fast of silence

Solitude, silence and fasting. Embracing the three most essential spiritual disciplines opens us to the deepest kind of risk: the risk of discovering who we really are, in all our flaws and confusion. Solitude forces us to step away from the continual affirmation of our authority by others; silence compels us to practice quietness rather than noisy self-assertion; fasting exposes our dependence on food and other good things to prop up our sense of agency and capacity. 

All of them, practiced regularly, will humble us, bringing us up against our own limits and our own foolishness. Without solitude, silence and fasting, we have no true authority -we are captives of others’ approval, addicted to our personal soundtracks and chained to our pleasures. But on the other side of this vulnerability is true authority, grounded in something deeper than our circumstances.
—  Andy Crouch, Strong and Weak

I’m sorry about the years spent
in the wrong state.
And I’m sorry about the highway and the day you realized the moon wasn’t following you back home.
And I’m sorry about the dark,
how it happened so fast.

The silence found us eventually.
By the time our dreams came true,
they weren’t our dreams anymore.
We each had our own,
bigger ones
that kept us up at night.
It broke the world’s heart,
all our wandering.
All the days we spent separately,
in love.

Plane crash poem.
Bird-on-doorstep poem.
An ending like this
goes on forever.

I’m sorry for being a part of your lonely.
I just wanted somewhere I could stay.

—  Y.Z, a loud heart’s silence
You talked but after your talking all the rest remains.
After your talking—poets, philosophers, contrivers of romances—everything else,
All the rest deduced inside the flesh
Which lives & knows not just what is permitted.
I am a woman held fast now in a great silence.
Not all creatures have your need for words.
Birds you killed, fish you tossed into your boat,
In what words will they find rest & in what heaven?
You received gifts from me; they were accepted.
But you don’t understand how to think about the dead.
The smell of winter apples, of hoarfrost, and of linen.
There are nothing but gifts on this poor, poor Earth.
—  Czeslaw Milosz, Unattainable Earth
2

[[ Request: imagine based of the song “Use Somebody” by King of Leon with Juice ]] - I’ve been dying to write another Juice imagine. 💞

Juice sat on the edge of his bed, his elbows resting on his knees as he lost himself in his own thoughts. He wiped his hand down his face and sighed. He felt lost, and he felt confused. It seemed like his whole world was crumbling around him lately, and he had never felt more alone. Even with his brothers, it didn’t seem like enough anymore. Nothing seemed to be enough. There was an emptiness within him that he couldn’t fill, and it was gnawing at him. Driving him crazy. Not all the booze, weed, or women in the world seemed to fill it. He didn’t know what it was he was missing, but he knew he needed to find it fast.

The silence of his own apartment was deafening. He hadn’t left his room in days. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand being alone. It was driving him crazy. He stood and paced the room. He wanted someone. He needed someone. He had never done well alone. His thoughts got the best of him. The weight of his own mind would crush him. He didn’t like being alone. 

He felt his anxiety growing. His thoughts raced through his mind so fast it made him dizzy. He was thinking and overthinking. He couldn’t stand it anymore. He threw on an old black hoodie and grabbed his keys. He had to get out. He had to do something. He had to silence his thoughts. They were suffocating him. He hopped on his bike, hoping the open road and fresh air would do him some good.

——————————————————————————————-

Juice drove aimlessly for hours before he found himself at some secluded dive bar on the outskirts of Charming. It was small and relatively run-down. The fading neon sign had drawn him in, like some flashing neon message telling him he was meant to be there that night. It was exactly the type of place people went when they felt their lives spiraling out of control. It was just the kind of place he needed. He had no idea how he ended up there or why he had even stopped. But anything was better than staring at the same four walls of his apartment for another night. 

He had been seated at the bar for the last hour, drinking beer and wondering how the hell he ended up in this nowhere town. He didn’t belong here. He didn’t belong anywhere. The empty feeling inside him began to gnaw at him again. He had tried to drown it in booze, but it only seemed to make the emptiness feel heavier. He longed for something, anything to fill that void. Something to make him feel alive again. But he didn’t know what he needed. He didn’t even know what he wanted. He just knew something was missing, and that was it.

He was starting to think that stopping at this stupid bar was a bad idea, that maybe he was wrong. Maybe he never was supposed to be there that night. Maybe he was just so desperate to feel something that he was putting false hope in all the wrong places, imagining signs that were never there. He was about to give up and head home when you walked through the door. 

