This is just one of my favorite things

SOUL JOURNEYS

...

The lifetime of your personality is one of a myriad of experiences of your soul. The soul exists outside of time. The perspective of the soul is immense, and the perception of the soul is without the limitations of the personality. Souls that have chosen the physical experience of life as we know it as a path of evolution, have, in general, incarnated their energies many times into many psychological and physical forms. For each incarnation, the soul creates a different personality and body. The personality and the body that, for the five-sensory human, are the experiential entirety of its existence, are, for its soul, the unique and perfectly suited instruments of a particular incarnation.
Each personality contributes, in its own special way, with its own special aptitudes and lessons to learn, consciously or unconsciously, to the evolution of its soul. The life of a mother, a warrior, a daughter, a priest; the experiences of love, vulnerability, fear, loss, and tenderness; the struggles with anger, defiance, emptiness, and jealousy —all serve the evolution of the soul. Each physical, emotional and psychological characteristic that comprises a personality and its body—strong or weak arms, dense or penetrating intellect, happy or despairing disposition, yellow or black skin, even hair and eye color—is perfectly suited to its soul’s purpose.
The five-sensory personality is not aware of the many other incarnations of its soul. A multisensory personality may be conscious of these incarnations, or experience them, as its own past or future lives. They are in its family of lives, so to speak, but they are not lives that it, itself, has lived. They are experiences of its soul.
From the point of view of the soul, all of its incarnations are simultaneous. All of its personalities exist at once. Therefore, the release of negativity that occurs in one of the soul’s incarnations benefits not only itself, but all of its soul’s other incarnations also. Because the soul, itself, is not confined to time, the past of a personality, as well as its future, is enhanced when a personality releases currents of fear and doubt. As we shall see, the release of negativity by a personality benefits a great many other dynamics of consciousness as well. Some of these can be perceived by the five-sensory human, but appear to him or her neither as dynamics of consciousness, nor as related to his or her inner processes, such as the consciousness and evolution of his or her sex, race, nation and culture. Others extend far beyond the perceptual ability of the five-sensory human. A conscious lifetime, therefore, is a treasure beyond value. The personality and its body are artificial aspects of the soul. When they have served their functions, at the end of the soul’s incarnation, the soul releases them. They come to an end, but the soul does not. After an incarnation, the soul returns to its immortal and tinieless state. It returns once again to its natural state of compassion, clarity and boundless love. This is the context in which our evolution occurs: the continual incarnation and reincarnation of the energy of the soul into the physical arena, into our Earth school. Why does this happen? Why is it necessary even to speak of personalities and souls? The incarnation of a soul is a massive reduction of the power of the soul to a scale that is appropriate to a physical form. It is a reduction of an immortal Life system into the framework of time and the span of a few years.

...

BOOK

IMAGE
Peter Davie

This is just one of my favorite things

CAMINHOS

CAMINHOS

DE olhos fechados vejo Os caminhos. Seixos brancos e redondos, lajes, asfalto luzidios. Tamem terra. Tarnbém areia. As esquinas das ruas, as praças, o vento ao longo dos cais, avenidas rasgadas de trafego, arvores de boulevards, bancos de parques, arfar de comboios, bramido de ondas nos Cascos dos navios. Formas, sons, odores, tudo intacto no quadro da rnernória. Uma fotografia. Sorria. Volte um pouquinho a cabeca... Perfeito. Passej por Ia, estaquei, fiquei l para sempre. Nas paragens solitárias, nos passejos apinhados, na fachada das casas, nos muros dos jardins particulares com grades onde cães rugiam como se fossem leöes... Na China o leão dançava na festa da Deusa A-Ma; era arnarelo, corpo de seda, cabeça onírica de dragã. Fiquei lá. Natal. Dia de anos. Noite de Ano Born. Falava lingua estrangeira. Palavras que me lançavarn e que devolvia, qual jogo de bola. Fiquei lá muda. Uma vez o nevoejro cobriu a cidade. Desorientei-me. A ladeira íngreme e escorregadia. Contava os passos: one, two, three. E se nunca chegasse ao meu destino? Se fosse dar ao rio? 0 rio era negro, e a ponte iluminada, uma longínqua, perdida constelação.
Encontros. Como se çhama? Há quanto tempo está cá ? 0 meu rosto ao lado de outros no vidro das montras, nas janelas embaciadas das carruagens, ao correr das águas. Rosto levemente torcido, estranho, espantado. Que bebe? Os chineses ofereciam chá de jasmim. Aquele amigo indiano que sabia a cor das notas de música, mel e limão. Na Baía bebia-se água de coco pelo fruto rotundo e verde, no terreiro da macumba. Aqui a língua era a minha, soletrada, gostosa, a saber a infància. Fiquei nas salas de aula (a aprender ou a ensinar?), escrita no quadro preto, entalada nas carteiras com dedadas de tinta, pregada à parede como um mapa. Por corredores e escadas. Recortada na minha própria sombra ao luar dos trópicos ou num pátio de lousa ao clarão da fogueira do Guy Fawkes. Fiquei. Para urn dia me reencontrar hei-de tornar a esses caminhos, a ver outra vez tudo de olhos fechados: os deuses, os demónios, a minha ousadia, E o retrato voltará a ser perfeito. Mas serei capaz de me reconhecer?

