Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy . . . but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird. – Harper Lee
The world is made of God.
We live in the ocean of God’s breath,
His very words.
We are all artists.
We all speak creation.
Our words are our greatest art form,
make sure they are painting a masterpiece.
God is love is life is truth is word is love is…
every little thing is connected to each other.
Everything I really needed to know
I learned from the ocean
and the trees.
introduced me to the angels.
Acorns were my very first teachers
the finest flock of seagulls
were my most recent.
We are the temple.
We includes the universe
we find ourselves in.
We are brothers and sisters
to stars and starships
It is a sad truth, but we have lost the faculty of giving lovely names to things. Names are everything. I never quarrel with actions, my one quarrel is with words. That is the reason I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for.
– Oscar Wilde
It is strange to be here. The mystery never leaves you alone. Behind your image, below your words, above your thoughts, the silence of another world waits. A world lives within you. No one else can bring you news of this inner world. Through the opening of the mouth, we bring out sounds from the mountain beneath the soul. These sounds are words. The world is full of words. There are so many talking all the time, loudly, quietly, in rooms, on streets, on television, on radio, in the paper, in books. The noise of words keeps what we call the world there for us. We take each other’s sounds and make patterns, predictions, benedictions, and blasphemies. Each day, our tribe of language holds what we call the world together. Yet the uttering of the word reveals how each of us relentlessly creates. Everyone is an artist. Each person brings sound out of silence and coaxes the invisible to become visible.
– John O’Donohue
who sits, enthralled, perfectly still as a bird
watcher, saying nothing, offering only
the merest whispers, hidden in this world
so cleverly as to seem natural,
so as not to frighten us