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Philosophy - add your own

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Wheelerswife:
I have been pensive of late...don't get me wrong - I don't have the capacity to think THAT deeply, but I was reading Paulo Coelho's novel The Alchemist recently and the following lines just spoke to me deeply:

"This is why alchemy exists," the boy said. "So that everyone will search for his treasure, find it, and then want to be better than he was in his former life. Lead will play its role until the world has no further need for lead; and then lead will have to turn itself into gold.  "That's what alchemists do. They show that, when we strive to become better than we are, everything around us becomes better, too."

"Well, why did you say that I don't know about love?" the sun asked the boy.  "Because it's not love to be static like the desert, nor is it love to roam the world like the wind. And it's not love to see everything from a distance, like you do. Love is the force that transforms and improves the Soul of the World. When I first reached through to it, I thought the Soul of the World was perfect. But later, I could see that it was like other aspects of creation, and had its own passions and wars. It is we who nourish the Soul of the World, and the world we live in will be either better or worse, depending on whether we become better or worse. And that's where the power of love comes in. Because when we love, we always strive to become better than we are."

I don't truly accept every concept in the book.  It comes from the perspective of a fairly spiritual man.  But recently I feel like I have been learning more and more about lessons of love.  I know that I continue to be driven to embrace and love people in my life and I am attracted to people who are passionate about love of others.  I do think that we become better when we love - and that makes others better, too.

Feel free to comment or leave quotes or statements of your own. 

Maureen


Leadfeather:
Not much to add. But the last paragraph of this excerpt really stood out for me.

“Here are the sounds of Wear. It rattles stone on stone. It sucks its teeth. It sings. It hisses like the rain. It roars. It laughs. It claps its hands. Sometimes I think it prays. In winter, through the ice, I've seen it moving swift and black as Tune, without a sound.

Here are the sights of Wear. It falls in braids. It parts at rocks and tumbles round them white as down or flashes over them in silver quilts. It tosses fallen trees like bits of straw yet spins a single leaf as gentle as a maid. Sometimes it coils for rest in darkling pools and sometimes it leaps its banks and shatters in the air. In autumn, I've seen it breathe a mist so thick and grey you'd never know old Wear was there at all.

Each day, for years and years, I've gone and sat in it. Usually at dusk I clamber down and slowly sink myself to where it laps against my breast. Is it too much to say, in winter, that I die? Something of me dies at least.

First there's the fiery sting of cold that almost stops my breath, the aching torment in my limbs. I think I may go mad, my wits so outraged that they seek to flee my skull like rats a ship that's going down. I puff. I gasp. Then inch by inch a blessed numbness comes. I have no legs, no arms. My very heart grows still. These floating hands are not my hands. The ancient flesh I wear is rags for all I feel of it.

"Praise, Praise!" I croak. Praise God for all that's holy, cold, and dark. Praise him for all we lose, for all the river of the years bears off. Praise him for stillness in the wake of pain. Praise him for emptiness. And as you race to spill into the sea, praise him yourself, old Wear. Praise him for dying and the peace of death.

In the little church I built of wood for Mary, I hollowed out a place for him. Perkin brings him by the pail and pours him in. Now that I can hardly walk, I crawl to meet him there. He takes me in his chilly lap to wash me of my sins. Or I kneel down beside him till within his depths I see a star.

Sometimes this star is still. Sometimes she dances. She is Mary's star. Within that little pool of Wear she winks at me. I wink at her. The secret that we share I cannot tell in full. But this much I will tell. What's lost is nothing to what's found, and all the death that ever was, set next to life, would scarcely fill a cup.”

― Frederick Buechner, Godric

Leadfeather:
I find myself collecting quotes about love and life these days. This one was from a Science Fiction audio book I was listening to the author does a wonderful job describing some of the feelings the widowed protagonist has about the loss of his wife and how his feelings evolve across the three books of the trilogy.

“All the sadness, all the hurt in the past making this moment all the sweeter. If pain is the weight of being, love is the purpose.”
― Pierce Brown, Morning Star

Newgirl:
I'm not philosophical, at all, I do my best to be honest, and not be a sanctimonious twat.

66etype:
My new favorite:

"Chuck it in the fuck it bucket"

A lot of shit goes in that bucket now!

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