“The mind is its own place,” wrote Milton, “and in it self can make a Heav’n of Hell, a Hell of Heav’n.
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Tag: maria popova
Maya Angelou on Writing and Our Responsibility to Our Creative Gifts
“Be a good steward of your gifts,” the poet Jane Kenyon urged in what remains some of the finest advice on writing and life ever committed to words.
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Practical Mysticism: Evelyn Underhill’s Stunning Century-Old Manifesto for Secular Transcendence and Seeing the Heart of Reality
The great paradox of consciousness is that it constitutes both our entire experience of reality and our blindfold to reality as it really is.
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Henry James on Losing a Mother
“Every man or woman who is sane, every man or woman who has the feeling of being a person in the world, and for whom the world means something, every happy person, is in infinite debt to a woman,” the visionary psychoanalyst Donald Winnicott wrote as he considered the mother as a pillar of socie
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Let Your Heart Be Broken
We spend our lives trying to anchor our transience in some illusion of permanence and stability.
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Thoreau on Living Through Loss
There is cosmic consolation in knowing what actually happens when we die — that supreme affirmation of having lived at all.
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Magnolias and the Meaning of Life: Science, Poetry, Existentialism
Pastel-colored apparitions of tenderness, magnolias are titans of resilience.
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How to Love the World More: George Saunders on the Courage of Uncertainty
Nothing, not one thing, hurts us more — or causes us to hurt others more — than our certainties. The stories we tell ourselves about the world and the foregone conclusions with which we cork the fount of possibility are the supreme downfall of our consciousness.
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Youth and Age: Kahlil Gibran on the Art of Becoming
The unfolding of life does more than fray our bodies with entropy — it softens our spirit, blunting the edge of vanity and broadening the aperture of beauty, so that we become both more ourselves and more unselved, awake to the felicitous interdependence of the world.
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The Broadest Portal to Joy
All sorrow is, on some elemental level beneath cause and circumstance, an act of forgetting our connection to life, to one another, to the grand interbelonging of existence. All joy is the act of remembering — the hand outstretched for reconnection, for felicitous contact between othernesses.
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Front Porch Reflections 
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