His eyes widened as they took in the sight of you. You were so beautiful, so ethereal he couldn’t believe you were real. You took his breath away, and he hadn’t even spoken to you. You were unlike anyone he had ever seen. He had to know you. He watched in nervous anticipation as you made your way over to the bar. He swallowed hard and his heart began to race as he realized you were walking towards him. You took a seat at the barstool beside him and flashed him a light, friendly smile. 

“Hey.”

He felt his breath catch. He had never felt this way in his entire life, and he wasn’t quite sure what it was. But it scared him and excited him all at once. His hands shook, and all the alcohol in the world couldn’t calm his nerves. He wanted to talk to you, but the words didn’t seem to come out. He was scared he would say the wrong thing. That his voice would shake. That his nerves would get the best of him. 

He took a deep breath and returned your smile. “Hey.” 

You turned to the bartender and ordered yourself a drink. Juice watched you. He knew he was staring, but he couldn’t help himself. You looked like an angel. He felt like he was drawn to you. Like there was some sort of magnetism between the two of you, something pulling you closer. Something had made him stop that night. Some little voice in his head told him that he needed to be there that night, and he couldn’t help but wonder if he had stopped because he was supposed to meet you. 

You turned back to him and watched him with a gentle smile. “I’m Y/N.”  

He nodded his head and smiled nervously. “Juice.” 

You let out a light laugh. “So, what are you doing here, Juice?” you asked. His knees felt weak at the sound of your musical voice saying his name. Something about the way you spoke brought your words to life. You were intoxicating, and he couldn’t get enough of you. He wanted to be closer still. 

He shrugged and smiled at you. “I don’t really know.”

You looked down at the drink in your hand. “Do you believe in fate, Juice?” You looked back up at him and bit your lip.

“I don’t know.” He turned his eyes down to the bar before looking back up at you. “Maybe.” 

You smiled. “I do.” You looked Juice in the eyes, and he felt his breath catch. “I believe that we’re meant to be where we are when we are.” He watched you, his eyes refusing to disconnect from yours. “I think there’s a reason we end up in certain places, meet certain people.” 

Juice nodded his head, still unable to look away from your beautiful form. You brushed a strand of hair behind your ear and smiled up at him. “You wanna get out of here, Juice?” 

You stood from your seat and held your hand out to him. He smiled and took your hand. His heartbeat quickened as you led him out of the bar. The empty feeling inside him that had been gnawing at him for weeks suddenly didn’t feel so heavy anymore. 

I’m Sorry I Love You (3)

one two three four

Originally posted by nam-sexual

     “Isn’t it too fast?” Simon broke the silence between you and him.

     Your hand still wrapped around him while you slowly looked up at him, “Did you just dump me?”  you didn’t expect his reaction would this cold, well yes, Simon’s personality is cold but it’s just his outside appearance, once you know him better, you could see how affectionate and sweet he is.  

     “If you said you love me because you felt guilty, then don’t. I’m a grown man and I don’t do relationship based on pity, you fuckin know that.” He explained, there’s no anger in his tone. It was his honest statement, he didn’t mean to hurt you. He just wanted everything clear since the beginning.

     You felt ashamed of yourself. You just broke up this morning and then you confessed to another guy that you love him, how could you be that cheap?

     You loosen your hug from Simon’s body, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that way.” you didn’t dare to look at his eyes. He was right, even though he admitted that he loves you, it didn’t mean you can treat him like that. He has pride as a man, and your action made him like he’s only your back up plan.  

     He raised his hands and cupped your face gently to look at him, “I love you, but I don’t want to be your back up plan. We need time to make this thing work, I just can’t believe you love me because you clearly said you hate me.” He chuckled.

     His words hit you hard and you felt more terrible. Though, he still treat you nice and gentle, moreover he wanted to make the thing work, which mean you still have a chance to make him as yours, to prove that he’s the one that you need even though you treated him like a shit. Simon is truly a great man, and you realized how stupid you are to put him down.

      “Sorry. I just—”

Keep reading

Camila Cabello: "Our Dreams Were Bigger Than Our Fears"

A bus. The yellow lighting of the gas station against the dark hours of midnight. Fast asleep. Silence. My head slumped over my mom’s shoulder. Her voice timid and hesitant as she stumbled through a sentence in English at the cash register. A Winnie the Pooh journal. These are the things I remember when I think of when my mom and I immigrated to America.

I was almost 7 at the time, born in Havana, Cuba. My papá is puro Mexicano and we lived back and forth between the heat of Havana and the concrete jungle of Mexico City. I didn’t realize it then, but, boy, does it hit me now. I realize how scary it must have been for them. For my mom to leave the streets of Havana where our neighbors were our friends, where we gathered every holiday to eat pork and my grandma’s rice and beans, to not hear the malecón and the heartbeat of her city pulsing with every crash of the wave. For my Dad to leave behind his four brothers and sisters, the memory of his parents, the street vendors selling the elotes con mayonesa that I would beg him to get in the mornings before school, the best friends he’d grown up with … everything. To decide to start from the ground up.

