Wild Geese by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

For a hundred miles through the desert,

repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your

body love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours,

and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun

and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese,

high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the world offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese,

harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

The Guest House by Rumi

This being human is a guest house.

Every morning a new arrival.

A joy, a depression, a meanness,

some momentary awareness comes

as an unexpected visitor.

Welcome and entertain them all!

Even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,

who violently sweep your house

empty of its furniture,

still, treat each guest honorably.

He may be clearing you out

for some new delight.

The dark thought, the shame, the malice,

meet them at the door laughing,

and invite them in.

Be grateful for whoever comes,

because each has been sent

as a guide from beyond.

To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf

What is the meaning of life?

That was all- a simple question;

one that tended to

close in on one with years,

the great revelation had never come.

The great revelation perhaps never did come.

Instead, there were little daily miracles,

illuminations, matches struck

unexpectedly in the dark;

here was one.

Love after Love by Derek Walcott

The time will come

when, with elation,

you will greet yourself arriving

at your own door, in your own mirror

and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

Give wine. Give bread, Give back your heart

to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored

for another, who knows you by heart.

Take down the love letters from the bookshelf

the photographs, the desperate notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

A word is dead by Emily Dickinson

A word is dead

When it is said,

Some say.

I say it just

Begins to live

That day.

Small Kindnesses by Danusha Laméris

I’ve been thinking about the way,

when you walk down a crowded aisle,

people pull in their legs to let you by.

Or how strangers still say “bless you”

when someone sneezes, a leftover

from the Bubonic plague.

“Don’t die,” we are saying.

And sometimes, when you spill lemons

from your grocery bag,

someone else will help you pick them up.

Mostly, we don’t want to harm each other.

We want to be handed our cup of coffee hot,

and to say thank you to the person handing it.

To smile at them and for them to smile back.

For the waitress to call us honey when she

sets down the bowl of clam chowder,

and for the driver in the red pick-up truck

to let us pass.

We have so little of each other, now.

So far from tribe and fire.

Only these brief moments of exchange.

What if they are the true dwelling of the holy,

these fleeting temples we make together

when we say,

“Here, have my seat,”

“Go ahead—you first,”

“I like your hat.”

“Hope” is the thing with feathers by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all

And sweetest in the gale is heard

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm

I’ve heard it in the chillest land

And on the strangest sea

Yet never in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me.

When I am among the trees by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

they give off such hints of gladness,

I would almost say that they save me,

and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,

in which I have goodness, and discernment,

and never hurry through the world

but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves

and call out, "Stay awhile."

The light flows from their branches.

And they call again, "It's simple," they say,

"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine.”

Hurricane by Mary Oliver

It didn’t behave

like anything you had ever imagined.

The wind tore at the trees,

the rain fell for days slant and hard.

The back of the hand to everything.

I watched the trees bow

and their leaves fall

and crawl back into the earth.

As though, that was that.

This was one hurricane I lived through,

the other one was of a different sort,

and lasted longer.

Then I felt my own leaves giving up and falling.

The back of the hand to everything.

But listen now to what happened

to the actual trees;

toward the end of that summer

they pushed new leaves

from their stubbed limbs.

It was the wrong season, yes,

but they couldn’t stop.

They looked like telephone poles

and didn’t care.

And after the leaves came blossoms.

For some things there are no wrong seasons.

Which is what I dream of for me.

Mornings at Blackwater Pond by Mary Oliver

For years, every morning, I drank

from Blackwater Pond.

It was flavored with oak leaves and also,

no doubt, the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me

from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is

that the past is the past,

and the present is what your life is,

and you are capable

of choosing what that will be,

darling citizen.

So come to the pond,

or the river of your imagination,

or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.

O me! O Life! by Walt Whitman

Oh me! Oh life! of the questions of these

recurring,

Of the endless trains of the faithless, of cities

fill’d with the foolish,

Of myself forever reproaching myself, (for who

more foolish than I, and who more faithless?)

Of eyes that vainly crave the light, of the

objects mean, of the struggle ever renew’d,

Of the poor results of all, of the plodding and

sordid crowds I see around me,

Of the empty and useless years of the rest,

with the rest me intertwined,

The question, O me! so sad, recurring—What

good amid these, O me, O life?

Answer.

That you are here—that life exists and identity,

That the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse.

Paper Boats by Rabindranath Tagore

Day by day I float my paper boats

one by one down the running stream.

In big black letters I write my name on them

and the name of the village where I live.

I hope that someone in some strange land

will find them and know who I am.

I load my little boats with shiuli flowers from

our garden, and hope that

these blooms of the dawn

will be carried safely to land in the night.

I launch my paper boats

and look up into the sky

and see the little clouds setting

their white bulging sails.

I know not what playmate of mine in the sky

sends them down the air to race

with my boats!

When night comes I bury my face in my arms

and dream that my paper boats float on

and on under the midnight stars.

The fairies of sleep are sailing in them,

and the lading is their baskets full of dreams.

