Gratitude

Passages

Every passage tagged with this emotion in the Vela corpus. Search the body text, narrow by source or register, click through to a book’s profile to see how the passage sits with the rest of the work.

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• From Christianity and the Social Crisis (1907)

  Hospitality was one of the fundamental Christian virtues in primitive Christian life. It was so open-handed that it invited exploitation by professional beggars. The heathen writer Lucian made the gullibility of the Christians part of the plot of his novelette, “On the Death of Peregrinus Proteus.” By the end of the third century charity began to be institutionalized. There were Christian lodging-houses for strangers, homes for the aged, the sick, the poor. In the first and second century it was more a matter of direct neighborly help from man to man. Probably the chief help was not given in the form of money, but of human service and influence. In Paul’s epistles we get glimpses of influential families in whose homes the church-groups met and upon whom the task of hospitality and watch-care chiefly devolved. They put their property, their influence and social standing, at the service of the Christian community. Paul speaks of such with deep respect. Stephanas, who came from Corinth to visit Paul at Ephesus, was a man of that kind. He probably made this journey on behalf of the Church at his own expense, just as men of wealth would undertake to defray some public function at Athens, or paid for common expenses in the voluntary associations of Greek social life. The poor and the alien were without political rights or social importance, and found protection by close relation to some citizen of wealth and standing. The relation of client and patron was widespread and of great social importance. It is interesting that where our conditions are similar to those of the ancient world, a similar relation of clientage has grown up in the protection given to the poor by the political boss and the service exacted by him in return. It is probable that the wealthier members of the Christian communities served as the patroni of their poorer brethren. Phœbe, of the Corinthian harbor-town Cenchreæ, was probably not a poor deaconess, but a woman of social standing who had served Paul and many others as patrona. Christianity spread at first chiefly in the cities and among the lower middle class, the working class, and the slaves. The poorer classes of the Empire were a proletariat much like that of our great cities. They were largely composed of slaves and of freemen who were economically submerged through the competition of organized slave labor, through the drift of the peasantry toward the cities, and through the increasing economic breakdown of the Empire. The Christian Church was of immense social value to these people. It took the place in their life which life insurance, sick benefits, accident insurance, friendly societies, and some features of trades-unions take to-day. The individual found in the community a hold when any wave of misfortune threatened to sweep him off his feet and drag him out to sea in the undertow of misery.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  After going through this journey with my chosen father, I have a different kind of peace with my biological father and the role he played in my life. As a result of exploring and healing aspects of my own trauma, I have more compassion for the adversity BD faced in his life, too. I forgive him for the pain he caused, and I’m sorry for how I wounded him. Though he wasn’t meant to be my day-today dad, I’m grateful he was part of making me and that I have some of the best parts of his nature. Like it or not, no physical relationship is perfect or forever. And perhaps no relationship solely exists in physical form. Nevertheless, our bonds remain. Maybe when we shed our bodies, our baggage goes with them. Suddenly it’s “only love,” like one big, free-spirited Burning Man Festival in the sky (without the dust, sweat, and hangovers). Wouldn’t that be a gas? I guess we’ll see one day. LOOK FOR THE LIGHTOne of my grandma’s favorite mottoes was “Don’t curse the darkness, light a candle.” When it all feels like too much, look for the light. Life is full of ups and downs, especially when we’re committed to living it fully. But no matter how dark it gets, there’s always light to be found—small moments that remind us that beauty still exists. A child’s laughter, sun on our face, positive memories of the people we’ve lost. And, of course, a wagging tail. These are the things that point us toward the nourishing light. For me, the creative process is how I find the light. That’s what writing this book was all about. Using my pen to turn my pain into purpose. In fact, when I started this process, I set two intentions—one for you and one for me. “May this book help to normalize conversations around difficult emotions so that people feel less alone and crazy. And may I heal deeper parts of myself as a result of this writing.” That goes for both what I’ve learned and for the passing on of my dad’s wisdom. In fact, his light lives on in my heart, these pages, and maybe even in you. And here’s the thing, we’re all creative—especially the folks who think they’re not. In fact, we use creativity in everything we do, each and every day. Figuring out how to patch a leaky faucet? Creative. Finding a new doctor? Creative. Fixing your teeth after life kicked you in the choppers? Very creative. See, you’re practically Picasso already. So, if you have a flicker of creative fire burning inside you, stoke it. Don’t worry if you don’t know what you’re doing. None of us know anything when we’re first starting out. In my experience, we learn by doing. Stay curious and you’ll figure it out, I promise. Regardless of what avenue you choose, light is all around you, even on the darkest days.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Start Your Day with “Thank You”How we start our day sets the tone for how we’ll end it. What if you took your first few moments, the time that bridges your dream state with your conscious mind, and just said Thank you. Thank you, body. Thank you, spirit. Thank you, creator—whatever feels right to you. Thank you for another day. I am blessed. It’s natural to focus on what we don’t have or what we’ve just lost. But gratitude reminds us of what’s still good in our lives—and there is plenty. Meditate for Just a Few MinutesYou don’t have to hole up in an ashram to find stillness. For most of us, that’s both unrealistic and unappealing. And yet, meditation is an extremely beneficial practice, especially when you’re hurting. The trick is to find what works for you. Don’t worry if you think you’re “bad” at it (no such thing) or if you have no idea what you’re doing at first. Years ago, I took a workshop with one of my favorite teachers, Pema Chödrön. Pema is a Buddhist teacher and nun who’s been meditating for more than 40 years. I nearly fell off my cushion when she joked about being terrible at meditating. If she claims to stink at it, you (and I) can stink at it, too. How well we