People can’t agree on where coffee’s secret lies: opinions range from the smell, the color, the taste, the consistency, the blend, the cardamom, the roast, to the shape of the cup and a number of other things. For me, it’s the timing. The great thing about a perfectly timed cup of coffee is that it’s in your hand the instant you crave it. One of life’s most exquisite moments is that in which a small luxury becomes a necessity.
There is a story in Zen circles about a man and a horse. The horse is galloping quickly, and it appears that the man on the horse is going somewhere important. Another man standing alongside the road, shouts, “Where are you going?” and the first man replies, “I don’t know! Ask the horse!” This is also our story. We are riding a horse, we don’t know where we are going, and we can’t stop. The horse is our habit energy pulling us along, and we are powerless. We struggle all the time, even during our sleep. We are at war within ourselves…We have to learn the art of stopping – stopping our thinking, our habit energies, our forgetfulness, the strong emotions that rule us. When an emotion rushes through us like a storm, we have no peace.
Where do they come from, thoughts?
Like wrens, out of the sky.
Noisy, hungry, perfectly themselves.
Everyone who gives up a serious childhood dream — of becoming an artist, a doctor, an engineer, an athlete — lives the rest of their life with a sense of loss, with nagging what ifs. […]
Only a very few loves can disappoint you so fundamentally that you feel you’ve lost yourself when they’re gone. Quitting music wounded me as deeply as any relationship in my life. It was my first great loss, this innocent, awkward failure to live with what I heard and felt. For more than ten years I avoided music. It hurt too much. My anger went as deep as my love had gone. I suppose this is natural. In the aftermath of something so painful, we subsist on bitterness, which sustains us against even greater loss.
~ Glenn Kurtz in Practicing: A Musician’s Return to Music
Photo: By Majewska via banishedagain
For the past eighty years I have started each day in the same manner,” wrote the cellist Pablo Casals in his memoir, Joys and Sorrows. “I go to the piano, and I play two preludes and fugues of Bach. It fills me with awareness of the wonder of life, with a feeling of the incredible marvel of being a human being.
~ Glen Kurtz, Practicing: A Musician’s Return to Music
Pablo Casals (1876 – 1973), was a Spanish Catalan cellist and conductor. He is generally regarded as the pre-eminent cellist of the first half of the 20th century, and one of the greatest cellists of all time.
Credits: Photo – glogster.com
Source: Precious Things
Source: Monochromia (Thank you Susan Licht)
Excerpts from Paul Jarvis’ commentary titled Why You Should Take A Social Media Sabbatical:
One of my clients told me that social media sabbaticals are the new treks through Nepal. Taking a social media sabbatical is trendy, takes some courage, and for most westerners, it’s outside the realm of possibility. But (thankfully for me), it doesn’t require as much physical fitness as a hiking the Himalayas…
When all the small gaps in our days are filled with refreshing or sharing, there’s no room left to just sit and breathe and let whatever thoughts that want to happen… just happen. There are more ideas—not fewer—when you remove noise…
There is no longer space in our lives. We can’t wait in line without getting on our phones. Or sit on a bus. Or eat. Or wake up. Or wait for an elevator. Or watch a sunset…
Extra, dangling seconds force most of us to reach for our pockets and pull out our tiny computers that connect to the Internet. We must scroll and react to whatever shows up on our screen, as if by some neurological impulse.
I’ve spent the last two months on a break from social. No tweets, no instas—nothing. I went an extra step and stopped sending newsletters or doing interviews, as well…
I went from a few hours a day on social to none.
And it was quiet.
Almost eerily quiet.
They are identical twins János and István Lukács in 1985. At the time, they were in their sixties.
They worked together on the Hungarian countryside, living in the same house they’d inhabited all of their lives.
Photographer Janos Stekovics followed along while the Lukács brothers accomplished their daily tasks. They’d wake up at four in the morning, tend to the animals until noon when they’d eat a lunch of bacon and bread, and continue working until dinner. They slept in a farmhouse built by their parents, with clay walls and kerosine lamps. Sometimes it got so cold the two slept in hay beds in the barn with the horses.
Stekovics developed a deep reverence and fondness for these brothers of another time, often photographed in matching ensembles from jeans and boots to humongous fur coats. Despite their identical appearances and predilection for wonderfully complimentary poses, the two maintained distinct personalities. As Feature Shoot explained: “Where István was more gregarious, János was more of the silent and stoic type; István preferred to keep the house, and János cared mostly for the animals. Neither ever married.”
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