Walden by Henry David Thoreau

I went to the woods because

I wanted to live deliberately.

I wanted to live deep

and suck out all the marrow of life.

To put to rout all that was not life,

and not discover that I had not lived.

The Summer Day by Mary Oliver

…Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?

The Seven Ages of Man by William Shakespeare

All the world’s a stage,

And all the men and women merely players;

They have their exits and their entrances;

And one man in his time plays many parts,

His acts being seven ages. At first the infant,

Mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms;

And then the whining school-boy, with his satchel

And shining morning face, creeping like snail

Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,

Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad

Made to his mistress’ eyebrow. Then a soldier,

Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the pard,

Jealous in honour, sudden and quick in quarrel,

Seeking the bubble reputation

Even in the cannon’s mouth. And then the justice,

In fair round belly with good capon lin’d,

With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,

Full of wise saws and modern instances;

And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts

Into the lean and slipper’d pantaloon,

With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;

His youthful hose, well sav’d, a world too wide

For his shrunk shank; and his big manly voice,

Turning again toward childish treble, pipes

And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,

That ends this strange eventful history,

Is second childishness and mere oblivion;

Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

But I can’t by W.H. Auden

Time will say nothing but I told you so,

Time only knows the price we have to pay;

If I could tell you I would let you know.

If we should weep when clowns put on their show,

If we should stumble when musicians play,

Time will say nothing but I told you so.

There are no fortunes to be told, although,

Because I love you more than I can say,

If I could tell you I would let you know.

The winds must come from somewhere when they blow,

There must be reasons why the leaves decay;

Time will say nothing but I told you so.

Perhaps the roses really want to grow,

The vision seriously intends to stay;

If I could tell you I would let you know.

Suppose the lions all get up and go,

And the brooks and soldiers run away;

Will Time say nothing but I told you so?

If I could tell you I would let you know.

Dead Poets Society

We are dreaming of tomorrow

and tomorrow isn’t coming

We are dreaming of a glory that

we don’t really want

We are dreaming of a new day

when the new day’s here already

We are running from the battle

when it’s one that must be fought.

And still we sleep.

We are listening for the calling

but never really heeding

Hoping for the future

when the future’s only plans

Dreaming of the wisdom that

we are dodging daily

Praying for a saviour

when salvation’s in our hands.

And still we sleep.

And still we dream,

And still we fear,

And still we pray,

And still we sleep.

Life is What We Make It by Edgar A. Guest

Life is a jest;

Take the delight of it.

Laughter is best;

Sing through the night of it.

Swiftly the tear

And the hurt and the ache of it

Find us down here;

Life must be what we make of it.

Life is a song;

Dance to the thrill of it.

Grief's hours are long,

And cold is the chill of it.

Joy is man's need;

Let us smile for the sake of it.

This be our creed:

Life must be what we make of it.

Life is a soul;

The virtue and vice of it,

Strife for a goal,

And man's strength is the price of it.

Your life and mine,

The bare bread and the cake of it

End in this line:

Life must be what we make of it.

Ulysses by Alfred Lord Tennyson

…Come, my friends,

'T is not too late to seek a newer world.

Push off, and sitting well in order smite

The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds

To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths

Of all the western stars, until I die.

It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,

And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.

Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'

We are not now that strength which in old days

Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are;

One equal temper of heroic hearts,

Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

Why do we make art? We write books and poems, dance and paint, take photographs, sing, do makeup, knit, make sculptures, act and it goes on. But why do we do it? Just to be seen? Or is it all for ourselves? Well, I think we need to ask ourselves why art matters in the first place.

A few days ago, just after I published my first piece here, I realized something. Yes, I did write down the things I care about and I did it for myself but it wasn’t just all that. I also wanted to be seen. I was curious about others’ opinion but more importantly I wanted to be able to make difference in someone’s life. I wanted to touch someone’s soul and heart. Because that’s what art is for, right?

Do you think human creativity matters? Most people don’t spend a lot of time thinking about poetry. They have a life to live, and they’re not really concerned with anybody’s poems until their father dies, they go to a funeral, you lose a child, somebody breaks your heart, they don’t love you anymore, and all of a sudden, you’re desperate for making sense out of this life, and, “Has anybody ever felt this bad before? How did they come out of this cloud?” Or the inverse. Something great. You meet somebody and your heart explodes. “Did anybody feel like this before? What is happening to me?” And that’s when art is not a luxury, it’s actually sustenance. We need it.

— Ethan Hawke

Art exists to help people. I say, it is a journey to understand both ourselves and others. It gives you a kind of path: a way to connect with people, but it is also a way of getting to know yourself.

We are here on this star in space to try to help one another. And first we need to survive, then we have to thrive. To thrive, to express ourselves: we have to know ourselves. What do you love? And if you get close to what you love, who you are is revealed to you, and it expands.