meditate is not as important as our commitment to regularly calming our nervous system. Here’s an easy way to start: Sit in a comfortable position for 5 to 10 minutes and focus on your breath. When a thought comes (I wonder if those shoes are on sale? Is that urine I smell on the carpet? When was the last time I shaved my legs?), gently acknowledge the thought by silently saying “thinking” and then bring your attention back to your breath (without judgment). You can also try counting. For example, silently count from 1 to 10 in your mind. When a thought interrupts you, stop where you are and go back to 1. Don’t be surprised if you don’t get far or if you suddenly wake up and find you’re at 110! Another option is to silently repeat an affirmation like “I am love.” The goal of these techniques is to use whatever you’re focusing on (breath, counting, or affirmations) to anchor yourself to the present moment. Take Brain Breaks throughout the DayThe last few years have been so intense that it’s no surprise that your brain may feel like burned toast. While meditation, or any practice that soothes your nervous system, is important, your brain also needs breaks throughout the day. Pause. Step away from your computer. Breathe. Stretch your arms to the sky. Walk to the mailbox or the end of your block. Or if you’re like me, lie on the floor and moan. Even just five minutes can help you recharge.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  And for loving sandwiches as much as I do. But extra thanks to Mandi Rivieccio, our Chief Creative Officer, for being a tender titan and my favorite person to word chef with. To my Inner Circle Wellness community and Thrive Mastermind members, thank you for your desire to learn and grow alongside me. To Carol, thank you for guiding me through so many storms. To Jeanette, thank you for giving me a book on grief. It scared me at first. And then it kicked off a healing I didn’t know possible. To my dearest True Blues: Nick, Terri, Regena, Gabby, Dani, Rachel, Kate, Gina, John R, Kristen, and Bill, thank you for your beautiful friendship on my best and worst days. To my best friend, Marie Forleo, thank you for bunny cups, dream clubs, psychics follies, ambulance emojis, endless laughter, and the safest place for ugly cries. To my beloved husband, Brian Fassett, thank you for helping me cull my compound sentences, and for saying things like “less Chekhov play, more Hemingway” (even though I still don’t know what that means). But most of all, thank you for loving me and this fantastic life we’ve built together. And thank you for loving Dad with such generosity. To my incredible mom, Aura Carr, thank you for being a constant source of love and support throughout my life. Your courage in difficult times has taught me how to face my own challenges with fierce grace, while your exuberant curiosity for life reminds me to cultivate my own seeker’s spirit. I am forever grateful for your unwavering presence and inspiration. And most of all, thank you, Dad . . . ABOUT THE AUTHOR KRIS CARR is a multiple New York Times best-selling author, wellness activist, and cancer thriver. She’s been called a “force of nature” by O, the Oprah Magazine and was named a “new role model” by the The New York Times. Kris is also a member of Oprah’s Super Soul 100, which recognizes the most influential thought leaders today. Other media appearances include Glamour, Prevention, Scientific American, Good Morning America, the Today show, Forbes, the Wall Street Journal, and The Oprah Winfrey Show. Kris has helped millions of people take charge of their health and live like they mean it through her award-winning blog, books, online courses, and membership communities. You can find her at kriscarr.com. Get unlimited access to the entire Hay House audio library! • 500+ inspiring and life-changing audiobooks • 200+ ad-free guided meditations for sleep, healing, relaxation, spiritual connection, and more • Hundreds of audios under 20 minutes to easily fit into your day • Exclusive content only for subscribers • No credits, no limits TRY FOR FREE! >> Where is Your Heart Leading You? — You were born with unique, undeniable gifts. In your quietest moments, you can feel them yearning to awaken.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  To my wonderful literary agents, Scott Hoffman and Steve Troha, thank you for believing in my work and welcoming me into the Folio fold. To Sarah Hall, Krystin White (Cookie), Lindsay McGinty, and Lizzi Marshall, thank you for helping me spread this book far and wide. To my amazing team: Mandi, Hayley, Deidra, Abby, Morgan, Cameron, Justin, John, thank you for your creative hearts, big smarts, and caring spirits. And for loving sandwiches as much as I do. But extra thanks to Mandi Rivieccio, our Chief Creative Officer, for being a tender titan and my favorite person to word chef with. To my Inner Circle Wellness community and Thrive Mastermind members, thank you for your desire to learn and grow alongside me. To Carol, thank you for guiding me through so many storms. To Jeanette, thank you for giving me a book on grief. It scared me at first. And then it kicked off a healing I didn’t know possible. To my dearest True Blues: Nick, Terri, Regena, Gabby, Dani, Rachel, Kate, Gina, John R, Kristen, and Bill, thank you for your beautiful friendship on my best and worst days. To my best friend, Marie Forleo, thank you for bunny cups, dream clubs, psychics follies, ambulance emojis, endless laughter, and the safest place for ugly cries. To my beloved husband, Brian Fassett, thank you for helping me cull my compound sentences, and for saying things like “less Chekhov play, more Hemingway” (even though I still don’t know what that means). But most of all, thank you for loving me and this fantastic life we’ve built together. And thank you for loving Dad with such generosity. To my incredible mom, Aura Carr, thank you for being a constant source of love and support throughout my life. Your courage in difficult times has taught me how to face my own challenges with fierce grace, while your exuberant curiosity for life reminds me to cultivate my own seeker’s spirit. I am forever grateful for your unwavering presence and inspiration. And most of all, thank you, Dad . . . ABOUT THE AUTHOR [image file=image_rsrc1VU.jpg] KRIS CARR is a multiple New York Times best-selling author, wellness activist, and cancer thriver. She’s been called a “force of nature” by O, the Oprah Magazine and was named a “new role model” by the The New York Times. Kris is also a member of Oprah’s Super Soul 100, which recognizes the most influential thought leaders today. Other media appearances include Glamour, Prevention, Scientific American, Good Morning America, the Today show, Forbes, the Wall Street Journal, and The Oprah Winfrey Show. Kris has helped millions of people take charge of their health and live like they mean it through her award-winning blog, books, online courses, and membership communities. You can find her at kriscarr.com. [image "Hay House Unlimited Audio Mobile App" file=image_rsrc1VV.jpg] Get unlimited access to the entire Hay House audio library!

