We are always trying to look for quick solutions and when they don’t happen we feel sad and frustrated.
Let me give you a few examples: If we want to be in a relationship we take the first guy/girl we find and say to ourselves: He/she is it. It doesn’t matter he/she may not be the best choice for us. What matters is that we are done casting the part of a partner/lover. Of course when the relationship doesn’t work we blame ourselves, we blame them and we blame the world. And we fail to realize that in our hurry to put one need/problem/issue aside we rushed to the first possibility and thought: “issue solved” and moved on.
What about when we are feeling blue and we reach for the first soothing anything only to feel worse after the fact?
I’m not suggesting we think a million times before we do anything. But I am suggesting being in tune with ourselves so we can hear our inner voices screaming at us: “Stop type casting and look for the real deal”. Our inner-selves always knows the truth, stop and listen to yourself.
You have to leave the city of your comfort and go into the wilderness of your intuition. What you’ll discover will be wonderful. What you’ll discover is yourself. ~Alan Alda
Be in tune with yourself –
There are a number of emotions that tend to hide what’s really going on with us. Anger for example, is a feeling that often hides sadness and low self esteem. If we are not in tune with ourselves we will react based on the anger we are feeling, compounding the problems, without really addressing what is really creating this destructive feeling within us. Once we are in tune with ourselves we take care of us and life flows better.
Be your lover and best friend –
Once you are in tune with yourself you know how to take care of you when you are feeling blue. We all have “things” that soothes us. For example: a bath, music, meditation, wine, food, a walk. Whatever makes you feel better, when you are in tune with yourself, you will do – just like a friend or a lover would – and soothe yourself. Every time you take care of yourself you learn to love YOU more.
Be kind to yourself –
We often have more compassion for others than to ourselves. All of us on this planet struggle in one way or another. Rejoice your accomplishments – even if you think them small – and forgive your “mistakes”. Life is about the journey, it’s about learning and changing. We can only make changes when we make “mistakes”.
Live to the beat of your own drum –
We are all unique individuals. We all see and process the world in a different way. Be honest with yourself and live your life as your unique self.
And if you love yourself, you can truly love someone else.
If ever woman was born for love and for empire over the hearts of men it was surely Jeanne Bécu, who first opened her eyes one August day in the year 1743, at dreary Vaucouleurs, in Joan of Arc’s country, and who was fated to dance her light-hearted way through the palace of a King to the guillotine.
Scarcely ever has woman, born to such beauty and witchery, been cradled less auspiciously. Her reputed father was a scullion, her mother a sempstress. For grandfather she had Fabien Bécu, who left his frying-pans in a Paris kitchen to lead Jeanne Husson, a fellow-servant, to the altar. Such was the ignoble strain that flowed in the veins of the Vaucouleurs beauty, who five-and-twenty years later was playfully pulling the nose of the fifteenth Louis, and queening it in his palaces with a splendour which Marie Antoinette herself never surpassed.
From her sordid home Jeanne was transported at the age of six to a convent, where she spent nine years in rebellion against rules and punishments, until “the golden head emerged at last from black woollen veil and coarse unstarched bands, the exquisite form from shapeless, hideous robe, the perfect little feet from abominable yellow shoes,” to play first the rôle of lady’s maid to a wealthy widow, and, when she wearied (as she quickly did) of coiffing hair, to learn the arts of millinery.
“Picture,” says de Goncourt, “the glittering shop, where all day long charming idlers and handsome great gentlemen lounged and ogled; the pretty milliner tripping through the streets, her head covered by a big, black calèche, whence her golden curls escaped, her round, dainty waist defined by a muslin-frilled pinafore, her feet in little high-heeled, buckled shoes, and in her hand a tiny fan, which she uses as she goes-and then imagine the conversations, proposals, replies!”
Such was Jeanne Bécu in the first bloom of her dainty beauty, the prettiest grisette who ever set hearts fluttering in Paris streets; with laughter dancing in her eyes, a charming pertness at her red lips, grace in every movement, and the springtide of youth racing through her veins.
When Voltaire first saw her portrait, he exclaimed, “The original was fashioned for the gods.” And we cannot wonder, as we look on the ravishing beauty of the face that wrung this eloquent tribute from the cold-blooded cynic-the tender, melting violet of the eyes, with their sweeping brown lashes, under the exquisite arch of brown eyebrows, the dainty little Greek nose, the bent bow of the delicious tiny mouth, the perfect oval of the face, the complexion “fair and fresh as an infant’s,” and a glorious halo of golden hair, a dream of fascinating curls and tendrils.
