Flowering Silence
"Friend, your words and my words come from the same source: a flowering silence that yearns to be heard. Our joy and our grief come from the same place: a boundless compassion that flows from the ocean of the heart. Yet our voices are not the same. Though our bewilderment is one, our song is more than the hum of the hive, the drone of the collective. We are singular, crazy, divinely shattered poets of humanity. My drop flavors the entire sea, and so does yours. The cosmos would not taste quite complete without your piquancy, the bouquet of your sorrows and celebrations. So, journal with me, won’t you? We’ll meet in Rumi’s field, out beyond every idea of right and wrong. We’ll kindle each other’s voice, and sip nectar from the cup of listening." –Alfred K. LaMotte
This journal is 122 pages.
"Friend, your words and my words come from the same source: a flowering silence that yearns to be heard. Our joy and our grief come from the same place: a boundless compassion that flows from the ocean of the heart. Yet our voices are not the same. Though our bewilderment is one, our song is more than the hum of the hive, the drone of the collective. We are singular, crazy, divinely shattered poets of humanity. My drop flavors the entire sea, and so does yours. The cosmos would not taste quite complete without your piquancy, the bouquet of your sorrows and celebrations. So, journal with me, won’t you? We’ll meet in Rumi’s field, out beyond every idea of right and wrong. We’ll kindle each other’s voice, and sip nectar from the cup of listening." –Alfred K. LaMotte
This journal is 122 pages.
"Friend, your words and my words come from the same source: a flowering silence that yearns to be heard. Our joy and our grief come from the same place: a boundless compassion that flows from the ocean of the heart. Yet our voices are not the same. Though our bewilderment is one, our song is more than the hum of the hive, the drone of the collective. We are singular, crazy, divinely shattered poets of humanity. My drop flavors the entire sea, and so does yours. The cosmos would not taste quite complete without your piquancy, the bouquet of your sorrows and celebrations. So, journal with me, won’t you? We’ll meet in Rumi’s field, out beyond every idea of right and wrong. We’ll kindle each other’s voice, and sip nectar from the cup of listening." –Alfred K. LaMotte
This journal is 122 pages.