• From Christianity and the Social Crisis (1907)

  I offer my attempt until some other man comes along who can plough deeper and straighter. I wish to assure the reader who hesitates in the vestibule, that the purpose of this book is wholly positive and constructive. It is just as orthodox as the Gospel would allow. I have dedicated it to an eminent representative of the older theology in order to express my deep gratitude for what I have received from it, and to clasp hands through him with all whose thought has been formed by Jesus Christ. My fraternal thanks are due to my friends, Professor James Bishop Thomas, Ph.D., of the University of the South, and Professor F. W. C. Meyer of Rochester Theological Seminary, who have given a critical reading to my manuscript and have made valuable suggestions. [image file=Image00007.jpg] “Unto Me” Walter Rauschenbusch WHEN Jesus looked forward to the great climax of History, the Last Judgment, he saw it as a process by which the inner significance of their own actions and relations would be revealed to men. Those men on his right hand whom he welcomed to their reward had never realized the high quality of their own actions. Here was a man who had seen a work-mate in the heat of the harvest-time eating a crust, and he had shared the contents of his dinner-pail with him and gone on half-rations himself. Here was another who had seen a foot-sore and dusty stranger limping into the village at dusk, and had taken him home, helped him clean up, and turned over his bed to him while he slept on the earthen floor. That one yonder had restored the self-respect of a poor neighbor by setting him up in a new suit of clothes. This one had visited a poor debtor pining in prison and brought him food and human comfort in his hopelessness. They all thought they had done it for folks, for dusty, sweaty, tired, discouraged individuals. But Jesus says: “Oh, no, ye did it unto me. My life is so identified with my brethren that when ye fed and clothed them, ye fed and clothed me. God is living in these worn human bodies. When ye comforted them, ye comforted God.” [image "A person with collar shirt Description generated with high confidence" file=Image00008.jpg] For God and the People Walter Rauschenbusch The new social purpose, which has laid its masterful grasp on modern life and thought, is enlarging and transforming our whole conception of the meaning of Christianity. The Bible and all past history speak a new and living language. The life of men about us stands out with an open-air color and vividness which it never had in the dusky solemnity of the older theological views about humanity. All the older tasks of church life have taken on a new significance, and vastly larger tasks are emerging as from the mists of a new morning.

• From Aquinas's Summa Theologiae (Critical Essays on the Classics Series) (2006)

  116—17.73 I am grateful to the faculty and students at the Thomas Institute in Cologne and to William Alston, David Burrell, Brian Leftow, and Timothy O’Connor for helpful comments on earlier drafts of this paper. I am especially indebted to Norman Kretzmann for many very useful comments and suggestions.10Habits and VirtuesBonnie Kent

