Acknowledging Kindness

It’s been a while since my first post on The Candour Cabin, I never thought that someone would stop by and leave a kind message of appreciation, but it did happen and to show my acknowledging for all your kindness here is this  flower bouquet.

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Happiness

I’ve been worrying about so many things lately and than I stumble across this Epictetus’ quote:
“There is only one way to happiness and that is to cease worrying about things which are beyond the power of our will.”

P.s – In these photos are things that I treasure: books, my butterfly mug, a bird from my dear Vibeke and nature.

 

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This Tiny Melancholy

“Who hasn’t felt this melancholy, this tiny thing whose origin is unknown to me.”

Poem by Jorge Barbosa, Momento.

Versão Original em português:

Quem aqui não sentiu
esta nossa
fininha melancolia?

(…)

Esta nossa
fininha melancolia
que vem não sei de onde.
Um pouco talvez
das horas solitárias
passando sobre a ilha
ou da música
do mar defronte
entoando
uma canção rumorosa
musicada com os ecos do mundo.

Poema Momento de Jorge Barbosa.

Letter to Vibeke

 

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Left Unfinished

Do you know that exquisite sensation when you meet someone for the first time, but, deep inside of you, something tells you that in another life and place you already meet her/him? These persons are our kindred souls, old souls that wander in this life and are meant to meet again and live what was left unfinished… So please, be aware that life has an end, so don’t forget to treasure the ones you love the most and show everyday how much you care for them. You won’t regret it, believe me!

In this photo is a letter to the special soul Vibeke and an old tray that I have found broken near to my house, outside of a street litter. I brought it home and fix it, and now it looks precious.

 

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Beauty Was Everywhere

“Beauty, the world seemed to say. And as if to prove it (scientifically) wherever he looked at the houses, at the railings, at the antelopes stretching over the palings, beauty sprang instantly. To watch a leaf quivering in the rush of air was an exquisite joy. Up in the sky swallows swooping, swerving, flinging themselves in and out, round and round, yet always with perfect control as if elastics held them; and the flies rising and falling; and the sun spotting now this leaf, now that, in mockery, dazzling it with soft gold in pure good temper; and now again some chime (it might be a motor horn) tinkling divinely on the grass stalks—all of this, calm and reasonable as it was, made out of ordinary things as it was, was the truth now; beauty, that was the truth now. Beauty was everywhere.”

 

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