— Ethan Hawke

I believe art is the most important thing in one’s life. It’s the feeling when you watch a movie, and you start to see things differently, then you finally make that choice you were once so afraid to make. It’s the feeling when you see a painting and suddenly you are in it, or you read a book and your whole world shifts. It’s the feeling of taking a photograph to freeze a moment in time, so whenever you look back at it, you can travel far away. It’s the feeling when you sing a song and remember a late summer evening from your childhood.

And you know you are not alone in this. When you see that painting, you know that the one who painted it once felt just like you or when you read that poem, you can feel the pain and the love.

I have nature and art and poetry, and if that is not enough, what is enough?

— Vincent Van Gogh

This is the point: When we look back all we remember is art and the way it made us feel.

Art is important because it allows us to grow and explore. It’s the way we heal each other and ourselves. It doesn’t matter if it’s good or bad. And there is no right way to do it. There is no path. You have to make it yourself. You have to know yourself.

As you start to walk on the way, the way appears.

— Rumi

So try new things. Paint something. Try the things you never thought you would do. Dance now and then. Do that one thing you’ve been procrastinating on, the one you know will make you happy. Write it down. Play the fool. You never know what those experiences might bring to you. You might feel again. You might love again. Welcome every opportunity. Do what you love and find what makes you happy. And to do that, make art, as every human has done since the beginning of time. Because, after all, we all are desperate making sense out of this life.

We don't read and write poetry because it's cute. We read and write poetry because we are members of the human race. And the human race is filled with passion. And medicine, law, business, engineering, these are noble pursuits and necessary to sustain life. But poetry, beauty, romance, love, these are what we stay alive for. To quote from Whitman, "O me! O life!... of the questions of these recurring; of the endless trains of the faithless... of cities filled with the foolish; what good amid these, O me, O life?" Answer. That you are here - that life exists, and identity; that the powerful play goes on and you may contribute a verse. What will your verse be?

— Dead Poets Society

Love, Ciel.

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Lately, I’ve been struggling to feel like I used to. I thought the best version of myself already stayed behind. So I did everything I could to return to who I was, but nothing felt the same, and even the things I used to love had lost their meaning. No matter how hard I tried, I was no longer the same person. I felt lost in an endless cycle.

One day, I decided to watch a series I constantly delayed: The Good Place. It touched my heart and soul so deeply that it changed how I see things forever. It didn’t solve all my problems or give me an answer. But is there an actual answer at all? An answer to everything. An answer that can show us a way in this universe when we feel lost.

Well, the thing is, life isn’t about answers. It is about the journey. It’s about trying, failing and trying again. Life is finding a meaning even when you feel lost in a cycle of routines where nothing seems to make sense anymore. It isn’t just a puzzle you can solve in one day, but it is a process. You wake up every day and you solve it again. It is finding a rock that is your own and choosing to push that one rock uphill every day.

One must imagine Sisyphus is happy.

—The Myth of Sisyphus, Albert Camus

The important thing isn’t finding an answer and a sense of completeness, but it is finding the peace that comes from having tried enough. Because to be human is to make mistakes and to try again. And so, I decided to try. And now, when I look back, I can say, “I lived.”

I went to the woods because I wanted to live deliberately.

I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life.

To put to rout all that was not life, and not discover that I had not lived.

—Walden, Henry David Thoreau

The Good Place emphasizes; the uncertainty, the importance of finding a meaning in this uncertainty and sharing that meaning with others.

If there were an answer I could give you to how the universe works, it wouldn't be special. It would just be machinery fulfilling its cosmic design. It would just be a big, dumb food processor. But since nothing seems to make sense, when you find something or someone that does, it's euphoria.

— The Good Place

The series presents the absence of absolute answers not as deficiency, but as a fundamental condition of ethical living. Like Sisyphus, the characters create meaning within meaninglessness. And as T. M. Scanlon states in What We Owe to Each Other “Working out the terms of moral justification is an unending task.” However, it becomes meaningful through connections with others.

Why choose to be good every day if there is no guaranteed reward we can count on, now or in the afterlife? I argue that we choose to be good because of our bonds with other people and our innate desire to treat them with dignity. Simply put, we are not in this alone.

—The Good Place

In the end, there may be thousands of answers to meaning or no answer at all, but what matters isn’t the answer but it is trying and trying together. We must make choices with accepting that uncertainty because one way or another there will be an ending. Not everything has an answer in life, and that’s okay. There is nothing more human than not knowing what the future holds. Being grateful for the moment and for the journey is what remains. So we mustn’t miss anything along the way and hold on to all the love we have. Trying is what we owe to ourselves and to each other.

And I will leave you with this beautiful quote:

Picture a wave. In the ocean. You can see it, measure it, its height, the way the sunlight refracts when it passes through. And it's there. And you can see it, you know what it is. It's a wave.

And then it crashes in the shore and it's gone. But the water is still there. The wave was just a different way for the water to be, for a little while. The wave returns to the ocean, where it came from and where it's supposed to be.

The wave returns to the ocean. What the ocean does with the water after that is anyone’s guess… The true joy is in the mystery.

—The Good Place

Remember, everything is fine.

Love, Ciel.

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