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  Suddenly as I went on, I felt her move and then again; plainly she was showing me where my touch gave her most pleasure: I could have died for her in thanks; again she moved and I could feel a little mound or small button of flesh right in the front of her sex, above the junction of the inner lips: of course it was her clitoris. I had forgotten all the old Methodist doctor’s books till that moment; this fragment of long forgotten knowledge came back to me: gently I rubbed the clitoris and at once she pressed down on my finger for a moment or two. I tried to insert my finger into the vagina; but she drew away at once and quickly, closing her sex as if it hurt, so I went back to caressing her tickler. [Illustration] Sudden the miracle ceased. The cursed organist had finished his explanation of the new plain chant, and as he touched the first notes on the piano, E… drew her legs together; I took away my hand and she stepped down from the chair: “You darling, darling”, I whispered; but she frowned, and then just gave me a smile out of the corner of her eye to show me she was not displeased. Ah, how lovely, how seductive she seemed to me now, a thousand times lovelier and more desirable than ever before. As we stood up to sing again, I whispered to her: “I love you, love you, dear, dear!” I can never express the passion of gratitude I felt to her for her goodness, her sweetness in letting me touch her sex. E… it was who opened the Gates of Paradise to me and let me first taste the hidden mysteries of sexual delight. Still, after more than fifty years I feel the thrill of the joy she gave me by her response, and the passionate reverence of my gratitude is still alive in me. This experience with E… had the most important and unlooked for results. The mere fact that girls could feel sex pleasure “just as boys do” increased my liking for them and lifted the whole sexual intercourse to a higher plane in my thought. The excitement and pleasure were so much more intense than anything I had experienced before that I resolved to keep myself for this higher joy. No more self-abuse for me; I knew something infinitely better. One kiss was better, one touch of a girl’s sex.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  Among my other daily activities I incorporate brief periods of physical self-monitoring without hysteria. I attend the changes within my body, anointing myself with healing light. Sometimes I have to do it while sitting on the Staten Island Ferry on my way home, surrounded by snapping gum and dirty rubber boots, all of which I banish from my consciousness. I am learning to reduce stress in my practical everyday living. It’s nonsense, however, to believe that any Black woman who is living an informed life in america can possibly abolish stress totally from her life without becoming psychically deaf, mute, and blind. (News item: Unidentified Black man found hanging from a tree in Central Park with hands and feet bound. New York City police call it a suicide.) I am learning to balance stress with periods of rest and restoration. I juggle the technologies of eastern medicine with the holistic approach of anthroposophy with the richness of my psychic life, beautifully and womanfully nourished by people I love and who love me. Balancing them all. Knowing over and over again how blessed I am in my life, my loves, my children; how blessed I am in being able to give myself to work in which I passionately believe. And yes, some days I wish to heaven to Mawu to Seboulisa to Tiamat daughter of chaos that it could all have been easier. But I wake in an early morning to see the sun rise over the tenements of Brooklyn across the bay, fingering through the wintered arms of the raintree Frances and I planted as a thin stick seventeen years ago, and I cannot possibly imagine trading my life for anyone else’s, no matter how near termination that life may be. Living fully—how long is not the point. How and why take total precedence. November 18, 1986 New York City Despair and isolation are my greatest internal enemies. I need to remember I am not alone, even when it feels that way. Now more than ever it is time to put my solitary ways behind me, even while protecting my solitude. “Help is on the way,” Margareta said, her fingers moving over the Tarot deck in a farewell gesture. I need to identify that help and use it whenever I can.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  I have a privileged life or else I would be dead by now. It is two and a half years since the first tumor in my liver was discovered. When I needed to know, there was no one around to tell me that there were alternatives to turning myself over to doctors who are terrified of not knowing everything. There was no one around to remind me that I have a right to decide what happens to my own body, not because I know more than anybody else, but simply because it is my body. And I have a right to acquire the information that can help me make those crucial decisions. It was an accident of circumstance that brought me to Germany at a critical moment in my health, and another which introduced me to one holistic/homeopathic approach to the treatment of certain cancers. Not all homeopathic alternatives work for every patient. Time is a crucial element in the treatment of cancer, and I had to decide which chances I would take, and why. I think of what this means to other Black women living with cancer, to all women in general. Most of all I think of how important it is for us to share with each other the powers buried within the breaking of silence about our bodies and our health, even though we have been schooled to be secret and stoical about pain and disease. But that stoicism and silence does not serve us nor our communities, only the forces of things as they are. November 12, 1986 New York City When I write my own Book of the Dead, my own Book of Life, I want to celebrate being alive to do it even while I acknowledge the painful savor uncertainty lends to my living. I use the energy of dreams that are now impossible, not totally believing in them nor their power to become real, but recognizing them as templates for a future within which my labors can play a part. I am freer to choose what I will devote my energies toward and what I will leave for another lifetime, thanking the goddess for the strength to perceive that I can choose, despite obstacles.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  You are still terribly afraid to be hurt; your imaginary sadism shows that. So afraid to be hurt that you want to take the lead and hurt first. I do not despair of reconciling you to your own image.” These are his words, crudely restated and only half remembered. I was so overcome by the sensation of his loosening innumerable tensions, of liberating me. His voice was so gentle and compassionate. Before he had finished I was sobbing. My gratitude was immense. I wanted to tell him I admired him and finally did. He was silent while I sobbed, and then he asked me his gentle question: “I didn’t say anything to hurt you?” I would like to cover the last pages with yesterday’s joys. Showers of kisses from Henry. The thrusts of his flesh into mine, as I arched my body to better weld it to his. If a choice were to be made today between June and me, he tells me, he would surrender June. He could imagine us married and enjoying life, together. “No,” I say, half teasing, half serious. “June is the only one. I am making you bigger and stronger for June.” A half truth; there is no choice. “You’re too modest, Anaïs. You do not realize yet what you have given me. June is a woman who can be effaced by other women. What June gives I can forget with other women. But you stand apart. I could have a thousand women after you and they could not efface you.” I listen to him. He is elated, and so he exaggerates, but it is so lovely. Yes, I know, for a moment, June’s rareness and mine. The balance leans towards me for the moment. I look at my own image in Henry’s eyes, and what do I see? The young girl of the diaries, telling stories to her brothers, sobbing much without reason, writing poetry—the woman one can talk to. April When Henry hears Hugo’s beautiful, vibrant, loyal, heart-stirring voice over the telephone, he is angry at the amorality of women, of all women, of women like myself. He himself practices all the disloyalties, all the treacheries, but the faithlessness of a woman hurts him. And I am terribly distressed when he is in such a mood, because I have a feeling of being faithful to the bond between Hugo and me. Nothing that I live outside of the circle of our love alters or diminishes it. On the contrary, I love him better because I love him without hypocrisy. But the paradox torments me deeply. That I am not more perfect, or more like Hugo, is to be despised, yes, but it is only the other side of my being. Henry would understand my abandoning him out of consideration for Hugo, but to do so would be hypocritical of me.

