Slowly the west reaches for clothes of new colors
which it passes to a row of ancient trees. You look,
and soon these two worlds both leave you,
one part climbs toward heaven, one sinks to earth,
leaving you, not really belonging to either,
not so hopelessly dark as that house that is silent,
not so unswervingly given to the eternal as
that thing that turns to a star each night and climbs-
leaving you (it is impossible to untangle the threads) your own life,
timid and standing high and growing, so that, sometimes blocked in,
sometimes reaching out, one moment your life is a stone in you, and the next, a star.
by Rainer Maria Rilke
Translated by Robert Bly
Your work is going to fill a large part of your life, and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what you do. If you haven’t found it yet, keep looking. Don’t settle. As with all matters of the heart, you’ll know when you find it.
Be careful what you water your dreams with. Water them with worry and fear and you will produce weeds that choke the life from your dream. Water them with optimism and solutions and you will cultivate success. Always be on the lookout for ways to turn a problem into an opportunity for success. Always be on the lookout for ways to nurture your dream.
The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.
WISHING ALL OF YOU A GREAT WEEK
The temperature varied considerably depending on whether I was in the wood or out on the sunny meadow.
Steep slopes, small springs, pastures, hilly trails and a wooden pier for ‘happy swimmers’.
It was bitterly cold in the woods by the springs, and the lake didn’t tempt with a swim but I did have a great walk.
The place where you lose the trail is not necessarily the place where it ends.
Tom Brown, Jr.
The hoarse cries of a raven put me in adventure mood. A few kilometres further on, only the creaking of snow under my shoes breaks the silence, This is an amazing day after the blizzard and the light makes my heart sing.
I’m grateful for being alive.
Announced by all the trumpets of the sky,
Arrives the snow, and, driving o’er the fields,
Seems nowhere to alight: the withered air
Hides hills and woods, the river, and the heaven,
And veils the farm-house at the garden’s end.
The sled and traveler stopped, the courier’s feet
Delayed, all friends shut out, and housemates sit
Around the radiant fireplace, enclosed
In a tumultuous privacy of storm.
The Snow-Storm by Ralph Waldo Emerson