Maria Ondina Braga

IMAGE
©MALOU V.

This is just one of my favorite things

TUNING MY SOUL

Sabedoria não esta nas palavras;
Sabedoria esta na intenção das palavras.
Kahlil Gibran

Be not satisfied with partial contentment,

for he who engulfs the spring of life with

one empty jar will depart with two full jars.

Kahlil Gibran

IMAGES

Pier Poretti
...
Unidentified artist

This is just one of my favorite things

FAKE IS ALWAYS IN DIRECT

PROPORTION TO PRETENCE

It's people who are the most uncertain in their hearts

who are the most dogmatic in their minds.

Podeis enganar toda a gente durante um certo tempo; podeis mesmo enganar algumas pessoas todo o tempo; mas não vos será possível enganar sempre toda a gente
Abraham Lincoln

IMAGES
Unidentified artist
...
DORIAN GRAY
By Ivan Albright

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TENHO FASES

Lua Adversa

TENHO FASES, como a lua
Fases de andar escondida,
fases de vir para a rua...
Perdição da minha vida!
Perdição da vida minha!
Tenho fases de ser tua,
tenho outras de ser sozinha.


Fases que vão e que vêm,
no secreto calendário
que um astrólogo arbitrário
inventou para meu uso.


E roda a melancolia
seu interminável fuso!
Não me encontro com ninguém
(tenho fases, como a lua...)
No dia de alguém ser meu
não é dia de eu ser sua...
E, quando chega esse dia,
o outro desapareceu...

CECÍLIA MEIRELES

The mystery of things, where is it?

Where is it that does not appear

At least to show us that it is a mystery?

What knows the river of this and what knows the tree?

And I, who am no more than they are, what do I know?

Whenever I look at things and think about what men think of them,

I laugh like a rivulet that sounds so coolly upon a stone.

Because the only hidden meaning of things

Is that they have no hidden meaning.

Alberto Caeiro

IMAGES
Unidentified artist
...
Unidentified artists

SOUND
Battle in the Forest
Tan Dun

This is just one of my favorite things

GRATEFUL FOR THE STONES

Song about Song

So many stones have been thrown at me

That I don't fear them any longer

Like elegant tower the westerner stands free

Among tall towers, the taller.

I'm grateful to their builders -- so be gone

Their sadness and their worry, go away,

Early from here I can see the dawn

And here triumphant lives the sun's last ray.

And frequently into my room's window

The winds from northern seas begin to blow

And pigeon from my palms eats wheat..

The pages that I did not complete

Divinely light she is and calm,

Will finish

Muse's suntanned arm.

Anna Akhmatova

Para poder morrer

Guardo insultos e agulhas

Entre as sedas do luto.

Para poder morrer

Desarmo as armadilhas

Me estendo entre as paredes

Derruídas

Para poder morrer

Visto as cambraias

E apascento os olhos

Para novas vidas

Para poder morrer apetecida

Me cubro de promessas

Da memória.

Porque assim é preciso

Para que tu vivas.

HILDA HILST

IMAGES

FLIP DIAZ

...

JERRY UELSMANN

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THE SOURCE OF REAL POWER:

KNOWLEGE

THE TRUE KNOWLEDGE

Thou knowest all— I seek in vain 

What lands to till or sow with seed— 

The land is black with

briar and weed,

Nor cares for falling tears or rain.

