When The Wind Takes A Tree In Its Arms
Three-quarters of the world dances all night,
the waves moving as they do on the seas.
And when the wind takes a tree in its arms,
what happens then?
The green branches of the earth may seem to
reach out to touch us if we near them in a forest,
a meadow, a field.
Does not all sway to a rhythm that began long
before we stood upright?
We are in the mountain's home, just guests.
Guests of the sky, the streams, the giving soil
we all nurse from.
Would not you be happier following their example -
bowing in unseen ways, then rising up?
How can we bow in an unseen way? How can we discover our purpose and calling in a world that is strangely beautiful and yet does not always confer freedom? In Mary Haskell November 23, 1912 letter she writes to Gibran: "Inwardly something in me has been saying to you, "Kahlil Gibran, you shall continue to walk by your own light. I don't even want you to be a poet or a painter: I want you to be whatever you are led or impelled to become. If you find yourself disappointing - drop self-expectations. What you are turning into you cannot expect to know, but you can trust it, and believe that if it is other than you planned, it will also be better than you planned - however different. Nothing you become will disappoint me; I have no preconception that I'd like to see you be or do. I have no desire to foresee you, only to discover you. I love you."
This is the best type of love, love that illuminates the brightest spots of your own soul. Love that ignites you to shimmer, to shine, without any expectation of how that fire should be lit or when and where the flame should burn. This is true love, and Mary had that for Gibran. She would take him, writer, poet, painter, friend.
Three-quarters of the world dances all night,
the waves moving as they do on the seas.
And when the wind takes a tree in its arms,
what happens then?
The green branches of the earth may seem to
reach out to touch us if we near them in a forest,
a meadow, a field.
Does not all sway to a rhythm that began long
before we stood upright?
We are in the mountain's home, just guests.
Guests of the sky, the streams, the giving soil
we all nurse from.
Would not you be happier following their example -
bowing in unseen ways, then rising up?
How can we bow in an unseen way? How can we discover our purpose and calling in a world that is strangely beautiful and yet does not always confer freedom? In Mary Haskell November 23, 1912 letter she writes to Gibran: "Inwardly something in me has been saying to you, "Kahlil Gibran, you shall continue to walk by your own light. I don't even want you to be a poet or a painter: I want you to be whatever you are led or impelled to become. If you find yourself disappointing - drop self-expectations. What you are turning into you cannot expect to know, but you can trust it, and believe that if it is other than you planned, it will also be better than you planned - however different. Nothing you become will disappoint me; I have no preconception that I'd like to see you be or do. I have no desire to foresee you, only to discover you. I love you."
This is the best type of love, love that illuminates the brightest spots of your own soul. Love that ignites you to shimmer, to shine, without any expectation of how that fire should be lit or when and where the flame should burn. This is true love, and Mary had that for Gibran. She would take him, writer, poet, painter, friend.
Giving Up (2006), Ingrid Michaelson
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