It was to this bewitching picture, “with the perfume and light as of a goddess of love,” that Jean du Barry, self-styled Comte, adventurer and roué, succumbed at a glance. But du Barry’s tenure of her heart, if indeed he ever touched it at all, was brief; for the moment Louis XV. set eyes on the ravishing girl he determined to make the prize his own, a superior claim to which the Comte perforce yielded gracefully.
Thus, in 1768, we find Jeanne Bécu-or “Mademoiselle Vaubarnier,” as she now called herself-transported by a bound to the Palace of Versailles and to the first place in the favour of the King, having first gone through the farce of a wedding ceremony with du Barry’s brother, Guillaume, a husband whom she first saw on the marriage morning, and on whom she looked her last at the church door.
Then followed for the maid of the kitchen a few years of such Queendom and splendour as have seldom fallen to the lot of any lady cradled in a palace-the idolatrous worship of a King, the intoxication of the power that only beauty thus enshrined can wield, the glitter of priceless jewels, rarest laces, and richest satins and silks, the flash of gold on dinner and toilet-table, an army of servants in sumptuous liveries, the fawning of great Court ladies, the courtly flatteries of princes-every folly and extravagance that money could purchase or vanity desire.
Six years of such intoxicating life and then-the end. Louis is lying on his death-bed and, with fear in his eyes and a tardy penitence on his lips, is saying to her, “Madame, it is time that we should part.” And, indeed, the hour of parting had arrived; for a few days later he drew his last wicked breath, and Madame du Barry was under orders to retire to a convent. But her grief for the dead King was as brief as her love for him had been small; for within a few months, we find her installed in her beautiful country home, Lucienne, ready for fresh conquests, and eager to drain the cup of pleasure to the last drop. Nor was there any lack of ministers to the vanity of the woman who had now reached the zenith of her incomparable charms.
Among the many lovers who flocked to the country shrine of the widowed “Queen,” was Louis, Duc de Cossé, son of the Maréchal de Brissac, who, although Madame du Barry’s senior by nine years, was still in the prime of his manhood-handsome as an Apollo and a model of the courtly graces which distinguished the old noblesse in the day of its greatest pride, which was then so near its tragic downfall.
De Cassé had long been a mute worshipper of Louis’ beautiful “Queen,” and now that she was a free woman he was at last able to pay open homage to her, a homage which she accepted with indifference, for at the time her heart had strayed to Henry Seymour, although in vain. The woman whose beauty had conquered all other men was powerless to raise a flame in the breast of the cold-blooded Englishman; and, realising this, she at last bade him farewell in a letter, pathetic in its tender dignity. “It is idle,” she wrote, “to speak of my affection for you-you know it. But what you do not know is my pain. You have not deigned to reassure me about that which most matters to my heart. And so I must believe that my ease of mind, my happiness, are of little importance to you. I am sorry that I should have to allude to them; it is for the last time.”
It was in this hour of disillusion and humiliation that she turned for solace to de Cossé, whose touching constancy at last found its reward. It was not long before friendship ripened into a love as ardent as his own; and for the first time this fickle beauty, whose heart had been a pawn in the game of ambition, knew what a beautiful and ennobling thing true love is.
Those were halcyon days which followed for de Cossé and the lady his loyalty had won; days of sweet meetings and tender partings-of a union of souls which even death was powerless to dissolve. When they could not meet-and de Cossé’s duties often kept him from her side-letters were always on the wing between Lucienne and Paris, letters some of which have survived to bring their fragrance to our day.
Thus the lover writes, “A thousand thanks, a thousand thanks, dear heart! To-day I shall be with you. Yes, I find my happiness is in being loved by you. I kiss you a thousand times! Good-bye. I love you for ever.” In another letter we read, “Yes, dear heart, I desire so ardently to be with you-not in spirit, my thoughts are ever with you, but bodily-that nothing can calm my impatience. Good-bye, my darling. I kiss you many and many times with all my heart.” The curious may read at the French Record Office many of these letters written in a bold, flowing hand by de Cossé in the hey-day of his love. The paper is time-stained, the ink is faded; but each sentence still palpitates with the passion that inspired it a century and a quarter ago.
And with this great love came new honours for de Cossé. His father’s death made him Duc de Brissac, head of one of the greatest houses in France, owner of vast estates. He was appointed Governor of Paris and Colonel of the King’s own body-guard. He had, in fact, risen to a perilous eminence; for the clouds of the great Revolution were already massing in the sky, and the sans-culotte crowds were straining to be at the throats of the cursed “aristos,” and to hurl Louis from his throne. Brissac (as we must now call him) was thus an object of special hatred, as of splendour, standing out so prominently as representative of the hated noblesse.
