dans-les-arbres

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einn

Norðurfjörður / July 2016 / Iceland

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We climb onward, toward the sky, and with every step my spirits rise. As I walk along, my stave striking the ground, I leave the tragic sense of things behind; I begin to smile, infused with a sense of my own foolishness, with an acceptance of the failures of this journey as well as of its wonders, acceptance of all that I might meet upon my path. I know that this transcendence will be fleeting, but while it lasts, I spring along the path as if set free; so light do I feel that I might be back in the celestial snows.

Peter Matthiessen, The Snow Leopard

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Reuben Wu 

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Dream Chapter, Marta Berens

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When two people love each other, they don’t love in the same way. One of them is strong, the other, weaker. And the weaker is always the one who loves without reckoning… without reservation.

The Sacrifice (1986) dir. by Andrei Tarkovsky (via violentwavesofemotion)

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Marta Berens

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PATAGONIA 092_

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Iceland by Adrienne Pitts

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Someday Somewhere

Somewhere

Song and lyrics: Jófríður Ákadóttir

  We should have left our hearts in the forest

where they first met.

We take them back but now they are broken

and start to slowly forget.

  And if I don’t see you now

I’ll see you another year

we will be reunited

someday somewhere.

  And our love it will fade

but we know it was there

we can make it reappear

someday somewhere.

  Cherish and embrace it

appreciate the time we got

I ask you to forget me not

someday somewhere.

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Julia Butterfly Hill lived in a 180 ft tall, roughly 1500 year old California Redwood tree for 738 days between December 10, 1997 and December 18, 1999. Hill lived in the tree, affectionately known as “Luna,” to prevent Pacific Lumber Company loggers from cutting it down.

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an angel on a metro-north train

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We sleep as we walk Walk as we dream We dream of where we walk And we walk to where we dream We are always lost

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Sadness gives depth. Happiness gives height. Sadness gives roots. Happiness gives branches. Happiness is like a tree going into the sky, and sadness is like the roots going down into the womb of the earth. Both are needed, and the higher a tree goes, the deeper it goes, simultaneously. The bigger the tree, the bigger will be its roots. In fact, it is always in proportion. That's its balance.

Osho

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Mountain Streams Jonathan Smith

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When a memory comes alive, it becomes fluent. It speaks to you in tongues you never thought that existed. Accuracy ceases to matter and the sublimity of your most naked experiences echoes through every cell of your body. When a memory comes alive, it becomes mythical and transparent; it pierces your veins with colours, smells and that particularly rhythmical sensation of constant movement. Impeccable in its palliating formlessness, it perhaps screams or whispers. And if you have the capacity to hear, the wholeness of what a memory consists of, stays with you. It nestles in that very exclusive and deeply private spot of your heart and it allows you to fondle it from within. Or it leaves you broken, it dismantles your ego and crushes your selfhood. It leaves you thinking that all truth is dark ; you start questioning why you still can’t shake it off your head, it swallows the sum of your parts one by one with alarming impatience, it does not quite forgive your softness. It devours. It exhausts the fuck out of your system. It feels so unimaginably real that, somehow, it becomes you. And whether its intensity outlives you or not, it’s still passionately persistent and affecting your own little “reality” show. When a memory comes alive – you are.

All These Things You Wish You’d Say (via violentwavesofemotion)

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