With a couple hundred dollars, the clothes on our backs, no family in the United States, and no clue of what was going to happen next, that’s exactly what we did. Like my mom said, “I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.” And that was enough.

Why were we packing up our stuff? Why was my grandma hugging me tighter than usual? Where were we going? “We’re going to Disney World!” That’s what my Mom told me when we were crossing the border. She packed a little backpack with my Winnie the Pooh journal and my doll, and we crossed the border from Mexico to the US, seeing my Dad become an ant in the distance as he stayed behind.

Just Disney World. Whenever I have to make a decision now and I’m afraid, my mom always reminds me of that day. “That day, I knew if I thought about it, fear would make me turn back. That’s why when you’re afraid, you force yourself to jump. You don’t think, you just jump,” she says to me.

After she sat down with the immigration officer in a tiny office, we and a bunch of people from other countries with similar hopes were placed in rooms with tiny beds in them, a hotel full of these rooms. It was me and my mom and two other families in a little room waiting for somebody to come in and let us know if we were going to be granted permission to enter the US or be sent back. Some people spent days there, some spent weeks in agonizing anxiety over what the answer would be. Meanwhile, I was wondering when the heck we were going to get to Disney. We were there only a day when we finally got the news. The room bursted with joy, everybody around me clapping and hugging and screaming and crying! And me yelling out “Yay! We’re all going to Disney!” Little did I know.

Little me and my mamá ended up on a Greyhound bus to Miami that took 36 hours — that’s where I have my most vivid memories. Other stuff I vaguely remember and know from stories my parents told me years after. But I remember writing in my Winnie the Pooh journal a lot on that bus ride.

We got to Miami and moved into my grandpa’s colleague’s house who later became my godmother. My mom was a very good architect in Cuba, but when she came to America none of the degrees she earned in Cuba counted, so to make enough to keep us fed and put me into school she began stacking shoes in Marshalls and going to school at night to take courses in English, all while taking me to and from school and helping me with my homework all by herself, alone in a strange country. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must have been for her to have worked her whole life in architecture and then have it all erased when she came here.

One day, as if God was listening, two elderly Cuban women were conversing with her and told her: “Oye, tu estás muy bonita para trabajar en Marshalls. Where are you from?” My mom told her the story of how she was Cuban and she was actually an architect. You wouldn’t believe it, but the two Cuban women said they had a brother who worked in architecture and needed someone who worked in Autocad, a complicated architectural computer program. They asked her: “Do you know Autocad?” Internally, my mom was like “Autocad? What the hell is Autocad? We use pencil and paper where I’m from.” But to the ladies, she said: “Autocad? Of course. Yes, of course. I can do that.” She learned how to use the program in a week and made enough to move us out of my godmother’s house and into an apartment.

She learned fast because she literally had to in order to survive. Immigrants have one thing in common: Hunger. I don’t mean it literally, although that’s true too, but metaphorically. The hunger to do the impossible because you have no choice, because you came too damn far, because you’ve known what struggling is, and you’re not going to take an opportunity for granted. The hunger and ability to win above people with better circumstances than you simply because you want it badly enough.

Long story short, my papá came over from Mexico a year and a half later — I had a little calendar in my room counting down the days — because he couldn’t stand being away from us. He went through such hardship to cross the Mexican border and had it harder than my mom and I did, literally risking his life for his family to physically make it here. When he first came to the US, he started off washing cars in front of Dolphin Mall in the blistering Miami heat. But we kept moving on up … with the Latin community in Miami, helping each other up as we did it. Slowly and slowly my parents kept working and climbing and ended up forming a construction company together named after my sister and I. They always pushed me to focus on my studies because the whole reason we came here was so my sister and I could have better opportunities in life than they did. They said: “Money comes and goes, but your education, lo que tienes aquí (and they would point to my head while saying that), nobody can ever take that away from you.” They let me know that in order to go a good college I had to get a scholarship, so I worked as hard as I could. However — plot twist! — that didn’t quite go the way we thought it would.

You see, in 9th grade, a little girl who had never sung in front of people before asked her parents if they could take her to Greensboro, NC, to audition for a little show called The X Factor. Yikes! I had never sang in front of people before. Well, did my mom know Autocad? No. Did I know how to perform on a stage on TV? No. But I wanted it badly enough, and I learned from my family that if you work hard enough and you want it badly enough, you can do the impossible.

