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Old 21-08-2019, 04:25 AM
Tara5 Tara5 is offline
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Wink A collection of some of my favorite stories & Poems

The Ambitious Violet

There was a beautiful and fragrant violet who lived placidly amongst her friends, and swayed happily amidst the other flowers in a solitary garden. One morning, as her crown was embellished with beads of dew, she lifted her head and looked about; she saw a tall and handsome rose standing proudly and reaching high into space, like a burning torch upon an emerald lamp.

The violet opened her blue lips and said, "What an unfortunate am I among these flowers, and how humble is the position I occupy in their presence! Nature has fashioned me to be short and poor. I live very close to the earth and I cannot raise my head toward the blue sky, or turn my face to the sun, as the roses do."

And the rose heard her neighbor's words; she laughed and commented, "How strange is your talk! You are fortunate, and yet you cannot understand your fortune. Nature has bestowed upon you fragrance and beauty which she did not grant to any other. Cast aside your thoughts and be contented, and remember that he who humbles himself will be exalted, and he who exalts himself will be crushed."

The violet answered, "You are consoling me because you have that I craved. You seek to embitter me with the meaning that you are great. How painful is the preaching of the fortunate to the heart of the miserable! And how severe is the strong when he stands as advisor among the weak!"

And Nature heard the conversation of the violet and the rose; she approached and said, "What has happened to you, my daughter violet? You have been humble and sweet in all your deeds and words. Has greed entered your heart and numbed your senses?" In a pleading voice, the violet answered her, saying, "Oh great and merciful mother, full of love and sympathy, I beg you, with all my heart and soul, to grant my request and allow me to be a rose for one day."

And Nature responded, "you know not what you are seeking; you are unaware of the concealed disaster behind your blind ambition. If you were a rose you would be sorry, and repentance would avail you but naught." The violet insisted, "Change me into a tall rose, for I wish to lift my head high with pride; and regardless of my fate, it will be my own doing." Nature yielded, saying, "Oh ignorant and rebellious violet, I will grant your request. But if calamity befalls you, your complaint must be to yourself."

And Nature stretched forth her mysterious and magic finger and touched the roots of the violet, who immediately turned into a tall rose; rising above all other flowers in the garden.

At eventide the sky became thick with black clouds, and the raging elements disturbed the silence of existence with thunder, and commenced to attack the garden, sending forth a great rain and strong winds. The tempest tore the branches and uprooted the plants and broke the stems of the tall flowers, sparing only the little ones who grew close to the friendly earth. That solitary garden suffered greatly from the belligerent skies, and when the storm calmed and the sky cleared, all the flowers were laid waste and none of them had escaped the wrath of Nature except the clan of small violets, hiding by the wall of the garden.

Having lifted her head and viewed the tragedy of the flowers and trees, one of the violet maidens smiled happily and called to here companions, saying, "See what the tempest has done to the haughty flowers!" Another violet said, "We are small, and live close to the earth, but we are safe from the wrath of the skies." And a third one added, "Because we are poor in height the tempest is unable to subdue us."

At that moment the queen of violets saw by her side the converted violet, hurled to earth by the storm and distorted upon the wet grass like a limp soldier in a battle field. The queen of the violets lifted her head and called to her family, saying, "Look, my daughters, and meditate upon that which Greed has done to the violet who became a proud rose for one day. Let the memory of this scene be a reminder of your good fortune."

And the dying rose moved and gathered the remnants of her strength, and quietly said, "You are contented and meek dullards; I have never feared the tempest. Yesterday I, too, was satisfied and contented with Life, but Contentment has acted as a barrier between my existence and the tempest of Life, confining me to a sickly and sluggish peace and tranquility of mind. I could have lived the same life you are living now by clinging with fear to the earth. I could have waited for winter to shroud me with snow and deliver me to Death, who will surely claim all violets. I am happy now because I have probed outside my little world into the mystery of the Universe. . . something which you have not yet done.

