Tale quale

Jean-Léon Gérôme. Night, 1850

Mon, 27 May 2013 03:19:26 +0400

Jean-Léon Gérôme. Night, 1850

Jean-Léon Gérôme. Harem Women Feeding Pigeons In a Courtyard,...

Mon, 27 May 2013 02:12:43 +0400

Jean-Léon Gérôme. Harem Women Feeding Pigeons In a Courtyard, 1894

18 moments every backpacker experiences (via Matador Network)

Wed, 22 May 2013 02:26:07 +0400

18 moments every backpacker experiences (via Matador Network)

Love is a bird, she needs to flyLet all the hurt inside of you...

Sun, 19 May 2013 23:23:53 +0400

Love is a bird, she needs to fly
Let all the hurt inside of you die
You’re frozen when your heart’s not open

Photo

Sat, 18 May 2013 02:22:06 +0400

Wed, 15 May 2013 02:35:14 +0400

Twigs - How’s That

Mon, 06 May 2013 14:35:42 +0400

Twigs - How’s That

quiétude

Sat, 20 Apr 2013 15:51:00 +0400

quiétude

Noell S. Oszvald Ease & balance

Mon, 08 Apr 2013 22:07:09 +0400

Noell S. Oszvald

Ease & balance

LOVELY!

Thu, 04 Apr 2013 16:09:39 +0400

LOVELY!

"Once you realise that the road is the goal and that you are always on the road, not to reach a goal,..."

Tue, 02 Apr 2013 23:36:36 +0400

“Once you realise that the road is the goal and that you are always on the road, not to reach a goal, but to enjoy its beauty and its wisdom, life ceases to be a task and becomes natural and simple, in itself an ecstasy.”

- Nisargadatta

Support

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 18:50:40 +0400

Support

justbeenjustin: High on life… Stimulated on existence So right...

Tue, 19 Mar 2013 02:39:22 +0400

justbeenjustin:

High on life…
Stimulated on existence

So right in a moment

Surrender

Sun, 06 Jan 2013 02:27:21 +0400

Surrender

Sun, 30 Dec 2012 02:25:05 +0400

John Collier “Lilith”

Wed, 26 Dec 2012 03:21:20 +0400

John Collier “Lilith”

Portico Quartet - Steepless

Thu, 20 Dec 2012 20:10:36 +0400

Portico Quartet - Steepless

Mon, 17 Dec 2012 04:50:00 +0400

The Rose of Jericho

Wed, 14 Nov 2012 19:45:00 +0400

As a sign of their belief in the life eternal, in the resurrection from the dead, the peoples of the ancient East placed the Rose of Jericho on graves and tombs.

It is strange that they called this tangle of dry, thorny stalks a rose, much less the Rose of Jericho, like as it is to our tumbleweed, that severe, desolate sprout, found only in the stony sands below the Dead Sea, in the deserted foothills of Sinai. But legend has it that it was thus named by the Venerable Savva, who chose for his monastery the fearsome Valley of Fire, a naked, dead ravine in the desert of Judea. He adorned this symbol of rebirth, given him in the form of a wild thistle, with the sweetest metaphor he knew.

For that thistle is truly miraculous. Plucked and carried away by some wanderer a thousand miles from its home, for years it may lie gray, dry, dead. But when placed in water, it immediately begins to unravel, to reveal tiny leaves and a rosy color. The poor human heart is overjoyed, relieved: there is no death in the world, no end to that which was, which once lived! There are no partings, no losses, so long as my soul lives, my Love, my Memory!

In the same way am I comforted, bringing to life inside myself those ancient, light-ﬁlled lands, where my own foot once trod, those blessed days, when the sun of my life stood at high noon, when, in the prime of my hope and strength, hand in hand with the one whom God ordained to be my companion until death, I was coming to the end of my ﬁrst distant wandering, my marital journey, which was at the same time a pilgrimage to the Holy Land of our Lord Jesus Christ. In the great calm of age-old quiet and oblivion its expanses lay before us — the valleys of Galilee, the Judean hills, the salt and brimstone of the Pentapolis. But it was spring, and along all our paths bloomed anemones and poppies, just as they did in the time of Rachael, the same lilies of the ﬁeld, gloriously arrayed, the same birds in the sky sang with the blessed lack of concern taught by the parable in the Gospel…

The Rose of Jericho. In the living water of the heart, in the pure liquid of love, grief, and tenderness, I immerse the roots and stalks of my past — and my secret grass miraculously grows once more, once more. May the inevitable hour remain distant when that dew will be no more, when that heart will shrivel and dry up — and forever will the dust of oblivion cover the Rose of my Jericho.

I. A. Bunin

Trans. Christopher Tessone

1930

Tue, 13 Nov 2012 02:49:00 +0400