your soul against this oar with me,
the power that made the universe will enter your sinew
from a source not outside your limbs, but from a holy realm
that lives in us.
Exuberant is existence, time a husk.
When the moment cracks open, ecstasy leaps out and devours space;
love goes mad with the blessings, like my words give.
Why lay yourself on the torturer’s rack of the past and the future?
The mind that tries to shape tomorrow beyond its capacities
will find no rest.
Be kind to yourself, dear – to our innocent follies.
Forget any sounds or touch you knew that did not help you dance.
You will come to see that all evolves us.
You are a volume in the divine book.
A mirror to the power that created the universe.
Whatever you want, ask it of yourself.
Whatever you’re looking for can only be found
Inside of you.
Still your mind in me, still yourself in me,
and without a doubt you shall be united with me,
Lord of Love, dwelling in your heart.
— Bhagavad Gita
Every day you play with the light of the universe.
Subtle visitor, you arrive in the flower and the water.
You are more than this white head that I hold tightly
as a cluster of fruit, every day, between my hands.
You are like nobody since I love you.
Let me spread you out among yellow garlands.
Who writes your name in letters of smoke among the stars of the south?
Oh let me remember you as you were before you existed.
Suddenly the wind howls and bangs at my shut window.
The sky is a net crammed with shadowy fish.
Here all the winds let go sooner or later, all of them.
The rain takes off her clothes.
The birds go by, fleeing.
The wind. The wind.
I can contend only against the power of men.
The storm whirls dark leaves
and turns loose all the boats that were moored last night to the sky.
— Pablo Neruda
Yours is the light by which my spirit’s born: - you are my sun, my moon, and all my stars.
— e.e. cummings