I was wrong about one thing. My mamá and papá did not leave everything behind, they brought it with them. My grandma still makes pork and rice and beans every holiday like she did, and my mom still feels the waves of the malecón in her heartbeat because she still feels the most at peace when she’s by the sea. My grandma and dad still get drunk and sing Luis Miguel in the kitchen. We found our favorite Taco spot in Miami (I capitalized Taco because they are that good). And whenever we find another person from our country, we freak out. “¿De qué parte?” Because we have home in us. Because we brought it with us. Every Cuban brought it with them and so we have Miami. Mexicans brought it and so we have the best Mexican food ever. The Italians brought it and so we have pizza. The Swedish brought it and we have great pop songs. The list goes on and on. And so, that’s why when I hear a bigoted, racist man with power and influence speak with anger and ill-will about immigrants, I think “what a fool.”

I am so proud to be Cuban-Mexican. This country was built on immigrants. People who were brave enough to start over. How strong we are to leave behind everything we know in hopes of something better. We are not fearless, we just have dreams bigger than our fears. We jump. We run. We swim, we move mountains, we do whatever it takes. And so next time, when anybody wants to tell you they want to build a “wall” on our border, remember behind that wall is struggle, determination, hunger. Behind that wall, could be the next cure for cancer, the next scientist, the next artist, the next drummer, the next anything they work hard enough to become!

P.S. I did end up going to Disney for the first time a year later. [source]

Camila Cabello: "Our Dreams Were Bigger Than Our Fears

Beautifully written by Camila herself 👍

——

A bus. The yellow lighting of the gas station against the dark hours of midnight. Fast asleep. Silence. My head slumped over my mom’s shoulder. Her voice timid and hesitant as she stumbled through a sentence in English at the cash register. A Winnie the Pooh journal. These are the things I remember when I think of when my mom and I immigrated to America.

I was almost 7 at the time, born in Havana, Cuba. My papá is puro Mexicano and we lived back and forth between the heat of Havana and the concrete jungle of Mexico City. I didn’t realize it then, but, boy, does it hit me now. I realize how scary it must have been for them. For my mom to leave the streets of Havana where our neighbors were our friends, where we gathered every holiday to eat pork and my grandma’s rice and beans, to not hear the malecón and the heartbeat of her city pulsing with every crash of the wave. For my Dad to leave behind his four brothers and sisters, the memory of his parents, the street vendors selling the elotes con mayonesa that I would beg him to get in the mornings before school, the best friends he’d grown up with … everything. To decide to start from the ground up.

With a couple hundred dollars, the clothes on our backs, no family in the United States, and no clue of what was going to happen next, that’s exactly what we did. Like my mom said, “I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t stay here.” And that was enough.

Why were we packing up our stuff? Why was my grandma hugging me tighter than usual? Where were we going? “We’re going to Disney World!” That’s what my Mom told me when we were crossing the border. She packed a little backpack with my Winnie the Pooh journal and my doll, and we crossed the border from Mexico to the US, seeing my Dad become an ant in the distance as he stayed behind.

Just Disney World. Whenever I have to make a decision now and I’m afraid, my mom always reminds me of that day. “That day, I knew if I thought about it, fear would make me turn back. That’s why when you’re afraid, you force yourself to jump. You don’t think, you just jump,” she says to me.

After she sat down with the immigration officer in a tiny office, we and a bunch of people from other countries with similar hopes were placed in rooms with tiny beds in them, a hotel full of these rooms. It was me and my mom and two other families in a little room waiting for somebody to come in and let us know if we were going to be granted permission to enter the US or be sent back. Some people spent days there, some spent weeks in agonizing anxiety over what the answer would be. Meanwhile, I was wondering when the heck we were going to get to Disney. We were there only a day when we finally got the news. The room bursted with joy, everybody around me clapping and hugging and screaming and crying! And me yelling out “Yay! We’re all going to Disney!” Little did I know.

Little me and my mamá ended up on a Greyhound bus to Miami that took 36 hours — that’s where I have my most vivid memories. Other stuff I vaguely remember and know from stories my parents told me years after. But I remember writing in my Winnie the Pooh journal a lot on that bus ride.

We got to Miami and moved into my grandpa’s colleague’s house who later became my godmother. My mom was a very good architect in Cuba, but when she came to America none of the degrees she earned in Cuba counted, so to make enough to keep us fed and put me into school she began stacking shoes in Marshalls and going to school at night to take courses in English, all while taking me to and from school and helping me with my homework all by herself, alone in a strange country. I can’t imagine how frustrating it must have been for her to have worked her whole life in architecture and then have it all erased when she came here.