• From Henry and June (1986)

  We only lay together because it was that we should have done at the beginning. My friend Natasha rails at me by the hour on my idiotic attitude. What of Henry’s curtains? Why shoes for June? “And you? And you?” She doesn’t understand how spoiled I am. Henry gives me the world. June gave me madness. God, how grateful I am to find two beings I can love, who are generous to me in a way I cannot explain to Natasha. Can I explain to her that Henry gives me his watercolors and June her only bracelet? And more. At the Viking, I tell Eduardo delicately, with moth words, that we should not continue, that I feel the experience was not meant to be continued; it was only a tampering of the past. It was wonderful, but there is no blood polarity between us. Eduardo is pained. His fundamental terror of not being able to hold me is now realized. Why didn’t we wait until he was entirely healed? Healed? What does that mean? Maturity, virility, wholeness, the power to conquer me? Already I know he cannot conquer me, ever. I keep it a secret from him. Oh, the pity that stirs in me to see his beautiful head bowed down, his torment. The knowledge of Henry now stands between us. He begs me, “Come to our room, once more, just to be alone together. Believe in my feelings.” I say, “We must not. Let us preserve the moment we had.” I had no desire to go. Premonitions. But he wants to bring the issue into clarity. Our room was gray today, and cold. It was raining. I fought off the desolateness which invaded me. If ever I acted in my life, it was today. I was not stirred, but I did not admit it. Then he sensed the dissatisfaction, and we lived through pages out of Lawrence’s books. For the first time I understood them, better perhaps than Lawrence did, because he described only the man’s feelings. And what does Eduardo feel? He feels more for me than for any woman; he has had his nearest taste of wholeness, of manhood. I couldn’t crush him. I went on with soft words: “Don’t force life. Let things grow slowly. Don’t suffer.” But he knows now. This was all like a nightmare to me. My being clamored for Henry. I saw him today. He was with his friend Fred Perlés, the soft, delicate man with poetic eyes. I like Fred, and yet I felt closer to Henry, so close I couldn’t bear to look at him. We were sitting in the kitchen of their new apartment in Clichy. Henry glowed. When I said I had to go, after we talked a long time, Henry took me to his room and began kissing me, and with Fred so very near, Fred the aristocrat and sensitive man, probably hurt. “I can’t let you go,” said Henry. “We’ll close the door.”

• From Henry and June (1986)

