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If you come to me as a victim I will not support you. But I will have the courage to walk with you through the pain that you are suffering.

I will put you in the fire, I will undress you, and I will sit you on the earth. I will bathe you with herbs, I will purge you, and you will vomit the rage and the darkness inside you. I’ll bang your body with good herbs, and I’ll put you to lay in the grass, face up to the sky.

Then I will blow your crown to clean the old memories that make you repeat the same behavior. I will blow your forehead to scare away the thoughts that cloud your vision. I will blow your throat to release the knot that won’t let you talk. I will blow your heart to scare fear, so that it goes far away where it cannot find you. I will blow your solar plexus to extinguish the fire of the hell you carry inside, and you will know peace. I will blow with fire your belly to burn the attachments, and the love that was not. I will blow away the lovers that left you, the children that never came. I will blow your heart to make you warm, to rekindle your desire to feel, create and start again. I will blow with force your vagina or your penis, to clean the sexual door to your soul. I will blow away the garbage that you collected trying to love what did not wanted to be loved. I will use the broom, and the sponge, and the rag, and safely clean all the bitterness inside you. I will blow your hands to destroy the ties that prevent you from creating. I will blow your feet to dust and erase the footprints memories, so you can never return to that bad place. I will turn your body, so your face will kiss the earth. I’ll blow your spine from the root to the neck to increase your strength and help you walk upright. And I will let you rest.

After this you will cry, and after crying you will sleep, And you will dream beautiful and meaningful dreams, and when you wake up I’ll be waiting for you. I will smile at you, and you will smile back I will offer you food that you will eat with pleasure, tasting life, and I will thank you. Because what I’m offering today, was offered to me before when darkness lived within me. And after I was healed, I felt the darkness leaving, and I cried.

Then we will walk together, and I will show you my garden, and my plants, and I will take you to the fire again. And will talk together in a single voice with the blessing of the earth. And we will shout to the forest the desires of your heart. And the fire will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together. And the mountains will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together. And the rivers will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together. And the wind will listen and whisper the echo, and we will create hope together. And then we will bow before the fire, and we will call upon all the visible and invisible guardians. And you will say thank you to all of them. And you will say thank you to yourself. And you will say thank you to yourself. And you will say thank you to yourself.

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The Promise of a Shaman

Anonymous

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When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort. And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair and cried to the pool and said, “We do not wonder that you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.’ "But was Narcissus beautiful?’ said the pool. "Who should know better than you?’ answered the Oreads. "Us did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own beauty.’ And the pool answered, "But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored.’

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The Disciple

Oscar Wilde  1854-1900

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Oblique et coupant l'ombre un torrent éclatant Ruisselait en flots d'or sur la dalle polie Où les atomes d'ambre au feu se miroitant Mêlaient leur sarabande à la gymnopédie

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Slanting and shadow-cutting a bursting stream Trickled in gusts of gold on the shiny flagstone Where the amber atoms in the fire gleaming Mingled their sarabande with the gymnopaedia.

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Les Antiques - Extrait

Patrice Contamine de Latour   1867 –1926

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Graphic - Josef Wopfner  1843-1927

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Video:

Never marry at all, Dorian. Men marry because they are tired, women, because they are curious: both are disappointed.

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The Picture of Dorian Gray

Oscar Wilde  1854-1900

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Man, do not pride yourself on your superiority to the animals, for they are without sin, while you, with all your greatness, you defile the earth wherever you appear and leave an ignoble trail behind you – and that is true, alas, for almost every one of us!

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The Brothers Karamazov

Fyodor Dostoyevsky  1821-1881

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Graphic - Chess Play of Nature - Greenpeace of Brazil 2011

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Video:

My dam was a mustang white and proud, My sire was as black as a thunder cloud; I was foaled on the mesas cold and high, Where the strong ones live and the weak ones die, And the mountain-lion steals; Hid in the brush I knew no fear, With a milk-white mustang grazing near; When the grass grew green in the summer sun, I learned to dodge and I learned to run, And I learned to use my heels. Sleek and strong and a stallion grown, I took no place that was not my own; I fought for life in the winter storm, And I fought for pride when the sun grew warm, And the mares ran, calling shrill; Then hot with pride of my young desire, I drove from the band my fighting sire; My flanks dripped red but my crest was high, For the young must live and the old must die, Over hollow land and hill; So if you think to down my pride, Build a swift loop, cowboy, build it wide, For I’m hard to catch and hard to tame, I bear no brand, but I’ve earned my name, The wild horse, stallion gray. The mesa wind blows high and free, But no wind that blows can outrun me; You can sink your rowels out of sight, And quirt your horse till his eye rolls white, But I’ll be far away.

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Song Of The Gray Stallion

Henry Herbert Knibbs  1874-1945

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