Consequences

In summertime village cricket is the delight of everyone. Nearly every village has its own cricket field where the young men play and the old men watch. In the village of Lintz in County Durham they have their own ground, where they have played these last 70 years. They tend it well. The wicket area is well rolled and mown. The outfield is kept short. It has a good club house for the players and seats for the onlookers. The village team play there on Saturdays and Sundays. They belong to a league, competing with the neighbouring villages. On other evenings after work they practise while the light lasts. Yet now after these 70 years a judge of the High Court has ordered that they must not play there any more. He has issued an injunction to stop them. He has done it at the instance of a newcomer who is no lover of cricket. This newcomer has built, or has had built for him, a house on the edge of the cricket ground which four years ago was a field where cattle grazed. The animals did not mind the cricket. But now this adjoining field has been turned into a housing estate. The newcomer bought one of the houses on the edge of the cricket ground. No doubt the open space was a selling point. Now he complains that when a batsman hits a six the ball has been known to land in his garden or on or near his house. His wife has got so upset about it that they always go out at week-ends. They do not go into the garden when cricket is being played. They say that this is intolerable. So they asked the judge to stop the cricket being played. And the judge, much against his will, has felt that he must order the cricket to be stopped: with the consequence, I suppose, that the Lintz Cricket Club will disappear. The cricket ground will be turned to some other use. I expect for more houses or a factory. The young men will turn to other things instead of cricket. The whole village will be much the poorer. And all this because of a newcomer who has just bought a house there next to the cricket ground.

... Opening Judgment of Miller v Jackson [1977] QB 966, Lord Alfred Denning

They Bring Me To You

Moon pours through the ceiling tonight

Embraces us tight

Shows me we're right for each other

And as we lie here and let the world fade away

The sunrise tries to end it while we try to stay

The rest of my life can't compare to this night, whoa oh

And only the heartaches have given me sight, oh oh

They bring me to you, yeah yeah

They bring me to you, yeah yeah

... Joshua Radin

Maybe

'Cause maybe in the future, you're gonna come back

You're gonna come back around

Maybe in the future you're gonna come back

You're gonna come back

Oh, the only way to really know is to really let it go

Maybe you're gonna come back, you're gonna come back

You're gonna come back to me

... Ingrid Michaelson

A Boy And An Apple Tree

A long time ago, there was a huge apple tree. A little boy loved to come and play around it every day. He climbed to the treetop, ate the apples, and took a nap under the shadow. He loved the tree and the tree loved to play with him. Time went by, the little boy had grown up and he no longer played around the tree every day.

One day, the boy came back to the tree and he looked sad.

“Come and play with me”, the tree asked the boy.

“I am no longer a kid, I do not play around trees anymore” the boy replied. “I want toys. I need money to buy them.” “Sorry, but I do not have money, but you can pick all my apples and sell them. So, you will have money.” The boy was so excited. He grabbed all the apples on the tree and left happily. The boy never came back after he picked the apples. The tree was sad.

One day, the boy who now turned into a man returned and the tree was excited.

“Come and play with me” the tree said.

“I do not have time to play. I have to work for my family. We need a house for shelter. Can you help me?” “Sorry, but I do not have any house. But you can chop off my branches to build your house.” So the man cut all the branches of the tree and left happily. The tree was glad to see him happy but the man never came back since then. The tree was again lonely and sad.

One hot summer day, the man returned and the tree was delighted.

“Come and play with me!” the tree said.

“I am getting old. I want to go sailing to relax myself. Can you give me a boat?” said the man. “Use my trunk to build your boat. You can sail far away and be happy.” So the man cut the tree trunk to make a boat. He went sailing and never showed up for a long time.

Finally, the man returned after many years. “Sorry, my boy. But I do not have anything for you anymore. No more apples for you,” the tree said. “No problem, I do not have any teeth to bite” the man replied.

“No more trunk for you to climb on.” “I am too old for that now.” the man said.

“I really cannot give you anything, the only thing left is my dying roots,” the tree said with tears. “I do not need much now, just a place to rest. I am tired after all these years,” the man replied.

“Good! Old tree roots are the best place to lean on and rest, come sit down with me and rest.” The man sat down and the tree was glad and smiled with tears.

I Shall Praise And Thank Thee

Allah's Messenger (peace be upon him) said, his Lord suggested turning the valley of Mecca into gold for him but he replied, "No, my Lord, but let me have enough to eat and be hungry on alternate days; then when I am hungry I shall make supplication to Thee and make mention of Thee, and when I have enough I shall praise and thank Thee."

