to rest, contemplate and take time to think about who you are is the essence of an authentic self
Monday, 31 January 2011
Sunday, 30 January 2011
Thursday, 27 January 2011
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
Tuesday, 25 January 2011
Monday, 24 January 2011
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Saturday, 22 January 2011
Friday, 21 January 2011
Thursday, 20 January 2011
Wednesday, 19 January 2011
'The Soul of the Rose' by John Waterhouse

'Often associated with the Pre-Raphaelites, who aimed to recapture the beauty and simplicity of the medieval world, John William Waterhouse was also a classical painter. Born the year the Pre-Raphaelites first exhibited at the Royal Academy, he inherited their taste for Alfred Tennyson, John Keats and William Shakespeare and was fascinated by beauty, the underworld and myths of enchantresses.'
http://www.johnwilliamwaterhouse.com/exhibitions/waterhouse-beauty-of-passion/
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Friday, 14 January 2011
Thursday, 13 January 2011
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
Tuesday, 11 January 2011
Monday, 10 January 2011
Sunday, 9 January 2011
Psalm 91:4
Some favourite things (in no particular order):
1. red shoes and lace
2. hanging things
3. train stations
4. sienna (the colour...and also the town!)
5. fruit salad
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Friday, 7 January 2011
On becoming a word shaker.
The Book Thief by Mark Zusak
"The best word shakers were those who understood the true power of words. They were able to climb the highest."
Thursday, 6 January 2011
Blowing in the Wind
Blowing in the Wind
How many years must a mountain existBefore it is washed to the sea
How many years can some people exist
Before they're allowed to be free
How many times can a man turn his head
And pretend that he just doesn't see
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind
The answer is blowing in the wind
Bob Dylan
Wednesday, 5 January 2011
Saturday, 1 January 2011

Bright Star
Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art--
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature's patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth's human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors--
No--yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow'd upon my fair love's ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever--or else swoon to death.
John Keats
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