Other nobles, fearful of the breaking of the storm, were flying in droves to seek safety in England and elsewhere. But when the Governor of Paris was urged to fly, he answered proudly, “Certainly not. I shall act according to my duty to my ancestors and myself.” And, heedless of his life, he clung to his duty and his honour, presenting a smiling face to the scowls of hatred and envy, and spending blissful hours at Lucienne with the woman he loved.
Nor was she any less conscious of her danger, or less indifferent to it. She also had become a target of hatred and scarcely veiled threats. Watchful eyes marked every coming and going of Brissac’s messengers with their missives of love; it was discovered that Brissac’s aide-de-camp, whose life they sought, was in hiding in her house; that she was supplying the noble emigrants with money. The climax was reached when she boldly advertised a reward of two thousand louis for a clue to the jewellery of which burglars had robbed her-jewels of which she published a long and dazzling list, thus bringing to memory the days when the late King had squandered his ill-gotten gold on her.
The Duc, at last alarmed for her-never for himself-begged her either to escape, or, as he wrote, to “come quickly, my darling, and take every precaution for your valuables, if you have any left. Yes, come, and your beauty, your kindness and magnanimity. I am ashamed of it, but I feel weaker than you. How should I feel otherwise for the one I love best?”
But already the hour for flight had passed. The passions of the mob were breaking down the barriers that were now too weak to hold them in check; the Paris streets had their first baptism of blood, prelude to the deluge to follow; hideous, fierce-eyed crowds were clamouring at the gates of Versailles; and de Brissac was soon on his way, a prisoner, to Orleans.
The blow had fallen at last, suddenly, and with crushing force. When “Louis Hercule Timoleon de Cossé-Brissac, soldier from his birth,” was charged before the National High Court with admitting Royalists into the Guards, he answered: “I have admitted into the King’s Guards no one but citizens who fulfilled all the conditions contained in the decree of formation”: and no other answer or plea would he deign to his accusers.
From his Orleans prison, where he now awaited the inevitable end, he wrote daily to his beloved lady; and every day brought him a tender and cheering letter from her. On 11th August, 1792, he writes: “I received this morning the best letter I have had for a long time past; none have rejoiced my heart so much. Thank you for it. I kiss you a thousand times. You indeed will have my last thought. Ah, my darling, why am I not with you in a wilderness rather than in Orleans?”
A few days later news reached Madame du Barry that her lover, with other prisoners, was to be brought from Orleans to Paris. He would thus actually pass her own door; she would at least see him once again, under however tragic conditions. With what leaden steps the intervening hours crawled by! Each sound set her heart beating furiously as if it would choke her. Each moment was an agony of anticipation. At last she hears the sound of coming feet. She flies to the window, piercing the dark night with straining eyes. The sound grows nearer, a tumult of trampling feet and hoarse cries. A mob of dark figures surges through her gates, pours riotously up the steps and through the open door. In the hall there is a pandemonium of cries and oaths; the door of her room is burst open, and something is flung at her feet. She glances down; and, with a gasp of unspeakable horror, looks down on the severed head of her lover, red with his blood.
The sans-culottes had indeed taken a terrible revenge. They had fallen in overwhelming numbers on the prisoners and their escort; the soldiers had fled; and de Brissac found himself the centre of a mob, the helpless target of a hundred murderous blows. With a knife for sole weapon he fought valiantly, like the brave soldier he was, until a cowardly blow from behind felled him to the ground. “Fire at me with your pistols,” he shouted, “your work will the sooner be over.” A few moments later he drew his last gallant breath, almost within sight of the house that sheltered his beloved.
United in life, the lovers were not long to be divided. “Since that awful day,” Madame du Barry wrote to a friend, “you can easily imagine what my grief has been. They have consummated the frightful crime, the cause of my misery and my eternal regrets-my grief is complete-a life which ought to have been so grand and glorious! Good God, what an end!”
Thus cruelly deprived of all that made life worth living, she cared little how soon the end came. “I ask nothing now of life,” she wrote, “but that it should quickly give me back to him.” And her prayer was soon to be granted. A few months after that night of horrors she herself was awaiting the guillotine in her cell at the conciergerie.