... Narrated in Ahmad, Tirmidhi

A Psalm Of Life

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,

Life is but an empty dream ! —

For the soul is dead that slumbers,

And things are not what they seem.

Life is real ! Life is earnest!

And the grave is not its goal ;

Dust thou art, to dust returnest,

Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,

Is our destined end or way ;

But to act, that each to-morrow

Find us farther than to-day.

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,

And our hearts, though stout and brave,

Still, like muffled drums, are beating

Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,

In the bivouac of Life,

Be not like dumb, driven cattle !

Be a hero in the strife !

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant !

Let the dead Past bury its dead !

Act,— act in the living Present !

Heart within, and God o'erhead !

Lives of great men all remind us

We can make our lives sublime,

And, departing, leave behind us

Footprints on the sands of time ;

Footprints, that perhaps another,

Sailing o'er life's solemn main,

A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,

Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,

With a heart for any fate ;

Still achieving, still pursuing,

Learn to labor and to wait.

... Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,

Enwrought with golden and silver light,

The blue and the dim and the dark cloths

Of night and light and the half-light,

I would spread the cloths under your feet:

But I, being poor, have only my dreams;

I have spread my dreams under your feet;

Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

... William Butler Yeats

Opening Farewell

Suddenly it's so clear to me,

That I'd asked you to see what you may never see

Now my kind words find their way back to me:

There's a train everyday, leaving either way

There's a world you know, you gotta ways to go

I'll soon believe that it's just as well

This is my opening farewell

... Jackson Browne & Bonnie Raitt

I'll Be Seeing You

I'll be seeing you

In all the old familiar places

That this heart of mine embraces

All day through

In that small cafe

The park across the way

The children's carousel

The chestnut tree

The wishing well

I'll be seeing you

Through every lovely summer's day

In everything that's light and gay

I'll always think of you that way

I'll find you in the morning sun

And when the night is new

I'll be looking at the moon

But I'll be seeing you

... Michael Bublé

Forget

Forget the suffering

You caused others.

Forget the suffering

Others caused you.

The waters run and run,

Springs sparkle and are done,

You walk the earth you are forgetting.

Sometimes you hear a distant refrain.

What does it mean, you ask, who is singing?

A childlike sun grows warm.

A grandson and a great-grandson are born.

You are led by the hand once again.

The names of the rivers remain with you.

How endless those rivers seem!

Your fields lie fallow,

The city towers are not as they were.

You stand at the threshold mute.

... Czeslaw Milosz

Just Because

Just because you're near

The cold nights grow warmer

Heaven's not so far away

Whisper in my ear

Gentle is the darkness

Keep your secrets here

... Ray Charles

Part Of Speech

...and when "the future" is uttered, swarms of mice

rush out of the Russian language and gnaw a piece

of ripened memory which is twice

as hole-ridden as real cheese.

After all these years it hardly matters who

or what stands in the corner, hidden by heavy drapes,

and your mind resounds not with a seraphic "doh",

only their rustle. Life, that no one dares

to appraise, like that gift horse's mouth,

bares its teeth in a grin at each

encounter. What gets left of a man amounts

to a part. To his spoken part. To a part of speech.

... Joseph Brodsky

Between Going And Staying The Day Wavers

Between going and staying the day wavers,

in love with its own transparency.

The circular afternoon is now a bay

where the world in stillness rocks.

All is visible and all elusive,

all is near and can't be touched.

Paper, book, pencil, glass,

rest in the shade of their names.

Time throbbing in my temples repeats

the same unchanging syllable of blood.

The light turns the indifferent wall

into a ghostly theater of reflections.

I find myself in the middle of an eye,

watching myself in its blank stare.

The moment scatters. Motionless,

I stay and go: I am a pause.

... Octavio Paz

Love After Love

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 other's welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat.

You will love again the stranger who was your self.

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 notes,

peel your own image from the mirror.

Sit. Feast on your life.

... Derek Walcott

Place In This World

... If there are millions

Down on their knees

Among the many

Can You still hear me

Hear me asking

Where do I belong?

Is there a vision

That I can call my own?

Show me, I'm

Looking for a reason

Roamin' through the night to find

My place in this world

My place in this world

Not a lot to lean on

I need Your light to help me find

My place in this world

My place in this world

... Michael W. Smith

The Hope Of Loving

What keeps us alive, what allows us to endure?

I think it is the hope of loving,

or being loved.

I heard a fable once about the sun going on a journey

to find its source, and how the moon wept

without her lover’s

warm gaze.

We weep when light does not reach our hearts. We wither

like fields if someone close

does not rain their

kindness

upon

us.