  It is said in Bubu de Montparnasse that a woman submits to the man who beats her because he is like a strong government who can also protect her. But Henry’s beating would be futile because he is not a protector of woman. He has let himself be protected. June has worked for him like a man, and so she can say, “I have loved him like a child.” Yes, and it diminishes her passion. He has let her feel her own strength. And nothing of this can be changed, because it is engraved in both of them. All his life Henry will assert his manhood by destruction and hatred in his work; each time June appears he will bow his head. Now only hatred moves him. “Life is foul, foul,” he cries. And with these words he kisses me and awakens me, I who have been sleeping one hundred years, with hallucinations hanging like curtains of spider webs over my bed. But the man who leans over my bed is soft. And he writes nothing about these moments. He doesn’t even try to pull the spider webs down. How am I to be convinced the world is foul? “I am no angel. You have only seen me at my best, but wait . . . I was dreaming of reading all this to Henry, everything I have written about him. And then I laughed because I could hear Henry saying, “How strange; why is there so much gratefulness in you?” I didn’t know why until I read what Fred wrote about Henry: “Poor Henry, I feel sorry for you. You have no gratitude because you have no love. To be grateful one must first know how to love.” Fred’s words added to my own about Henry’s hatred hurt me. Do I or do I not believe in them? Do they explain the profound amazement I felt, while reading his novel, at the savagery of his attacks on Beatrice, his first wife? At the same time I thought it was I who was wrong, that people must fight and must hate each other, and that hatred is good. But I took love for granted; love can include hatred. I have constant slips of the tongue and say “John” instead of “Henry” to Hugo. There is no resemblance whatsoever between them, and I cannot understand the association in my mind. “Listen,” I say to Henry, “don’t leave me out of your book out of delicacy. Include me. Then we’ll see what happens. I expect much.” “But meanwhile,” says Henry, “it is Fred who has written three wonderful pages about you. He raves about you, he worships you. I am jealous of those three pages. I wish I had written them.” “You will,” I say confidently. “For example, your hands. I had never noticed them. Fred gives them so much importance. Let me look at them.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  When we went into the “airlock” and they turned on one aircock after another of compressed air, the men put their hands to their ears and I soon imitated them for the pain was very acute. Indeed, the drums of the ears are often driven in and burst if the compressed air is brought in too quickly. I found that the best way of meeting the pressure was to keep swallowing air and forcing it up into the middle ear where it acted as an air-pad on the inner side of the drum and so lessened the pressure from the outside. It took about half an hour or so to “compress” us and that half an hour gave me lots to think about. When the air was fully compressed, the door of the airlock opened at a touch and we all went down to work with pick and shovel on the gravelly bottom. My headache soon became acute. The six of us were working naked to the waist in a small iron chamber with a temperature of about 180 Fahrenheit: in five minutes the sweat was pouring from us and all the while we were standing in icy water that was only kept from rising by the terrific air pressure. No wonder the headaches were blinding. The men didn’t work for more than ten minutes at a time, but I plugged on steadily, resolved to prove myself and get constant employment; only one man, a Swede named Anderson, worked at all as hard. I was overjoyed to find that together we did more than the four others. The amount done each week was estimated, he told me, by an inspector. Anderson was known to the Contractor and received half a wage extra as head of our gang. He assured me I could stay as long as I liked, but he advised me to leave at the end of a month: it was too unhealthy: above all, I mustn’t drink and should spend all my spare time in the open. He was kindness itself to me as indeed were all the others. After two hours’ work down below we went up into the airlock room to get gradually “decompressed”, the pressure of air in our veins having to be brought down gradually to the usual air pressure. The men began to put on their clothes and passed round a bottle of Schnapps; but though I was soon as cold as a wet rat and felt depressed and weak to boot, I would not touch the liquor. In the shed above I took a cupful of hot cocoa with Anderson which stopped the shivering and I was soon able to face the afternoon’s ordeal.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “He looked like a great man, and not like a bad one. A person small and emaciated, yet deriving dignity from a carriage which, while it indicated deference to the Court, indicated also habitual self-possession and self-respect. A high and intellectual forehead; a brow pensive but not gloomy, a mouth of inflexible decision, a face on which was written as legibly as under the great picture in the Council Chamber of Calcutta, _Mens aequa in arduis_: such was the aspect with which the great proconsul presented himself to his judges.” “Have you learned all this by heart?” cried the Doctor laughing. “I don’t have to learn stuff like that”, I replied, “one reading is enough.” He stared at me. “I was surely right in bringing you down here”, he began, “I wanted to get you a berth in the Intermediate; but there’s no room: if you could put up with that sofa, I’d have the steward make up a bed for you on it.” “Oh, would you!” I cried, “how kind of you, and you’ll let me read your books?” “Everyone of ’em”, he replied, adding, “I only wish I could make as good use of them.” The upshot of it was that in an hour he had drawn some of my story from me and we were great friends. His name was Keogh. “Of course he’s Irish”, I said to myself, as I went to sleep that night: “no one else would have been so kind.” The ordinary man will think I am bragging here about my memory. He’s mistaken. Swinburne’s memory especially for poetry was far, far better than mine, and I have always regretted the fact that a good memory often prevents one thinking for oneself. I shall come back to this belief of mine when I later explain how want of books gave me whatever originality I possess. A good memory and books at command are two of the greatest dangers of youth and form by themselves a terrible handicap, but like all gifts a good memory is apt to make you friends among the unthinking, especially when you are very young. As a matter of fact, Doctor Keogh went about bragging of my memory and power of reciting, until some of the Cabin passengers became interested in the extraordinary schoolboy. The outcome was that I was asked to recite one evening in the First Cabin and afterwards a collection was taken up for me and a first-class passage paid and about twenty dollars over and above was given to me. Besides, an old gentleman offered to adopt me and play second father to me, but I had not got rid of one father to take on another, so I kept as far away from him as I decently could.