In vain did an Irish priest who visited her offer to secure her escape if she would give him money to bribe her jailers. “No,” she answered with a smile, “I have no wish to escape. I am glad to die; but I will give you money willingly on condition that you save the Duchesse de Mortemart.” And while Madame de Mortemart, daughter of the man she loved, was making her way to safety under the priest’s escort, Jeanne du Barry was being led to the scaffold, breathing the name of the man she had loved so well; and, however feeble the flesh, glad to follow where he had led the way.
Love is a strange thing. It can be the most amazing feeling in the world, or it can really hurt, but in the end love is something most, if not all of us, will face. It does not make you a bad person to desire someone else’s love, even if they do not love you. However, to truly love someone, you must let them be free. It is selfish to blame them for your feelings. While there are many different ways to define love and there are many different ways to love someone (even yourself), here is a general guide to loving.
1. Say it. When you say the words “I Love You”, they should carry with them the desire to show someone that you love them, not what you simply want to feel. When you say it make sure you really mean it and are willing to do anything for that special person.
2. Empathize. Put yourself in someone else’s shoes. Rather than impose your own expectations or attempt to control them, try to understand how they feel, where they come from, and who they are. Realize how they could also love you back just as well.
3. Love unconditionally. If you cannot love another person without attaching stipulations, then it is not love at all, but deep-seated opportunism (one who makes the most of an advantage, often unmindful of others). If your interest is not in the other person as such, but rather in how that person can enhance your experience of life, then it is not unconditional. If you have no intention of improving that person’s life, or allowing that person to be themselves and accepting them as they are, and not who you want them to be, then you are not striving to love them unconditionally.
4. Expect nothing in return. That doesn’t mean you should allow someone to mistreat or undervalue you. It means that giving love does not guarantee receiving love. Try loving just for the sake of love. Realize that someone may have a different way of showing his or her love for you, do not expect to be loved back in exactly the same way.
5. Realize it can be lost. If you realize that you can lose the one you love, then you have a greater appreciation of what you have. Think how lucky you are to have someone to love. Don’t make an idol of the person you love. This will place them under undue pressure and will likely result in you losing them.
Love is any of a number of emotions and experiences related to a sense of strong affection and attachment. The word love can refer to a variety of different feelings, states, and attitudes, ranging from generic pleasure to intense interpersonal attraction. The word love can refer to a variety of different feelings, states, and attitudes, ranging from generic pleasure (“I loved that meal”) to intense interpersonal attraction (“I love my girlfriend”). This diversity of uses and meanings, combined with the complexity of the feelings involved, makes love unusually difficult to consistently define, even compared to other emotional states.
As an abstract concept, love usually refers to a deep, ineffable feeling of tenderly caring for another person. Even this limited conception of love, however, encompasses a wealth of different feelings, from the passionate desire and intimacy of romantic love to the nonsexual emotional closeness of familial and platonic love to the profound oneness or devotion of religious love. Love in its various forms acts as a major facilitator of interpersonal relationships and, owing to its central psychological importance, is one of the most common themes in the creative arts.
From a scientifically testable frame of reference, love is a type of interpersonal relationship where mutual assumption of good faith results in a state of emergence, i.e. constituents individually perceive the group’s social evolution as both beneficial and greater than what could be achieved by the sum of the relationship’s parts.
Biological sciences such as evolutionary psychology, evolutionary biology, anthropology and neuroscience have begun to explore the nature and function of love. Specific chemical substances such as oxytocin are studied in the context of their roles in producing human experiences and behaviors that are associated with love.
From the perspective of evolutionary psychology the experiences and behaviors associated with love can be investigated in terms of how they have been shaped by human evolution. For example, it has been suggested that human language has been selected during evolution as a type of “mating signal” that allows potential mates to judge reproductive fitness. Miller described evolutionary psychology as a starting place for further research: “Cognitive neuroscience could try to localize courtship adaptations in the brain. Most importantly, we need much better observations concerning real-life human courtship, including the measurable aspects of courtship that influence mate choice, the reproductive (or at least sexual) consequences of individual variation in those aspects, and the social-cognitive and emotional mechanisms of falling in love.” Since Darwin’s time there have been similar speculations about the evolution of human interest in music also as a potential signaling system for attracting and judging the fitness of potential mates. It has been suggested that the human capacity to experience love has been evolved as a signal to potential mates that the partner will be a good parent and be likely to help pass genes to future generations.
Reading Rumi has made me feel somewhat nostalgic for god. I miss him. Maybe he misses me too.
