into my own

19,843 notes

Introverts, in contrast, may have strong social skills and enjoy parties and business meetings, but after a while wish they were home in their pajamas. They prefer to devote their social energies to close friends, colleagues, and family. They listen more than they talk, think before they speak, and often feel as if they express themselves better in writing than in conversation. They tend to dislike conflict. Many have a horror of small talk, but enjoy deep discussions.

Susan Cain, Quiet (via lupum)

#mylife

(via therarestbird)

(Source: accountedfor, via therarestbird)

1,096 notes

I have always been a wretched speaker. My vocabulary dwells deep in my mind and needs paper to wriggle out into the physical zone. Spontaneous eloquence seems to me a miracle. I have rewritten—often several times—every word I have ever published. My pencils outlast their erasures.

Vladimir Nabokov (via mirroir)

This has bothered me for years and convinced me (many times over) that I’m an idiot. I’m terrible at opening my mouth and letting the words fall where they may. 

(via nogreatillusion)

(Source: daisyandviolet, via nogreatillusion)

5,827 notes

Immature people falling in love destroy each other’s freedom, create a bondage, make a prison. Mature persons in love help each other to be free; they help each other to destroy all sorts of bondages. And when love flows with freedom there is beauty. When love flows with dependence there is ugliness.

A mature person does not fall in love, he or she rises in love. Only immature people fall; they stumble and fall down in love. Somehow they were managing and standing. Now they cannot manage and they cannot stand. They were always ready to fall on the ground and to creep. They don’t have the backbone, the spine; they don’t have the integrity to stand alone.

A mature person has the integrity to stand alone. And when a mature person gives love, he or she gives without any strings attached to it. When two mature persons are in love, one of the great paradoxes of life happens, one of the most beautiful phenomena: they are together and yet tremendously alone. They are together so much that they are almost one. Two mature persons in love help each other to become more free. There is no politics involved, no diplomacy, no effort to dominate. Only freedom and love.
Osho (via toobrothers)

(Source: nirvikalpa, via therarestbird)

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To my many mothers

An old African proverb wisely states: it takes a village to raise a child.

I was. Raised, that is, by a village of older caring for the younger, wise advising the

naive, experienced encouraging the untested.

In my tender life they invested

time and energy, good food and tears.

They gave me shelter amidst the storms inflicted on youth.

When I was pained, they were interested,

better yet, they felt the same pain I felt.  Their arms embraced me soothingly.

Even then, I had eyes to see

the gift these people were to me.

So I accepted, though undeserving. They were my water and my air, my sun and my

soil, for years pouring into my soul and shining light on its dark shadows.

See, it’s easy to love when youth is unaware and paints itself with charm and foolish

nonchalance.  There is no wrestling there, only waiting for harsh reality to hit them.

But when a child’s eyes have seen

misery of a world unclean

and tasted tears of desperation

hateful chaos in peaceful creation,

that kid’s peace comes not with ease,

it is not easy to appease

the restlessness and wrenching

of a soul that is inching

toward hopelessness.

But, my mothers, you saw me through. You,

who with your families too,

healed my soul in the name of Him

who took and even became my sin. You

invoked the name of God, who

is my father and my mother.  You,

who intervened on my behalf.  You,

who whispered peace into the wild ear of my heart. You

are my mama and I am your mtoto, your child.

To my many mothers, take blessings from a soul Christ recreated with qualities of you.

Know that in the midst of inconsolability, this child runs—barefoot and reckless,

eyes blazing with visions of what should be,

what will be—to the river flowing with hopeful waters.

Thank you for willing Christ’s will for my life.  Thank you for taking on qualities of

Him, for offering to me that which I desperately needed but didn’t deserve.

I am forever your child, and you are forever my mama.

May Christ’s village come and His will be done through me as through you,

my mothers.

Dedicated to:

My mama-Terri Shore

Jennifer Ayers

Cyndy Parkman

Cally Bontreger

Eness Jarvis