Yesterday Is But A Dream

“Look well to this day, for it is life, the very life of life. In it lies all the realities and verities of existence: the bliss of growth, the glory of action, splendor of beauty. For yesterday is but a dream, and tomorrow only a vision. But today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness and every tomorrow a vision of hope. Look well, therefore, to this day, for it and it alone is life! Such is the salutation of the dawn.”

Amity

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one's suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”

 

 

Andrew

It had been the third day straight that he had fallen asleep sobbing into his pillow, and this time it felt as if the tears would not stop flowing! His chest rose and fell in a slight tremble as he clutched his blanket tight about him in an attempt to stifle the onslaught of thoughts that harassed his mind. "I'm leaving first thing in the morning" he swore to himself, wiping the tears off his cheek with the heel of his hand. The sting of the cane seemed to leave stripes of pain across his arms and along the back of his legs. He had given up trying to soothe them with his hands but instead intended to use the burn as the fuel that would propel him toward his escape.

The boy flung the blanket off his body and rose in anger determined to make ready his belongings for his departure the following morning. "I can't wait that long" Andrew whispered to himself as he scurried off silently toward the closet where his backpack was folded and packed. He pulled it out and began shoving his clothing and toiletries into it. It was past midnight and the moon shone into his room through the lace, casting a yellowish tinge upon his face that glistened with the tears that fell from his brown eyes. The noise from his frantic movements and scurrying made it's way down the passage, into the room between the cleft of the door that was left ajar; and slid into his father's ears who lay asleep in a drunken stupor. The disturbance stirred the sleeper awake, forcing him to rise in a bout of rage that would no doubt be directed toward the culprit in the afore mentioned room.

Andrew who had now completed his packing began writing his note of departure when the door burst open admitting the fellow who fell victim to the clamor. His countenance resembled that of dark tempest at its apex in full fury! His brow was clouded and his dark eyes burned with a fire that even the greatest of beasts would recoil from. "What the hell do you think you're doing!?" came the voice that Andrew would later describe as thunder in the midst of an earthquake, it froze his writing and seemed to shine a light of great shame upon him that caught him so unaware that the answer he gave to his master was a stuttering procession of "I's" and "Um's". What followed was a repeat of what had caused him to cry himself to sleep for almost all his young life.

As Andrew's father shut the door after delivering the blows, the former coiled up like centipede when struck by a stone, and began rocking back and forth in a rhythm that mimicked the ebb and flow of his disturbed thoughts. The boy then looked up for a moment, calling forth strength from above. He sat thus for a moment or two before reaching for his backpack and coat and pushed his way out of his room and quietly found the key to the butler and door downstairs, unlocked both, and ran as if some force of fate gave speed to his feet. The wind flung his red coat back like a cape and the tears that welled up in his eyes blinded him so much so that he stopped to wipe them once more with heel of his hand. He hadn't given much thought to his destination, all he knew was that his legs would carry him to safety, as swallows do in the autumn when summoned by nature to leave their abode for a more accommodating  dwelling.

T. B.

Beautiful Things

"Inside the unlocked trunk was a blue sculpture. It looked like falling water, but it was really glass, perfectly clear, polished, flawless.

"What does it do" I asked her at the time. "It doesn't do anything obvious," she said, and she smiled, but the smile was tight, like she was afraid of something.

"But it might be able to do something in here." She tapped her chest, right over her sternum. "Beautiful things sometimes do"

T.B

All The Broken Things

I was deeply touched by a particular scene in Veronica Roth's book FOUR, where Tobias Eaton steals a moment of solace for himself in his room. He reaches down and retrieves from under his bed a chest of items that he had collected over his young life, and these items, hidden from his father for so long, captured in a moment the ideal that there is a profound beauty in all things that are broken and overlooked. And so as I read and re-read that particular scene I thought about all the "broken" things that I (if I were to own such a chest) would place in it; and here are but a few:

A broken pen: To me the pen is the epitome of defiance and bravery. It is one of two instruments which I believe can turn the course of destiny in a single stroke. Many wars have been started or ended by an eloquently worded sentence, and likewise many hearts have been won and lost by an equally constructed phrase. One should never underestimate the power of the written word I have been told, and I for one do not. The scribes of history have placed eternal notation which they turned to words which in turn formed phrases down upon stone, parchment and paper, since the beginning of time, and without them; we would have no collection of what came before us, what is, and what may be. So the pen in my chest is a tribute to the written word and to remind myself that without the ability to record my thoughts, they would disappear into that deep chasm called obscurity.