One day, as if God was listening, two elderly Cuban women were conversing with her and told her: “Oye, tu estás muy bonita para trabajar en Marshalls. Where are you from?” My mom told her the story of how she was Cuban and she was actually an architect. You wouldn’t believe it, but the two Cuban women said they had a brother who worked in architecture and needed someone who worked in Autocad, a complicated architectural computer program. They asked her: “Do you know Autocad?” Internally, my mom was like “Autocad? What the hell is Autocad? We use pencil and paper where I’m from.” But to the ladies, she said: “Autocad? Of course. Yes, of course. I can do that.” She learned how to use the program in a week and made enough to move us out of my godmother’s house and into an apartment.

She learned fast because she literally had to in order to survive. Immigrants have one thing in common: Hunger. I don’t mean it literally, although that’s true too, but metaphorically. The hunger to do the impossible because you have no choice, because you came too damn far, because you’ve known what struggling is, and you’re not going to take an opportunity for granted. The hunger and ability to win above people with better circumstances than you simply because you want it badly enough.

Long story short, my papá came over from Mexico a year and a half later — I had a little calendar in my room counting down the days — because he couldn’t stand being away from us. He went through such hardship to cross the Mexican border and had it harder than my mom and I did, literally risking his life for his family to physically make it here. When he first came to the US, he started off washing cars in front of Dolphin Mall in the blistering Miami heat. But we kept moving on up … with the Latin community in Miami, helping each other up as we did it. Slowly and slowly my parents kept working and climbing and ended up forming a construction company together named after my sister and I. They always pushed me to focus on my studies because the whole reason we came here was so my sister and I could have better opportunities in life than they did. They said: “Money comes and goes, but your education, lo que tienes aquí (and they would point to my head while saying that), nobody can ever take that away from you.” They let me know that in order to go a good college I had to get a scholarship, so I worked as hard as I could. However — plot twist! — that didn’t quite go the way we thought it would.

You see, in 9th grade, a little girl who had never sung in front of people before asked her parents if they could take her to Greensboro, NC, to audition for a little show called The X Factor. Yikes! I had never sang in front of people before. Well, did my mom know Autocad? No. Did I know how to perform on a stage on TV? No. But I wanted it badly enough, and I learned from my family that if you work hard enough and you want it badly enough, you can do the impossible.

I was wrong about one thing. My mamá and papá did not leave everything behind, they brought it with them. My grandma still makes pork and rice and beans every holiday like she did, and my mom still feels the waves of the malecón in her heartbeat because she still feels the most at peace when she’s by the sea. My grandma and dad still get drunk and sing Luis Miguel in the kitchen. We found our favorite Taco spot in Miami (I capitalized Taco because they are that good). And whenever we find another person from our country, we freak out. “¿De qué parte?” Because we have home in us. Because we brought it with us. Every Cuban brought it with them and so we have Miami. Mexicans brought it and so we have the best Mexican food ever. The Italians brought it and so we have pizza. The Swedish brought it and we have great pop songs. The list goes on and on. And so, that’s why when I hear a bigoted, racist man with power and influence speak with anger and ill-will about immigrants, I think “what a fool.”

I am so proud to be Cuban-Mexican. This country was built on immigrants. People who were brave enough to start over. How strong we are to leave behind everything we know in hopes of something better. We are not fearless, we just have dreams bigger than our fears. We jump. We run. We swim, we move mountains, we do whatever it takes. And so next time, when anybody wants to tell you they want to build a “wall” on our border, remember behind that wall is struggle, determination,hunger. Behind that wall, could be the next cure for cancer, the next scientist, the next artist, the next drummer, the next anything they work hard enough to become!

P.S. I did end up going to Disney for the first time a year later.

Camila Cabello (September 14, 2016)

—–
http://www.popsugar.com/latina/Camila-Cabello-Her-Cuban-Background-42239921

the other way to ride the iron bull

but like can you imagine like the Inquisitor is like “where the fuck are my tol and smol” and then they turn around and see this and they’re like “guys……wtf” and bull is jus like “c’mon boss, his little feet can’t move that fast” and after a long silence the Inquisitor is just like “me next”

(reblogs are appreciated since the stupid thing with the tags is stupid)

Happy Nyepi Day! Selamat Hari Raya Nyepi!
Nyepi is a celebration of the Hindu New Year and a day of silence, fasting, and meditation for the Balinese.

Best wishes for the New Year!
Proud Indonesian