Maybe god is at his wits end. After all he has tried in vain to find a language that would get through to us. Surely, he thought, with all the imagination and heart he’d poured into the flora and fauna he couldn’t fail to get his message across. Somewhere he would find a listening audience. Even a few solitary listeners would do. He knew that words and magic tricks were of no use in dealing with a cunning species that had its own words and tricks. He’d labored to find a subtler method of communicating, a more refined language, a medium that would seep in under the radar screens of human consciousness.
It just didn’t work out. Instead of unfurling our contemplative antennae, we reverse engineered the whole starburst of natural creation down to its genetic skeleton. We managed to decipher the blueprints of the assembly line; zoomed in on the infinitesimal building blocks out of which everything under (and including) the sun is made – tiny particles that don’t even exist, not really, except maybe as a dark blip through the looking glass of an electron microscope.
Pretty soon the hands of God will rise up and issue a universal gesture of surrender. Having no purpose he’ll wave his magic hand and fade finally away. And no measurable change will be detected, or noticed.
And if man should paradoxically follow in the footsteps a non-existent God – losing his way, losing any sense of coherence, losing his taste for existence in a like manner, he too will exit the universal stage. And no one will notice a thing.
The 3 stages of love
Helen Fisher of Rutgers University in the States has proposed 3 stages of love – lust, attraction and attachment. Each stage might be driven by different hormones and chemicals.
Stage 1: Lust
This is the first stage of love and is driven by the sex hormones testosterone and oestrogen – in both men and women.
Stage 2: Attraction
This is the amazing time when you are truly love-struck and can think of little else. Scientists think that three main neurotransmitters are involved in this stage; adrenaline, dopamine and serotonin.
The initial stages of falling for someone activates your stress response, increasing your blood levels of adrenalin and cortisol. This has the charming effect that when you unexpectedly bump into your new love, you start to sweat, your heart races and your mouth goes dry.
Helen Fisher asked newly ‘love struck’ couples to have their brains examined and discovered they have high levels of the neurotransmitter dopamine. This chemical stimulates ‘desire and reward’ by triggering an intense rush of pleasure. It has the same effect on the brain as taking cocaine!
Fisher suggests “couples often show the signs of surging dopamine: increased energy, less need for sleep or food, focused attention and exquisite delight in smallest details of this novel relationship” .
And finally, serotonin. One of love’s most important chemicals that may explain why when you’re falling in love, your new lover keeps popping into your thoughts.
Does love change the way you think?
A landmark experiment in Pisa, Italy showed that early love (the attraction phase) really changes the way you think.
Dr Donatella Marazziti, a psychiatrist at the University of Pisa advertised for twenty couples who’d been madly in love for less than six months. She wanted to see if the brain mechanisms that cause you to constantly think about your lover, were related to the brain mechanisms of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.
By analyzing blood samples from the lovers, Dr Marazitti discovered that serotonin levels of new lovers were equivalent to the low serotonin levels of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder patients.
Love needs to be blind
Newly smitten lovers often idealise their partner, magnifying their virtues and explaining away their flaws says Ellen Berscheid, a leading researcher on the psychology of love.
New couples also exalt the relationship itself. “It’s very common to think they have a relationship that’s closer and more special than anyone else’s”. Psychologists think we need this rose-tinted view. It makes us want to stay together to enter the next stage of love – attachment.
Stage 3: Attachment
Attachment is the bond that keeps couples together long enough for them to have and raise children. Scientists think there might be two major hormones involved in this feeling of attachment; oxytocin and vasopressin.
Oxytocin – The cuddle hormone
Oxytocin is a powerful hormone released by men and women during orgasm.
It probably deepens the feelings of attachment and makes couples feel much closer to one another after they have had sex. The theory goes that the more sex a couple has, the deeper their bond becomes.
Oxytocin also seems to help cement the strong bond between mum and baby and is released during childbirth. It is also responsible for a mum’s breast automatically releasing milk at the mere sight or sound of her young baby.
Diane Witt, assistant professor of psychology from New York has showed that if you block the natural release of oxytocin in sheep and rats, they reject their own young.
Conversely, injecting oxytocin into female rats who’ve never had sex, caused them to fawn over another female’s young, nuzzling the pups and protecting them as if they were their own.
Vasopressin is another important hormone in the long-term commitment stage and is released after sex.
Vasopressin (also called anti-diuretic hormone) works with your kidneys to control thirst. Its potential role in long-term relationships was discovered when scientists looked at the prairie vole.