A shattered light bulb: A broken bulb, an item that can fill a room with such light which can chase the darkness away. I would place this item in my chest because perhaps there must be a certain level of darkness in order for me to find the light. This bulb would remind that no matter how far I stray into the darkness, I can always choose to turn on the light. 

A Broken Bow: I would place a broken bow of a violin into my chest because I believe it is, along with the ability to write, an item used to capture one's thoughts almost perfectly. I have always been fascinated by the grace with which a violinist can use a simple bow to draw forth a combination of sounds that can move one deeply. 

A forgotten pocket-watch: Time to me is a concept that seems to be ever-elusive and one which I seem to always loose, but I've found that if I can apply William Blake's concept about eternity existing in an hour, I can fully capture time's elusive nature in a moment. And this is why I would place a discarded pocket watch into my treasured chest. Time can be lost, but we are always gifted with the present moment.

Withered violet petals: "From the withered tree, a flower blooms" this profound proverb sums up the nature of transformation and resiliency, and to me, represents everything that Tobias placed in his chest beneath his bed. It represents the ability to rise strong after falling. The shrivelled petals represent the revolutionary ideal that we can make a choice not to be callused by harsh treatment, but rather choose to bloom beautifully like the violet in spring, after a harsh winter.

Thank you Tobias Eaton, you have shown me what it truly means to be a courageous young man.

<4

T.B 

My Fear Landscape

"I hold the syringe up to the light and notice the contents of the serum glow a golden-orange in the dying light. I press down on the plunger making sure there are no air bubbles in the liquid before I insert it into my neck. The liquid squirts out in drops, I then dab some antiseptic solution onto the spot where the needle will enter. You will have to face your fears and conquer them I hear, it's FOUR's voice. Be brave. I am brave I say to myself, before inserting the needle into my neck. The prick of the needle stings me, but then it numbs down and I can feel the serum working it's way through my body.

I close my eyes and let my body succumb to the sedative, I look around and notice my reflection in one of the panes in the control room. The tattoo on my spine is visible from the collar of my vest and it shimmers jet-black in the sun, a flame burning in the palms of a pair of outstretched hands, the child of my old faction, and my new. And beneath those hands, the words Courage. Compassion. Connection. 

I turn on my heal and head toward the reclined seat in the middle of the room, and there shut my eyes slowly. My back and my arms and my legs go numb as they sink into the leather of the seat and I drift off listlessly. When I finally open my eyes, I am engulfed in a blanket of black. The fear of the dark I say to myself. My heart races a bit, but then I remember how I dealt with the dark when I was a child. I reach out my arm and feel my way through it. "Embrace the darkness" my grandmother once told me, and that's exactly what I do. I shuffle into the abyss with my fingers acting as receptors and my ears as radars. In no time my eyes adjust to the darkness and they make out the silhouette of a neighborhood at twilight. As I walk, I notice a street form before me and a row of grey houses take shape on my left and on my right. It looks familiar. It is familiar! I'm in the Abnegation section of the city ,and I am walking down the street where my old house is. The street is deadly quiet, save for the distant noise of dogs barking which echo off the chalky walls.

I walk down the street with certainty, I know that I am here for a reason, I need to find something. I turn left down into an avenue, and there I hear the screech of a gate swinging open. The sound is followed by a plethora of low growls, and as I turn back I notice a pack of rabid dogs charging toward me with their mouths foaming. I run, even though my legs turn to jelly. The fear of dogs I hear myself say . I can't get far with my baggy grey pants which weigh me down, so I stop, turn and face the onslaught. The first dog that reaches me dives for my leg, and tears away at the hem of my pants, the second one leaps up and goes for my throat, but I stick my forearm out and let it grab a hold of that. An act of sacrifice I suppose. I wrestle with the hell-hounds until I remember what FOUR told me in the cafeteria: stay calm and breathe, the mind knows what to do. The body will follow. So I count to four, ironically, and swing a kick into the ribs of the dog tearing away at my leg, and it lets go if my pants in a painful cry. As for the dog that is dragging me down by arm, I grab a hold of its hind leg with my free hand and fling it upward, sending it hurling into the air. It lands on its neck painfully and the landscape changes. I was in the Abnegation section for a reason, and that reason was to find my courage.

The world changes once more and now I am in The Pit, and it is crowded with the faces and the bodies of the Dauntless. They laugh boisterously, and I smile too as notice their smiles, but as I approach them their faces turn to stone and they turn their backs on me in disgust, sneering as they do. "What's happening?" I ask a girl in a leather jacket to my right, who doesn't respond but who instead yanks her shoulder from my outstretched hand. "Why are you even here?" she spits "You don't belong here Stiff!" she finishes, before her friend beside her who has a large nose ring adds: "Go away! We need people who will support us and help us grow!". I feel the pang in my chest where my heart is at those words, and I begin to crumble from within. I want to curl up and shrink, but I clench my fists, stifling my shaking hands instead. I know this fear, but I don't announce it and I choose rather to lift my head up and walk through the crowd of faces. My worth is inherent, and is not dependent on factors without I whisper to myself.