• From My Life and Loves, Vol. 1 (of 4) (1922)

  “You’re Irish”, I said, smiling at her. “I am”, she replied, “how did ye guess?” “Because I was born in Ireland too”, I retorted. “You were not!” she cried emphatically, more for pleasure than to contradict. “I was born in Galway”, I went on and at once she became very friendly and poured me out some milk warm from the cow, and when she heard I had had no breakfast and saw I was hungry, she pressed me to eat and sat down with me and soon heard my whole story or enough of it to break out in wonder again and again. In turn she told me how she had married Mike Mulligan, a longshoreman who earned good wages and was a good husband but took a drop too much now and again, as a man will when tempted by one of “thim saloons.” It was the saloons, I learned, that were the ruination of all the best Irishmen and “they were the best men anyway, an’—an’—” and the kindly, homely talk flowed on, charming me. When the breakfast was over and the things cleared away I rose to go with many thanks but Mrs. Mulligan wouldn’t hear of it. “Ye’re a child”, she said, “an’ don’t know New York: it’s a terrible place and you must wait till Mike comes home an’—” “But I must find some place to sleep”, I said, “I have money.” “You’ll sleep here”, she broke in decisively, “and Mike will put ye on yer feet; sure he knows New York like his pocket, an’ yer as welcome as the flowers in May, an’—” What could I do but stay and talk and listen to all sorts of stories about New York, and “toughs” that were “hard cases” and “gunmen” an’ “wimmin that were worse—bad scran to them.” In due time Mrs. Mulligan and I had dinner together, and after dinner I got her permission to go into the Park for a walk, but “mind now and be home by six or I’ll send Mike after ye”, she added laughing. I walked a little way in the Park and then started down-town again to the address Jessie had given me near the Brooklyn Bridge. It was a mean street, I thought, but I soon found Jessie’s sister’s house and went to a nearby restaurant and wrote a little note to my love, that she could show if need be, saying that I proposed to call on the 18th, or two days after the ship we had come in was due to return to Liverpool. After that duty which made it possible for me to hope all sorts of things on the 18th, 19th or 20th, I sauntered over to Fifth Avenue and made my way up town again. At any rate I was spending nothing in my present lodging.

• From Saint Thomas Aquinas Collection (22 Books) (2016)

  PSEUDO-JEROME. For they return to the fountain-head whence the streams flow; those who are sent by God, always offer up thanks for those things which they have received. THEOPHYLACT. Let us also learn, when we are sent on any mission, not to go far away, and not to overstep the bounds of the office committed, but to go often to him, who sends us, and report all that we have done and taught; for we must not only teach but act. BEDE. (ubi sup.) Not only do the Apostles tell the Lord what they themselves had done and taught, but also his own and John’s disciples together tell Him what John had suffered, during the time that they were occupied in teaching, as Matthew relates. It goes on: And he said to them, Come ye yourselves apart, &c. AUGUSTINE. (de Con. Evan. 2. 45) This is said to have taken place, after the passion of John, therefore what is first related took place last, for it was by these events that Herod was moved to say, This is John the Baptist, whom I beheaded. THEOPHYLACT. Again, He goes into a desert place from His humility. But Christ makes His disciples rest, that men who are set over others may learn, that they who labour in any work or in the word deserve rest, and ought not to labour continually. BEDE. (ubi sup.) How arose the necessity for giving rest to His disciples, He shews, when He adds, For there were many coming and going, and they had no leisure so much as to eat; we may then see how great was the happiness of that time, both from the toil of the teachers, and from the diligence of the learners. It goes on, And embarking in a ship, they departed into a desert place privately. The disciples did not enter into the ship alone, but taking up the Lord with them, they went to a desert place, as Matthew shews. (Matt. 14) Here He tries the faith of the multitude, and by seeking a desert place He would see whether they care to follow Him. And they follow Him, and that not on horseback, nor in carriages, but laboriously coming on foot, they shew how great is their anxiety for their salvation. There follows, And the people saw them departing, and many knew him, and ran afoot thither out of all cities, and outwent them. In saying that they outwent them on foot, it is proved that the disciples with the Lord did not reach the other bank of the sea, or of the Jordan, but they went to the nearest places of the same country, where the people of those parts could come to them on foot.

• From I'm Not a Mourning Person (2023)

