Tag: dream

That Which We Believe.

“We are not always what we seem,” shares author, Peter Beagle. “And hardly ever what we dream.”

Indeed, this aspect of knowing one’s ‘self’, is but a fraction of that which is ever realized.

Humility cautions to stand/secure our place; to take no respite within Fortune’s grace. As inner voice cries, “How can it ever be?”

We leave so much to Fate and Chance, arbiters to a gifted happiness.

“We are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream.”

My darlings, on this day I wish you the blessings of seeing, of dreaming, of acting and believing.

In peace…

Namaste ❤️

A Little Something About Those Apple Blossoms.

My darlings, this morning – one of my favorite poems from author, W.B. Yeats, entitled, “The Song of Wandering Aengus.”

It is intended to serve as a metaphor, of sorts – with Yeats as a young man on a quest for what he thinks to be the ‘institution’ of love.

With ‘hooked berry’ he easily finds that which he’s been searching for all his life. She, “who called me by my name and ran.” And, at once, was lost again.

It’s all about the quest, now isn’t it? We seek with ‘fire in our head’, that which represents our heart’s dearest wish.

And, never taking chance to lose the memory, though fading to the brightening air.

Holding onto our dreams can be a tricky business– particularly as old age weathers our ‘vision.’

But, hope is always there, my loves — that ‘glimmering girl with apple blossom in her hair’ just waiting for you, if only you’ll dare.

“I went out to the hazel wood,
Because a fire was in my head,
And cut and peeled a hazel wand,
And hooked a berry to a thread;
And when white moths were on the wing,
And moth-like stars were flickering out,
I dropped the berry in a stream
And caught a little silver trout.

When I had laid it on the floor
I went to blow the fire a-flame,
But something rustled on the floor,
And someone called me by my name:
It had become a glimmering girl
With apple blossom in her hair
Who called me by my name and ran
And faded through the brightening air.

Though I am old with wandering
Through hollow lands and hilly lands,
I will find out where she has gone,
And kiss her lips and take her hands;
And walk among long dappled grass,
And pluck till time and times are done,
The silver apples of the moon,
The golden apples of the sun.” – W.B. Yeats