talent magnified

I’ve learned that following what you love magnifies your talent. You just have to have faith to invest in it.

~ Leslie Rector

turquoise show stopper

Don’t fake it till you make it. Fake it till you become it.” (Amy Cuddy)

Love this.  and I LOVE LOVE LOVE TED!

http://www.ted.com/talks/amy_cuddy_your_body_language_shapes_who_you_are.html?utm_source=newsletter_weekly_2013-02-02&utm_campaign=newsletter_weekly&utm_medium=email

 

 

chanel randomness

so this is what happens when i googled ” blue chanel men carsons”. i was looking for a fragrance to see if carson’s carried it.  instead i got carried away on this..

 

THE GLASS ESSAY :  by Ann Carson

http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/178364

 

it’s long. it’s sad. it’s true. it’s real. ~K

 

Grace by Mary Oliver

Grace 

I don’t want you to just sit down at the table. 
I don’t want you to just eat and be content. 
I want you to walk out into the fields 
Where the water is shining and the rice has risen. 
I want you to stand there far from this white tablecloth. 
I want you to fill your hands with mud, like a blessing. 

Happy Thanksgiving. 

And today, searching for a poem .. i some how found this….
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Logos (a poem of the bread and fish)

Why wonder about the loaves and the fishes?

If you say the right words, the wine expands.

If you say them with love

and the felt ferocity of that love

and the felt necessity of that love,

the fish explode into many.

Imagine him, speaking,

and don’t worry about what is reality,

or what is plain, or what is mysterious.

If you were there, it was all those things.

If you can imagine it, it is all those things.

Eat, drink, be happy.

Accept the miracle.

Accept, too, each spoken word

spoken with love.

Mary Oliver – from, Why I Wake Early

The art of Poetry

The Art of Poetry
Jorge Luis Borges

To gaze at a river made of time and water
and remember Time is another river.
To know we stray like a river
and our faces vanish like water.

To feel that waking is another dream
that dreams of not dreaming and that the death
we fear in our bones is the death
that every night we call a dream.

To see in every day and year a symbol
of all the days of man and his years,
and convert the outrage of the years
into a music, a sound, and a symbol.

To see in death a dream, in the sunset
a golden sadness–such is poetry,
humble and immortal, poetry,
returning, like dawn and the sunset.

Sometimes at evening there’s a face
that sees us from the deeps of a mirror.
Art must be that sort of mirror,
disclosing to each of us his face.

They say Ulysses, wearied of wonders,
wept with love on seeing Ithaca,
humble and green. Art is that Ithaca,
a green eternity, not wonders.

Art is endless like a river flowing,
passing, yet remaining, a mirror to the same
inconstant Heraclitus, who is the same
and yet another, like the river flowing.

–translated by Anthony Kerrigan