Thou knowest all— I sit and wait 

With blinded eyes and hands that fail,

Till the last lifting of the veil,

And the first opening of the gate.

Thou knowest all— I cannot see. 

I trust I shall not live in vain,

I know that we shall meet again,

In some divine eternity.

Oscar Wilde

No Egipto, as bibliotecas eram chamadas ''Tesouro dos remédios da alma''. De facto é nelas que se cura a ignorância, a mais perigosa das enfermidades e a origem de todas as outras.

Jacques bossuet

IMAGES

M.C.ESCHER

...

M.C.ESCHER

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TWIN SOULS

…
5

[ms.] [1910?]

I was a poet animated by philosophy, not a philosopher with poetic faculties. I loved to admire the beauty of things, to trace in the imperceptible through the minute the poetic soul of the universe. The poetry of the earth is never dead. We may say that ages gone have been more poetic, but we can say (...) Poetry is in everything—in land and in sea, in lake and in riverside. It is in the city too-deny it not—it is evident to me here as I sit: there is poetry in this table, in this paper, in this inkstand; there is poetry in the rattling of the cars on the streets, in each minute, common, ridiculous motion of a workman, who the other side of the street is painting the sign-board of a butcher’s shop. Mine inner sense predominates in such a way over my five senses that I see things in this life—I do believe it—in a way different from other men. There is for me—there was—a wealth of meaning in a thing so ridiculous as a door-key, a nail on a wall, a cat’s whiskers. There is to me a fulness of spiritual suggestion in a fowl with its chickens strutting across the road. There is to me a meaning deeper than human tears in the smell of sandalwood, in the old tins on a dirt heap, in a match box lying in the gutter, in two dirty papers which, on a windy day, will roll and chase each other down the street. For poetry is astonishment, admiration, as of a being fallen from the skies taking full consciousness of his fall, astonished about things. As of one who knew things in their souls, striving to remember this knowledge, remembering that it was not thus he knew them, not under these forms and these conditions, but remembering nothing more.

Eu era um poeta impulsionado pela filosofia, nâo um filósofo dotado de faculdades poéticas. Adorava admirar a beleza das coisas, descortinar no imperceptivel, através do que é diminuto, a alma poética do universo. A poesia da terra nunca rnorre. E possfvel dizermos que as eras transactas foram mais poeticas, mas podemos dizer (...) Ha poesia em tudo—na terra e no mar, nos lagos e nas margens dos rios. Ha-a também na cidade — não o neguemos—facto evidente para mim enquanto aqui estou sentado: ha poesia nesta mesa, neste papel, neste tinteiro; ha poesia na trepidação dos carros nas ruas; em cada movimento Infimo, vulgar, ridiculo, de um operário que, do outro lado da rua, pinta a tabuleta de um talho.
O meu sentido interior de tal modo predomina sobre os meus cinco sentidos que—estou convencido—vejo as coisas desta vida de modo diferente do dos outros homens. Existe para mim — existia — urn tesouro de significado numa coisa tao ridicula como uma chave, um prego na parede, os bigodes de um gato. Encontro toda uma plenitude de sugestão espiritual no espectáculo de uma ave doméstica com os seus pintainhos que, com ar pimpão, atravessam a rua. Encontro um significado mais profundo do que as lágrimas humanas no aroma do sândalo, nas latas velhas jazendo numa montureira, numa caixa de fósforos calda na valeta, em dois papéis sujos que, num dia ventoso, rolam e se perseguem rua abaixo. E que poesia e espanto, admiraçào, como de um ser tombado dos céus em plena consciência da sua queda, atónito com as coisas. Como de alguem que conhecesse a alma das coisas e se esforçasse por rememorar esse conhecimento, lembrando-se de que não era assim que as conhecia, não com estas formas e nestas condiçoes, mas de nada mais se recordando.