"I could have overlooked Greed, whose nature is higher than mine, but as I hearkened to the silence of the night, I heard the heavenly world talking to this earthly world, saying, 'Ambition beyond existence is the essential purpose of our being.' At that moment my spirit revolted and my heart longed for a position higher than my limited existence. I realized that the abyss cannot hear the song of the stars, and at that moment I commenced fighting against my smallness and craving for that which did not belong to me, until my rebelliousness turned into a great power, and my longing into a creating will. . . . Nature, who is the great object of our deeper dreams, granted my request and changed me into a rose with her magic fingers."

The rose became silent for a moment, and in a weakening voice, mingled with pride and achievement, she said, "I have lived one day as a proud rose; I have existed for a time like a queen; I have looked at the Universe from behind the eyes of the rose; I have heard the whisper of the firmament through the ears of the rose and touched the folds of Light's garment with rose petals. Is there any here who can claim such honor?"

Having thus spoken, she lowered her head, and with a choking voice she gasped, "I shall die now, for my souls has attained its goal. I have finally extended my knowledge to a world beyond the narrow cavern of my birth. This is the design of Life. . . . This is the secret of Existence." Then the rose quivered, slowly folded her petals, and breathed her last with a heavenly smile upon her lips. . . a smile of fulfillment of hope and purpose in Life. . . a smile of victory. . . a God's smile.

Khalil Gibran
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Old 21-08-2019, 04:52 AM
Tara5 Tara5 is offline
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The circle of joy
A farmer knocked heavily at a convent’s door. When the brother doorkeeper opened the door, the farmer stretched out a magnificent bunch of grapes to him.

“Dear brother doorkeeper, these are the most beautiful grapes produced in my vineyard. And I come here to give them to you as a gift,” said the farmer.

“Thank you. I will take them immediately to the Abbot, who will be happy about your offer,” said the doorkeeper happily.

“No. I brought them for you,” said the farmer.

“For me?” The doorkeeper turned red because he thought he didn’t deserve such beautiful gift of nature.

“Yes!” the farmer insisted, “Because whenever I knock at this door, you open it. Whenever I needed your help because of the harvest being destroyed by drought, you gave me a piece of bread and a cup of wine. I want this bunch of grapes to bring you a little of the sun’s love, of the rain’s beauty and of God’s miracle, as He made it grow so beautifully.”

The doorkeeper placed the bunch of grapes in front of him and spent the morning admiring it. As the bunch of grapes was really gorgeous, he decided to give it to the Abbot as a gift, who had always stimulated him with words of wisdom.

The Abbot was very happy about the grapes, but remembered that there was a brother who was sick at the convent, and thought, “I will give him the grape bunch. Who knows, it might bring some joy to his life.”

And so he did. However, the grapes didn’t stay very long with the sick brother, because he thought, “Brother cook has been taking care of me for so long, nourishing me with the best there is. I am sure he will appreciate it.”

When brother cook brought his meal at the lunch time, he gave him the grapes.

“They are yours,” said the sick brother, “as you are always in contact with the produce that nature offers; you will know what to do with this work of God.”

Brother cook was fascinated by the beauty of the bunch. So perfect, he thought, that there is no one better to prize them as brother sacristan; as he was responsible for the guard of the Blessed Sacrament and many at the monastery saw him as a holy man; he would be able to value the marvel of nature.

The brother, on his turn, gave the grapes as a gift to the youngest novice, so that he could understand that God’s work is found in the smallest details of creation.

When the novice received it, his heart filled with the glory of the Lord, because he had never seen such a beautiful bunch of grapes. At the same moment, he remembered the first time he came to the monastery and the person who opened the door to him; it was this gesture that allowed him to be in that community of people who knew how to value miracles today.

Before the nightfall, he took the grape bunch to brother doorkeeper.

“Eat it and enjoy it,” he said. “Because you spend most of your time here alone and these grapes will make you very happy.”

The doorkeeper understood that the gift had really been destined to be with him, so he savoured each grape of that bunch and slept happily.

The circle was closed “” the circle of happiness and joy, which always stretches out around the generous people.

Paulo Coelho
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Old 22-08-2019, 05:09 AM
Tara5 Tara5 is offline
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The Lion and the Sheep

An ancient parable in the East is that a lioness was jumping from one hillock to another and just in the middle she gave birth to a kid.