  Every time I’ve followed his guidance, I inevitably feel a weight lifting off my chest, even when it was a task from hell. Another one of his gems was to encourage me to ask myself the candid question I often didn’t want to even think about: Have I reached the point of diminishing returns? If the answer was yes—meaning the blood, sweat, and frustration weren’t remotely paying off—he’d follow up with another classic: “Go where the sun shines the hottest.” To me, this means directing my attention to where the energy, action, and opportunity is, as opposed to just going through the motions, eking out crumbs out of obligation. Dad’s wisdom is a potent reminder: Don’t stay stuck in old, ineffectual rhythms because they feel safe. Trust that what’s meant for you doesn’t require you to drain your life force to experience success or fulfillment. Never one to sugarcoat or side-shimmy his way around what he observed, Dad would call me out if he caught me being hypocritical. Especially when I was a fountain of good advice to others but avoided applying that very same advice to my own life. Like if he saw me blowing off my own doctors’ visits, he’d say, “Practice what you preach.” I’ll never forget the day I was booked to appear on The Oprah Winfrey Show . I called my parents to share the exciting news. Naturally, they were overjoyed for me. But Dad slid in one little piece of wisdom before we hung up: “stay humble.” Later, at his celebration-of-life service, I learned that when the episode aired, he ditched the business conference he was attending so he and a few work buddies could huddle around the TV in his hotel room, cheering me on, with a box of tissues at the ready. He’d remind me, “Keep the promises you make to yourself, because time is precious.” If we can’t keep the promises we make to ourselves, how are we going to keep those we make to others (at least without generating unneeded resentment)? Watching him keep his biggest promise, to get to know himself more before he died, inspired me to do the same. I hope it inspires you, too. My favorite nugget of guidance from Dad came toward the end, when he told me to “stop and smell the lizards.” He meant “roses,” but his medications had scrambled the metaphors. In fact, he kept talking about the “lizards” as if they were my cautionary tale. Like him, I am most at ease when I have a job to do. But if I didn’t check my tendencies, I’d forget to smell the lizards, too. These days those little reptiles are my north star. A simple reminder to be more conscious and intentional about where I put my energy. And though my heart is heavy, I look up at the stars and down at the lizards and say, “Yes.” Yes to breathing. Yes to taking care of myself.

• From The Selected Works of Audre Lorde

  Hannah sings a spirited and humorous song about marriage being a stamping out of a woman’s freedom, just like her signature in the marriage register is a stamping out of her own name as written in the book of life. All the other women join in the high-spirited chorus with much laughter. This is one of their favorite songs. Hannah talks about mothers-in-law, and how sometimes when they finally get to have their own way, they take it out on their sons’ wives. And by tradition, the daughters-in-law must remain meek and helpful, blowing their lungs out firing the wood braziers and coal stoves for the rest of the family every morning. She tells of her own young self rising at 4:00 a.m., even on the morning after her wedding night, lighting the fire to fix her father-in-law his coffee. But she not only eventually stopped this, she even joined her daughter once in punching out her daughter’s philandering husband, caught in the act in his wife’s bed. Mary, the oldest woman in the group, is called Number One. Witty, wise, and soft-spoken, she says love and concern came to her very late in life, once she started to work with Zamani. She is very grateful for the existence of the group, a sentiment that is often expressed by many of the other women in various ways. When we part she kisses me on my lips. “I love you, my sister,” she says. Wassa, round-cheeked and matter-of-fact, talks of her fear of reentry into Johannesburg. “But at least we will be all together,” she says, “so if something happens to one of us the others can tell her people.” I remember Ellen talking of the horror of hitting Jo’burg alone, and how you never know what the South African police might be planning for you at the airport, nor why. The night before we part we swim in the pool beneath the sweet evening of the grapevines. “We are naked here in this pool now,” Wassa says softly, “and we will be naked when we go back home.” We told the women we would carry them in our hearts until we were together again. Everyone is anxious to go back home, despite the fear, despite the uncertainty, despite the dangers. There is work to be done. August 12, 1986 New York City Wonderful news! My liver scan shows both tumors slightly diminished. It feels good to be getting on with my life. I feel vindicated without ever becoming complacent—this is only one victory of a long battle in which I’ve got to expect to win some and lose some. But it does put a different perspective upon things to know that pain can be a sign of a disintegrating tumor. Of course, my oncologist is surprised and puzzled. He admits he doesn’t understand what is happening, but it is a mark of his good spirit that he is genuinely pleased for me, nonetheless. I’m very pleased for me, too.

• From Barclay's Guide to the New Testament (2008)

  The more we know about the Fourth Gospel, the more precious it becomes. For seventy years, John had thought of Jesus. Day by day, the Holy Spirit had opened out to him the meaning of what Jesus said. So when John was near the century of life and his days were numbered, he and his friends sat down to remember. John the elder held the pen to write for his master, John the apostle; and the last of the apostles set down not only what he had heard Jesus say but also what he now knew Jesus had meant. He remembered how Jesus had said: `I still have many things to say to you, but you cannot bear them now. When the Spirit of truth comes, he will guide you into all the truth' (John 16:12-13). There were many things which seventy years ago he had not understood; there were many things which in these seventy years the Spirit of truth had revealed to him. These things John set down even as the eternal glory was dawning upon him. When we read this gospel, let us remember that we are reading the gospel which of all the gospels is most the work of the Holy Spirit, speaking to us of the things which Jesus meant, speaking through the mind and memory of John the apostle and by the pen of John the elder. Behind this gospel is the whole church at Ephesus, the whole company of the saints, the last of the apostles, the Holy Spirit and the risen Christ himself. 5Acts From Jerusalem to RomeA Precious Book In one sense, Acts is the most important book in the New Testament. It is the simple truth that, if we did not possess Acts, we would have no information whatever about the early Church apart from what we could deduce from the letters of Paul. There are two ways of writing history. There is the way which attempts to trace the course of events from week to week and from day to day; and there is the way which, as it were, opens a series of windows and gives us vivid glimpses of the great moments and personalities of any period. The second way is the way of Acts.