... Meister Eickhart

Secrets Of Success

When I woke up this morning I asked myself: What are some of the secrets of success in life? I found the answer right there in my very room:

The fan said : Be cool

The roof said : Aim high

The window said : See the world

The clock said : Every minute is precious

The mirror said : Reflect before you act

The door said : Push hard for your goals

And finally, the carpet said : Kneel down and pray.

... Author Unknown

The Book Will Feel No Pain

If they burn a book, have no worries. The book will feel NO pain so neither should you ... True destruction of the Qur'an cannot be done with fire, it is destroyed when we fail to remember and practice its lessons in our daily lives ... If this occurs then it is ANOTHER fire that you should truly be concerned about.

... Lupe Fiasco

You Got Me

I can't imagine what it'd be like

Living each day in this life - without you.

Without you.

One look from you I know you understand

This mess we're in you know is just so out of hand.

I hope we always feel this way (I know we will)

And in my heart I know that you will always stay

Oh, I just can't get enough

How much do I need to fill me up.

It feels so good it must be love

I give up. I give in. I let go. Let's begin.

Cause no matter what I do...

You got me.

... Colbie Caillat

What Am 'I'?

If I am not for myself, who will be for me? 

And when I am for myself, what am 'I'? 

And if not now, when?

... Hillel The Elder

My Brothers Are Those Who Will Believe In Me, Without Having Seen Me

Anas ibn Malik narrates that the Messenger of Allah (Allah bless him and grant him peace) said: “I wish that I could meet my brothers.” 

The Companions of the Prophet (Allah be well pleased with them) asked, “Are we not your brothers?”

He replied: “You are my Companions, but my brothers are those who will believe in me, without having seen me.” 

... [Ahmad, Musnad]

What We Are and Where We Are

Man is committed at birth to two journeys. The first he cannot escape, for this is the journey of action and experience as he travels down the stream of his own lifetime and creates—a man of his period, localized in time and space—a story which is an expression, in this particular mode, of his ultimate identity. The second journey, which can—at least in a certain sense—be avoided, is upstream, using time and locality only as starting points, leading beyond their zone. This is the journey described in countless myths and legends, the arduous, perilous way towards the centre of being, the passage from the ephemeral and illusory towards the eternally real. It was to provide a landscape for this journey that the monster Chaos was slain and an ordered world raised from the waters, and it was to provide a negotiable way through this landscape that the prophets labored, Christ died and Muhammed led the people of the City into battle in the Arabian wastes.

In a normal society the circumstances of the first journey provide supports for the second, and it was man's aim in the past to build and maintain a physical and social environment in which every element had a dual character, existing as a ‘thing’ in terms of the first journey, standing as a symbol and signpost in terms of the second. For a very long time now the routes of these two journeys have been diverging, and it is not by chance that the last of the great, world-transforming Revelations laid such particular emphasis upon the duty of pilgrimage: the pious Moslem on his way to Mecca is like a dancer who, by the steps he takes towards the physical symbol of all centrality, acts out the drama of his own inner, timeless journey, just as, in his obligatory prayers, he creates a tiny area of consecrated territory—confined to the dimensions of his prayer-mat—in an environment that has become almost totally profane. From this point of view it might be said that the sacred rules of Islam were specially designed to protect the traveler in a world which no longer offers him any foothold.

But the fact that we find ourselves now in a world in which the two paths have diverged so far that they can scarcely any longer be related to each other is not, in the last analysis, a senseless accident. The human world, being what it is, could only decay in the course of time, but, since decay is itself a necessary aspect of a larger pattern and since there are possibilities which can only find existential expression in such a context as ours, this is where we belong. We live out our lives here and now (rather than in some paradisal environment) because it is our nature to be where we are. And we are told that there are compensations available to such as us which were not available to the less degenerate men of earlier times. "You are in an age in which, if you neglect one-tenth of what is ordered, you will be condemned", the Prophet of Islam told his Companions, "but after this a time will come when he who observes one-tenth of what is now ordered will be saved".

... What We Are and Where We Are, Charles Le Gai Eaton

Pierce Consciences

It must be admitted that the progressists are not entirely wrong in thinking that there is something in religion which no longer works; in fact the individualistic and sentimental argumentation with which traditional piety operates has lost almost all its power to pierce consciences, and the reason for this is not merely that modern man is irreligious but also that the usual religious arguments, through not probing sufficiently to the depth of things and not having had previously any need to do so, are psychologically somewhat outworn and fail to satisfy certain needs of causality. If human societies degenerate on the one hand with the passage of time, they accumulate on the other hand experiences in virtue of old age, however intermingled with errors their experience may be; this paradox is something that any pastoral teaching should take into account, not by drawing new directives from the general error but on the contrary by using arguments of a higher order, intellectual rather than sentimental; as a result some at least would be saved -- a greater number than one might be tempted to suppose -- whereas the demagogic scientistic pastoralist saves no one.

