Latest Blog Posts — Page 3
I must have the right to say “No.” Only I can give myself this right on a meaningful basis. My no is a function of some of the deepest compassionate feelings for myself. This no of mine represents whatever force I can bring against anything in me or outside of me which I recognize as being antithetical to my well-being. This no represents me at my most grown up. This no makes my yes meaningful. Without this no I am without healthy, self-preserving defenses against infantile aspects of myself … Without this no I am indefensible against the demands of other people and their desires.
―Compassion and Self-Hate, Theodore Isaac Rubin
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A Navajo blessing says, “May you walk in beauty.” Not just see beauty or create it, but walk in it, inhabit it, and move through the world as if beauty is your gravity. When you’re at the height of your lyrical powers, Libra, you do this naturally. You are especially receptive to the aesthetic soul of things. You can draw out the harmony beneath surface friction and improvise grace in the midst of chaos. I’m happy to tell you that you are currently at the height of these lyrical powers. I hope you’ll be bold in expressing them. Even if others aren’t consciously aware and appreciative of what you’re doing, beautify every situation you’re in. —Rob Brezsny
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When I’m in writing mode for a novel, I get up at four a.m. and work for five to six hours. In the afternoon, I run for ten kilometers or swim for fifteen hundred meters (or do both), then I read a bit and listen to some music. I go to bed at nine p.m. I keep to this routine every day without variation. The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it’s a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind. But to hold to such repetition for so long — six months to a year — requires a good amount of mental and physical strength. In that sense, writing a long novel is like survival training. Physical strength is as necessary as artistic sensitivity. —Haruki Murakami
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To live in the world of creation—to get into it and stay in it—to frequent it and haunt it—to think intently and fruitfully—to woo combinations and inspirations into being by a depth and continuity of attention and meditation—this is the only thing—and I neglect it, far and away too much; from indolence, from vagueness, from inattention, and from a strange nervous fear of letting myself go. If I can vanquish that nervousness, the world is mine.
—Henry James
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