...
FERNANDO PESSOA
Paginas intimas e de auto-interpretacao

IMAGES
Animated Poet
© MALOU V.
...
Fernando Pessoa
Vitorino Braga
1914

This is just one of my favorite things

PERSONAL COMFORTS

Os simples prazeres satisfazem o corpo e a alma

e os prazeres simples satisfazem todos os sentidos

That sweet word

Running though my body
Enveloping my soul
Breaking down all barriers
Resistance is futile
This wonderful feeling
That Intense passion

All resolutions dethroned
My emotions run wild
Is it love, is it delusion
Maybe even madness
This wonderful feeling
That Intense passion

This ambiguous language
Clouds my senses
Erases my reason
Such a burden, such a misery
This wonderful feeling
That Intense passion

I unwrap slowly, softly
A gift from the land afar
Still resisting, still striving
All my senses came to be
This wonderful feeling
That Intense passion

In Unison, body and mind
I realize the moment
I surrender
This wonderful feeling
That Intense passion

That piece of heaven,
That sweet word
Chocolate
This wonderful feeling
This Intense passion

SOULAN LIARG

IMAGES
Unidentified artist

...

Malou

SOUND

Mediterranean sundance

john Mclaughlin, Paco de Lucia, Al di Meola

This is just one of my favorite things

We are our thoughts , courage and choices.

Every day we lay it all in front of us ,tread on it and capture the moment.

And with every moment our intentions and expressions

change us and the world.

EVEN THE STARS LOOK LONESOME

...
were stolen and sold from the African continent together we crouched together in the barracoons, without enough to share between us. We lay, back to belly, in the filthy hatches of slave ships in one another’s excrement, menstrual blood and urine. We were hosed down and oiled to give sheen to our skin, then stood on the auction blocks and were sold together. We rose before sunrise from the cold ground were driven into the cane field and the cotton field together We each took the lash that pulled the skin from our backs. Each of us singled out for the sexual enjoyment and exploitation of those who desired our bodies but hated us.
…

MAYA ANGELOU

JOURNEY TO BELOVED

...
TURDAY, JUNE 21, 1997

[In order to research her role, Oprah participated in a reenactment of the Underground Railroad. In costume, with a new identity, she literally escapes from a plantation; and endures running and hiding to avoid capture. It was grueling, painful, and authentic.]

The Underground Railroad experience allowed me to go inside to feel the grief of losing control of your destiny. The meditation process to transition from 1997 to 1861, being blindfolded and vulnerable, having no power over when you can even speak. Amazing. Amazing Grace. Look at where I come from. Look at where I am. My God from Zion! It’s incredible. The realization of the depth and Truth of it. Slavery was about having no power whatsoever. That’s what became so real to me yesterday. More than a concept of no freedom. Freedom, I felt with such clarity, is the ability to think your own thoughts and do with them what you will. Choice. ¶1 briefly glimpsed the reality of NO choice. It was deadening. It was so painful. T didn’t want to feel it. Not even in that controlled, contrived space. So deep. So real. So much pain.

...
OPRAH WINFREY

O Navio Negreiro
...
IV
Era um sonho dantesco... o tombadilho

Que das luzernas avermelha o brilho.

Em sangue a se banhar.

Tinir de ferros... estalar de açoite...

Legiões de homens negros como a noite,

Horrendos a dançar...

Negras mulheres, suspendendo às tetas

Magras crianças, cujas bocas pretas

Rega o sangue das mães:

Outras moças, mas nuas e espantadas,

No turbilhão de espectros arrastadas,

Em ânsia e mágoa vãs!

E ri-se a orquestra irônica, estridente...

E da ronda fantástica a serpente

Faz doudas espirais ...

Se o velho arqueja, se no chão resvala,

Ouvem-se gritos... o chicote estala.

E voam mais e mais...

Presa nos elos de uma só cadeia,

A multidão faminta cambaleia,

E chora e dança ali!

Um de raiva delira, outro enlouquece,

Outro, que martírios embrutece,

Cantando, geme e ri!

No entanto o capitão manda a manobra,

E após fitando o céu que se desdobra,

Tão puro sobre o mar,

Diz do fumo entre os densos nevoeiros:

"Vibrai rijo o chicote, marinheiros!

Fazei-os mais dançar!..."

E ri-se a orquestra irônica, estridente. . .

E da ronda fantástica a serpente

Faz doudas espirais...

Qual um sonho dantesco as sombras voam!...

Gritos, ais, maldições, preces ressoam!

E ri-se Satanás!

...

CASTRO ALVES

(1847 - 1871)

IMAGES

From the book:

JOURNEY TO BELOVED

...

From the book :

JOURNEY TO BELOVED

...

Unidentified artist