The kid fell down into the road where a big crowd of sheep was passing. Naturally he mixed with the sheep, lived with the sheep, behaved like a sheep. He had no idea, not even in his dreams, that he was a lion. How could he have?

All around him were sheep and only sheep. He had never roared like a lion; a sheep does not roar. He had never been alone like a lion; a sheep is never alone. She is always in the crowd – the crowd is cozy, secure, safe. If you see sheep walking, they walk so close together that they are almost stumbling on each other. They are so afraid to be alone.

But the lion started growing up. It was a strange phenomenon. He was identified mentally with being a sheep, but biology does not go according to your identification; nature is not going to follow your mind. He became a beautiful young lion, but because things happened so slowly, the sheep became accustomed to him, just as he became accustomed to the sheep.

The sheep thought he was a little crazy naturally. He was not behaving just right – a little cuckoo- and he went on growing. It was not supposed to be so. Pretending to be a lion! But they knew he was not a lion; they had seem him from his very birth. They had brought him up, they had given their milk to him. He was a non vegetarian by nature – no lion is vegetarian, but this lion was, because sheep are vegetarian. He used to eat grass with great joy. They accepted these small differences, that he was a little big and looked like a lion. A very wise sheep said, ‘It is just a freak of nature. Once in a while it happens.’

And the lion himself also accepted that it was true. His color was different, his body was different – he must be a freak, abnormal. But the idea that he was a lion was impossible! All those sheep surrounded him, and sheep psychoanalysts gave him explanations: ‘You are just a freak of nature. Don’t be worried. We are here to take care of you.’

But one day an old lion passed by and saw this young lion standing far above the crowd of sheep. He could not believe his eyes! He had never seen such a thing nor had he ever heard that in the history of the whole past a lion had been in the middle of a crowd of sheep but no sheep was afraid. And this lion was walking exactly like the sheep, grazing on grass!

The old lion could not believe his eyes. He forgot he was going to catch a sheep for his breakfast. He completely forgot breakfast. It was something so strange that he determined to catch hold of the young lion and find out what was happening. But he was old, and the young lion was young – he ran away. Although he believed that he was a sheep, when there was danger this much of the identification was forgotten. He ran like a lion, and the old lion had great difficulty in catching him.

Finally the old lion got hold of him. He was crying and weeping and saying, ‘Just forgive me, I am a poor sheep. Please let me go.’

The old lion said, ‘You idiot! You simply stop this nonsense and come with me to the pond.’ Just nearby there was a pond. He took the young lion there. The young lion was not going willingly, he went reluctantly, but what can you do against a lion if you are only a sheep? He may kill you if you don’t follow him, so he went. The pond was silent, with no ripples, almost like a mirror.

The old lion said to the young, ‘Just look. Look at my face and look at your face. Look at my body and look at your body in the water.’

In a second there came a great roar! All the hills echoed it. The sheep disappeared; he was a totally different being – he recognized himself. The identification with sheep was not a reality, it was just a mental concept. Now he had seen the reality. The old lion said, ‘Now I don’t have to say anything more. You have understood.’

The young lion could feel a strange energy he had never felt before – as if it had been dormant. He could feel a tremendous power, and he had always been a weak, humble sheep. All that humbleness, all that weakness, simply evaporated.

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Old 23-08-2019, 04:06 AM
Tara5 Tara5 is offline
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Kafka’s gift to a grieving girl (healing story)

Kafka and his love Dora were out walking through a park one day when they encountered a little girl weeping as if her heart would break. She said she’d lost her doll, and Kafka told the girl he knew for a fact the doll was fine. How he could be so certain? Why just that morning, he told the girl, he’d received a letter from the doll.

No, he didn’t have the letter with him, he said, but tomorrow he’d bring it to the park and read it to her.

So Kafka goes home and writes the letter, hoping to invent a lie so beautiful and persuasive it will replace the child’s sense of loss with something else – a sense of adventure, perhaps, or a new and exciting kind of reality. Something other than loss.

