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a passionate repentance

A Thousand Years Of Peace

A Thousand Years Of Peace

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may God stand
I don't like to plug stuff. It seems cheesy, somehow. But this came up on another Yahoo group, and I thought..hey, maybe someone might be interested. It's run by the Franciscan Initiative, but it's non-denominational, apolitical and personal, rather than group oriented. It's called "A Thousand Years of Peace."
http://www.pledgepeace.org/default.asp

Anyway..Mike's hurt his knee. Which means that he's in bed. He's hurting and he's tired and he's trying to be patient, and that means not very. I wish I knew what to do to help him.

I accidentally found a site about Kleinfelter's yesterday that was really interesting. It said that people with Kleinfelter's Syndrome have a low threshold with frustration. It makes me wonder now.

Or even more..makes me feel a kinship. It isn't that much different from having CP. It's all the garbage you have inside, all that emotional baggage from years of hearing drek and believing drek and *saying* drek to yourself. It's hard. And what's worse..it's something nobody can fix but you.

I feel a bit ashamed. I've insulated and isolated myself and never thought much about how what I do affects other people. The people I live with and the people I've never seen. I feel like a spider now..living in a web that's constantly moving and trembling subtly, with the motion of the OTHER webs it's connected to.

I also feel kind of small..but it's not a *bad* feeling. Just..a reality check. You are this big. You must be that big to ride this ride. Come back a little later when you've grown.

I found the poem I was searching for. In someone else's weblog.

"Love's Growth"

John Donne (1572-1631)

I SCARCE believe my love to be so pure
As I had thought it was,
Because it doth endure
Vicissitude, and season, as the grass ;
Methinks I lied all winter, when I swore
My love was infinite, if spring make it more.


But if this medicine, love, which cures all sorrow
With more, not only be no quintessence,
But mix'd of all stuffs, vexing soul, or sense,
And of the sun his active vigour borrow,
Love’s not so pure, and abstract as they use
To say, which have no mistress but their Muse ;
But as all else, being elemented too,
Love sometimes would contemplate, sometimes do.

And yet no greater, but more eminent,
Love by the spring is grown ;
As in the firmament
Stars by the sun are not enlarged, but shown,
Gentle love deeds, as blossoms on a bough,
From love's awakened root do bud out now.

If, as in water stirr'd more circles be
Produced by one, love such additions take,
Those like so many spheres but one heaven make,
For they are all concentric unto thee ;
And though each spring do add to love new heat,
As princes do in times of action get
New taxes, and remit them not in peace,
No winter shall abate this spring’s increase.
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