Prairie voles indulge in far more sex than is strictly necessary for the purposes of reproduction. They also – like humans – form fairly stable pair-bonds.
When male prairie voles were given a drug that suppresses the effect of vasopressin, the bond with their partner deteriorated immediately as they lost their devotion and failed to protect their partner from new suitors.
Source: The Wellcome Trust is the UK’s leading biomedical charity. Their mission is to foster and promote research with the aim of improving human and animal health. This includes raising public awareness of the medical, ethical and social implications of biomedical research.
Explore-At-Bristol is one of the UK’s most exciting hands-on science centers!
A few years ago, I went through a very painful experience. Finding out that the guy you’re in love with is sleeping with someone else has a way of making you lose all self-confidence. Your heart feels empty and hollow. You feel unattractive, worthless, miserable.
On this particular day, I had spent the entire day crying and going on an emotional roller coaster that seemed never-ending.
I took a shower, hoping that would help me clear my head. It didn’t. So, I decided to get out of the house and go to my usual coffee house in Venice, California where I went to write. Maybe a change of scenery would be good for the soul. I called a friend and asked him to meet me there.
I arrived at The Novel Café with my hair still soaking wet, no make-up and puffy eyes from all the tears I had shed that day. I got myself a cup of chamomile tea and sat at a table to write while I waited for my friend.
Soon after, a man walked in – a stranger, no one I had ever seen before. But he reminded me of the man who had just broken my heart – dark-skinned, dreadlocks, Venice vibe. The man walked up to the counter, ordered his drink and turned to look at me. I could feel him staring but I didn’t look up. He came toward me, standing almost in front of me for what seemed like a lifetime but in reality it was only a few seconds. Finally, he found a chair across from me, sat down and opened a big book.
But, I still felt his eyes on me and could tell he wasn’t reading the book. I started to feel very uncomfortable – there are lots of strange people in Venice and at this coffee house, they were regulars. I was really anxious for my friend to get there.
Finally, my friend arrived. He asked me how I was doing. I started to cry. I then began to give him all the details of the break-up. The more I talked, the more I cried.
Half way through our conversation my friend said, “You know, there’s someone across from you pretending to read a book but actually looking straight at you?” I explained that the stranger had been doing that for the last half hour. My friend then said, “That’s Venice for ya, just a bunch of losers with nothing else to do.” For some reason his comment made me cry even more. I felt like one of those losers. I asked my friend if we could leave. The man was making me too uncomfortable.
As we walked out, we passed right by him. He made eye contact with me then lowered the big book he had on his lap, wanting me to see what was on it. I nervously looked down and to my surprise I saw two pages that were covered with amazing pencil drawings of me.
There was one of me writing, a second one capturing me as I ran my fingers through my wet hair and a third one of me looking out the coffee house window, deep in thought. He was not reading at all, he had been sketching me the whole time. My friend and I were speechless. The drawings were absolutely stunning.
The man didn’t say a word to me, he only smiled. I quickly walked out, too much in shock to even say, thank you.
Since then, I have gone back to that coffee house dozens of times and have never seen him again. But that night, this complete stranger gave me a gift of kindness when I most needed it. He was able to go beyond my outward appearance and see my soul. He saw something beautiful in me when I couldn’t.
As I walked out with my friend and into the night, I began to cry, completely overwhelmed by the experience.
My heart was full again.
Ligiah Villalobos is the Writer and Executive Producer of the feature film Under the Same Moon, (La Misma Luna). The film was an Official Selection at the 2007 Sundance Film Festival and became the highest sale for a Spanish-language film in the history of Sundance.
Villalobos has been named “One of the 25 Most Powerful and Talented Hispanic Women in the Entertainment Industry” by the Hollywood Reporter and Billboard Magazine in 2007 and was recently honored with the 2008 Norman Lear Writers Award at the Imagen Awards.
The time will come
when, with elation
you will greet yourself arriving
at your own door, in your own mirror
and each will smile at the others welcome, and say, sit here. Eat
You will love again the stranger who was yourself.
Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart
to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored
for another, who knows you by heart.
Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate
peel your own image from the mirror.
Sit. Feast on your life
Derek Alton Walcott (born January 23, 1930) is a West Indies poet, playwright, writer and visual artist who writes mainly in English. Born in Castries, St. Lucia, he won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1992.
Psychologists have shown it takes between 90 seconds and 4 minutes to decide if you fancy someone.
Research has shown this has little to do with what is said, rather
- 55% is through body language.
- 38% is the tone and speed of their voice.
- Only 7% is through what they say.