For three weeks Kafka writes daily letters, and each day he returns to the park to read another letter to the girl. Oh, the doll still loves the girl, the letters say. But she wanted to see the world, make new friends, stretch. The doll promises to write each day about her new life.

Complications arise. The doll has met someone. Kafka, of course, is preparing the girl for the reality that the doll will not return. The letters describe the engagement party, the wedding in the country, the new house where the doll and her husband will live.

By now, the little girl is so invested in the doll’s exciting life that she is no longer unhappy. Kafka presents her with a new doll, so the story goes, and years later, when she’s grown, she finds a note tucked into the doll.

It says: “Everything you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form.”
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Old 24-08-2019, 03:59 AM
Tara5 Tara5 is offline
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A famous story about a Zen nun is: She had a beautiful golden Buddha, a very artistic, aesthetic statue of Buddha, made of pure gold. And the nun used to carry the Buddha wherever she would go. Buddhist monks and nuns have to go on moving for eight months in the year, except the four months of rain. So from one temple, from one monastery to another….

She was staying in one of the temples of China — she had gone to travel to Chinese temples and monasteries and that temple has ten thousand statues of Buddha. It is a unique temple in the whole world. Ten thousand statues… almost the whole mountain has been cut into statues and made into a temple; perhaps it has taken centuries to build it. She was staying there.

And this had been her constant worry: Every morning when she worships her golden Buddha, she puts flowers, sweets, burns incense — but you cannot depend upon the wind, upon the breeze. The fragrance arising out of the burning incense may not reach the golden Buddha’s nose, it may move in any direction.

In that temple there were ten thousand other Buddhas, and the fragrance was going to other Buddhas’ noses. And this was intolerable; this was too much. She was feeling very hurt, that her own poor Buddha is not getting any incense, and all these vagabonds…”And my Buddha is golden and they are just stones. And after all my Buddha is MY Buddha.”

This is how the mind functions: it is so possessive, it cannot even see that they are all statues of the same man. Which nose is getting the incense does not matter — it is reaching the Buddha. But “MY Buddha” — the old possessive mind continues.

So she devised a small method: she brought a bamboo, a hollow bamboo, and cut it into a small piece. She will burn the incense, and put the bamboo on top of it. One side will take the incense smoke in, and the other side she will put on the nose of her golden Buddha — almost like making him smoke! But that created a problem: her Buddha’s nose became black. That disturbed her even more.

She asked the high priest of the temple, “What should I do? My poor Buddha’s nose has become black.”

He said, “But how did it happen?”

She said, “I feel very embarrassed to say, it is my own doing.” And then she explained the whole thing.

The priest laughed.

He said, “All these are Buddhas here. One Buddha, ten thousand Buddhas — to whom it reaches does not matter. You should not be so miserly, so possessive. Buddha cannot be yours and cannot be mine. The nose of the Buddha has become black because of your possessiveness.”

And the priest said to her, “We are making each others’ faces black because of our possessiveness. If we could give without even thinking to whom it reaches…. Because to whomever it reaches, is part of the same existence as we are part of — it reaches to us.”

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Old 27-08-2019, 04:27 AM
Tara5 Tara5 is offline
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You have left Your Beloved and are thinking of others:
and this is why your work is in vain.

Kabir, Songs of Kabir
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Old 27-08-2019, 04:30 AM
Tara5 Tara5 is offline
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In your light, I learn how to love.
In your beauty, how to make poems.
You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you,
but sometimes I do,
and that sight becomes this art.

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Old 28-08-2019, 05:52 AM
Tara5 Tara5 is offline
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The Scarecrow

Once I said to a scarecrow, 'You must be tired of standing in this
lonely field.'

And he said, 'The joy of scaring is a deep and lasting one, and I
never tire of it.'

Said I, after a minute of thought, 'It is true; for I too have
known that joy.'

Said he, 'Only those who are stuffed with straw can know it.'

Then I left him, not knowing whether he had complimented or belittled

A year passed, during which the scarecrow turned philosopher.

And when I passed by him again I saw two crows building a nest
under his hat.

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