... Frithjof Schuon and René Guénon, Martin Lings

O, Never Say That I Was False Of Heart

O, never say that I was false of heart,

Though absence seemed my flame to qualify.

As easy might I from my self depart

As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie.

That is my home of love; if I have ranged,

Like him that travels I return again,

Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,

So that myself bring water for my stain.

Never believe though in my nature reigned

All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,

That it could so preposterously be stained

To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;

For nothing this wide universe I call

Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all

... William Shakespeare

When We Two Parted

When we two parted

In silence and tears,

Half broken-hearted,

To sever for years,

Pale grew thy cheek and cold,

Colder thy kiss;

Truly that hour foretold

Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning

Sank chill on my brow

It felt like the warning

Of what I feel now.

Thy vows are all broken,

And light is thy fame:

I hear thy name spoken,

And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,

A knell to mine ear;

A shudder comes o'er me

Why wert thou so dear?

They know not I knew thee,

Who knew thee too well:

Long, long shall I rue thee

Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met

In silence I grieve

That thy heart could forget,

Thy spirit deceive.

If I should meet thee

After long years,

How should I greet thee?

With silence and tears.

... Lord Byron

The Question

I dreamed that, as I wandered by the way,

Bare Winter suddenly was changed to Spring,

And gentle odours led my steps astray,

Mixed with a sound of waters murmuring

Along a shelving bank of turf, which lay

Under a copse, and hardly dared to fling

Its green arms round the bosom of the stream,

But kissed it and then fled, as thou mightest in dream.

There grew pied wind-flowers and violets,

Daisies, those pearled Arcturi of the earth,

The constellated flower that never sets;

Faint oxlips; tender bluebells, at whose birth

The sod scarce heaved; and that tall flower that wets

Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth

Its mother's face with Heaven's collected tears,

When the low wind, its playmate's voice, it hears.

And in the warm hedge grew lush eglantine,

Green cowbind and the moonlight-coloured may,

And cherry-blossoms, and white cups, whose wine

Was the bright dew, yet drained not by the day;

And wild roses, and ivy serpentine,

With its dark buds and leaves, wandering astray;

And flowers azure, black, and streaked with gold,

Fairer than any wakened eyes behold.

And nearer to the river's trembling edge

There grew broad flag-flowers, purple pranked with white,

And starry river buds among the sedge,

And floating water-lilies, broad and bright,

Which lit the oak that overhung the hedge

With moonlight beams of their own watery light;

And bulrushes, and reeds of such deep green

As soothed the dazzled eye with sober sheen.

Methought that of these visionary flowers

I made a nosegay, bound in such a way

That the same hues, which in their natural bowers

Were mingled or opposed, the like array

Kept these imprisoned children of the Hours

Within my hand, and then, elate and gay,

I hastened to the spot whence I had come,

That I might there present it! Oh! to whom?

... Percy Bysshe Shelley

Helas

To drift with every passion till my soul

Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play,

Is it for this that I have given away

Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?

Methinks my life is a twice-written scroll

Scrawled over on some boyish holiday

With idle songs for pipe and virelay,

Which do but mar the secret of the whole.

Surely there was a time I might have trod

The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance

Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God.

Is that time dead? Lo! with a little rod

I did but touch the honey of romance

And must I lose a soul's inheritance?

... Oscar Wilde

Anyone At All

Funny how I feel more myself with you

Than anybody else that I ever knew

I hear it in your voice, see it in your face

You've become the memory I can't erase

You could have been anyone at all

A stranger falling out of the blue

I'm so glad it was you

You could have been anyone at all
A net that catches me when I fall
I'm so glad it was you

I'm so glad it was you :)

... Carole King

Home

I'm staring out into the night,

Trying to hide the pain.

I'm going to the place where love

And feeling good don't ever cost a thing.

And the pain you feel's a different kind of pain.

Well I'm going home,

Back to the place where I belong,

And where your love has always been enough for me.

I'm not running from.

No, I think you got me all wrong.

I don't regret this life I chose for me.

But these places and these faces are getting old,

So I'm going home.

Well I'm going home.

... Home, Daughtry

Humble Longing

Everyone who delights in some act of devotion

can't bear to miss it,

even for a short while.

That disappointment and grief

are as a hundred prayers:

what is ritual prayer compared

with the glow of humble longing?

... Mathnawi II: 2769-2770, Mevlana Rumi