Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure...

full quote: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”

From A Return to Love: Reflections on the Principles of "A Course in Miracles"
by Marianne Williamson

On mourning

by Robin M.N.

"You think you're over me, but you're not." she said, not unkindly. "It's not that simple, nor so fast. I know this. I have tread this path before, and the way is long and hard."

"You're right." he said. "I can't help but pine for the warmth of your smile. Your lilting voice, wrapped in mirth. The comfort found in your embrace. All of you, so pleasing to me. How could I deny otherwise? But none of these shall I receive again, now or perhaps ever. If I cannot convince myself that I can live without, how am I to live at all?"

"Loss is ever-present in our lives." she replied. "All is transient. Being human is mourning what has past, celebrating its memory and sharing its essence, so that it may live on within us."

"But you're not dead!" he exclaimed. "How do I grieve what remains, corporeal and out of reach?"

"I am not lost to you." she said gently. "Not really. Though our paths diverge, all that we have shared is woven into the fabric of who we are, and travels always with us."

He began to cry, softly. He said, "But my heart still aches for you, dear. How long will it hurt? And how can I bear the pain?"

"Grief is as a snowflake," she said, "and will take its leave only when warmed by the love we show ourselves. Find the love within, and grief, too, shall pass." At this, she took him in her arms and whispered in his ear. "Knowing only that you are loved, all can be borne."

He sagged against her, his tears flowing faster. His journey had finally begun.

As drops in the ocean

by Anastasia Poushkareva

Water is the most powerful thing in the world. I, of course, have heard this before - so much has been said and written, felt and imagined. When you stand near the shoreline or even advance to a knee-deep area, with nothing but the salty breast of the Atlantic lying before you - you subconsiously step further, as the water caresses your legs and the wind inebriates you. Only caution that is still somehow present holds you from giving yourself to the ocean, sacrificing yourself with a smile, dissipating into miniscule drops. And you walk back disappointed as the wind calls you back, but you move on.

Then you stand on a boat having distanced yourself from the seductiveness of water, watching it run headlong into the wall of civilization and retreat angrily preparing for a retaliation. The wind is teasing as ever. It playfully pulls up your shirt, and you can feel its light hands on your skin, filled with the most insane of desires.

When you step towards the nose of the boat, the wind becomes more demanding, brutal. Its hands, previously gentle, tear and slap; the mass of air, salt and bitterness crashes into you from the side of Northern Maine and plants a thousand sharp kisses. Later that night you go on a date with the ocean, and as soon as your toes touch the sand, the wind blows you away in its joyful welcome. The waves roll on excitedly as you fall on your knees and try to catch them with your hands. The water breaks away, leaving foam and a couple of polished pebbles at your feet.

There are so many shores in Massachusetts where water treats you differently like every unique lover. In some places it crashes at your feet angrily, invading your territory; but in spite of its pride, it wants to be conquered like a fearful virgin. In other, the sea puts its treasures before you like a lusty rich seducer, and you smile and let it fondle your body. In Yarmouth the ocean greets you with a roar on the very first date, but then it, charmed, finds itself timidly kissing your toes, for it has nothing to offer you except a profusion of seaweed and broken seashells. This morning, when you walked the sand trail for the last time, the water was calm and crystal clear. It still gave you a plethora of its gifts, but it had ceased asking, pleading, caressing. It lay indifferently around your ankles, brought in motion only by the movement of your feet. And you knelt beside it, trying to stir its apathy with your hands just to feel its salty love on your lips one more time. And you laughed at your human clinginess and walked away, and for a second it seemed that the ocean smiled back, but you weren't sure.