Observations and Expressions of Life
I particularly liked this picture. I’m not a great photographer but sometimes you capture an image that is both beautiful and poignant.
An old lady walking along a path bathed in Autumn light.
The leaves giving off the last of their summer show.
This is where I am in my life.
Gone is the excessive energy of youth.
Replaced with serenity.
Song Beyond My Wildest Dreams by Mark Knopfler and Emmy Lou Harris.
Blagdon Lake UK
Kindness a word like any other spills from lips.
The Alchemist reveals Kindness, oh such kindnesses and the word is defined.
In the light of Kindness Humility is revealed.
To stand in front of Kindness what a gift.
The art of the Alchemist.
Poem by Steve Hammersley
I was going through my notes today and I realised there were a number of beautiful scribblings or expressions that amazed me when I wrote them.
I had been wondering what to do with them and thats how this blog was born. I’m not sure anyone else will find them of any interest but at least it’s somewhere for me to keep them in one place.
The pictures are generally ones that I have taken and I will give more detail about them as I get to terms with the workings of the blog.
The first entry, I’m sure that some of you might spot, is from William Shakespear. I never much liked him at school but the older I get the more fascinating I find how he observed life.
To be, or not to be- that is the question:
Whether ’tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and arrows of outrageous fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them. To die- to sleep-
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heartache, and the thousand natural shocks
That flesh is heir to. ‘Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To die- to sleep.
To sleep- perchance to dream: ay, there’s the rub!
For in that sleep of death what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There’s the respect
That makes calamity of so long life.
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
Th’ oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s contumely,
The pangs of despis’d love, the law’s delay,
The insolence of office, and the spurns
That patient merit of th’ unworthy takes,
When he himself might his quietus make
With a bare bodkin? Who would these fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death-
The undiscover’d country, from whose bourn
No traveller returns- puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprises of great pith and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry
And lose the name of action.- Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia!- Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins rememb’red.