The crowd of Dauntless evaporate into a cloud of grey smoke, which gets darker and thicker until I find myself sitting prostrate in a dingy room that has a faint fecal smell to it. The floor is ice cold and the walls around me stand ominous like a barrier separating me from my freedom. It is dark in here, I can't even make out the outline of my hand. I hear something growling to my left, that sound is followed by another growl to my right, and finally as I turn to look ahead I see a pair of great yellow eyes staring straight at me. The three beasts approach, cloaked in fur and fury. The fear of being ambushed. I shake, but then I recall what FOUR expressly instructed us to remember during training: Adapt. And so I do. I wait for the first attacker who dives at me, trying to grapple my arms. I duck and launch a well-time kick into the things mi-drift, the wretched thing heaves as I parry a blow from the creature to my left with my arm, and punch it in the face. The monster recoils in pain as it falls defeated to the floor. I stand waiting for the final attacker to launch at me, but it simply looks at me with it's treacherous eyes, and I notice it's countenance change into that of a docile, defeated thing. It then shrinks away into the darkness in a whimper. When you have the courage to face your fears, they have no power over you

I slouch down against the wall and lay my head against the stony barrier thinking of a way to escape this imaginary prison. I close my eyes and allow my thoughts to carry me off into the blissful paradise that is my happiest memories. I smile as I recall the smell of the closely cropped grass on the lawn before my house. I chuckle silently as I draw from my mind the sound of my mother's laughter on the bright summer mornings as our family broke our fast over plain bread and unsweetened oatmeal. Memories are the scribe of the soul I read somewhere, and never has it been more true than in this moment. The memories linger for a time until I hear the sweet sound of a bird chirping above. I open my eyes and notice a red robin perched between the bars of the window. The bird then floats down into the cell and circles there as if it were looking for a place to land. I smile and stick out my hand, and the bird picks up the Que and places it's feet delicately on my fingers. The bird of paradise alights itself on the hand that does not grasp, I say to myself. The red robin prances about my palm and I laugh as it bobs its head as it slowly creeps up my arm until it finds it's way to my shoulder, and then finally to my ear where it whispers: The Brave may not live forever, but the cautious do not live at all! The beautiful bird then floats away as the walls around me crumble and fall into an ocean that has become wild beneath a stormy sky.

I now stand upon a jagged rock in the ocean, the storm above me rages and the water from above pours down upon my naked body in droves. I squint my eyes against the storm and notice before me a great wave that is making its way toward the tiny rock I'm standing on. The wave looks like a black curtain topped with a crown of white foam, it descends, my whole body tenses, and I can't make sense of what to do. I close my eyes, spread out my arms and welcome the wave as I would an old friend. In that moment I recall what the red robin told me. "Be Brave" I announce, as the water comes crashing down on me.

I wake up in the chair in a cold sweat with my heart is racing. I wipe my brow as I look about, still dazed, until it dawns on me that I have just faced my fears. I am Dauntless! 

"I'll say it one last time: Be Brave"- Veronica Roth

T.B

Crystal

"Adversity is the diamond dust with which heaven polishes its jewels"

 It takes an extremely brave person to look their challenges dead in the face and say try me! This is the particular attitude that a good friend-no-sister of mine has adopted when the pressures of the world both within and without, alight themselves on her heart. Crystal stands stoic amidst great storms, and like an eagle, rises above them every single time! She has this divine ability to tap into what seems to be boundless wisdom, and from it, retrieves the truth, and bestows it on someone without hurting them. It's and oddity since in most cases the truth feels like a piercing dagger.

 It has never been more apparent to me that her wisdom stems from a place deep within her heart where she has weathered the blows of life with celestial grace like a Queen. She reminds of one of my favorite heroines, Eowyn, a Shield Maiden whose courage and fortitude in the midst of war was second to none. I intend on keeping this short as I feel words can't describe enough the admiration and adoration I have for this particular sage, so I'll end this by saying that the wings of an angel are found on the backs of the least like people, and you are on of those people to me, Crystal! Thank you for your constant guidance. And I hope that you are blessed perpetually, and that you find it within yourself to always see eternity in an hour, and heaven in a wild flower

Your distant brother
Tshepo.