Remember that writing things down makes them real; that it is nearly impossible to hate anyone whose story you know; and, most of all, that even in our post-postmodern era, writing has a moral purpose. With twenty-six shapes arranged in varying patterns, we can tell every story known to mankind, and make up all the new ones—indeed, we can do so in most of the world’s known tongues. If you can give language to experiences previously starved for it, you can make the world a better place. -Andrew Solomon

“We must be concerned not merely about who murdered them, but about the system, the way of life, the philosophy which produced the murderers.” 
-Martin Luther King Jr. (1963)

Eat food from farmers markets.
Drink good tea each morning.
Read books that make you feel.
Paint, even if you’re awful.
Write, even when you have nothing to say.
Sit in the fresh air outside.
Go on hikes.
Swim in lakes and wade in streams.
Sleep as long as you need.
Work hard at what you love. 
Work hard at what you hate.

Love unconditionally and wholeheartedly.

- How to stay Happy 

There is a season for wildness and a season for settledness, and this is neither. This season is about becoming...Now is your time. Walk closely with people you love, and with people who believe life is a grand adventure. Don’t get stuck in the past, and don’t try to fast-forward yourself into a future you haven’t yet earned. Give today all the love and intensity and courage you can, and keep traveling honestly along life’s path.

- Relevant magazine (via AWTW)

Be Yourself. Life is precious as it is. All the elements for your happiness are already here. There is no need to run, strive, search, or struggle. 
Just Be.   -Thich Nhat Hanh

Whatever relationships you have attracted in your life at this moment, are precisely the ones you need in your life at this moment. There is a hidden meaning behind all events, and this hidden meaning is serving your own evolution. -Deepak Chopra 

Charlie Howard’s Descent

BY MARK DOTY

Between the bridge and the river

he falls through

a huge portion of night;

it is not as if falling

is something new. Over and over

he slipped into the gulf

between what he knew and how

he was known. What others wanted

opened like an abyss: the laughing

stock-clerks at the grocery, women

at the luncheonette amused by his gestures.

What could he do, live

with one hand tied

behind his back? So he began to fall

into the star-faced section

of night between the trestle

and the water because he could not meet

a little town’s demands,

and his earrings shone and his wrists

were as limp as they were.

I imagine he took the insults in

and made of them a place to live;

we learn to use the names

because they are there,

familiar furniture: faggot

was the bed he slept in, hard

and white, but simple somehow,

queer something sharp

but finally useful, a tool,

all the jokes a chair,

stiff-backed to keep the spine straight,

a table, a lamp. And because

he’s fallen for twenty-three years,

despite whatever awkwardness

his flailing arms and legs assume

he is beautiful

and like any good diver

has only an edge of fear

he transforms into grace.

Or else he is not afraid,

and in this way climbs back

up the ladder of his fall,

out of the river into the arms

of the three teenage boys

who hurled him from the edge—

really boys now, afraid,

their fathers’ cars shivering behind them,

headlights on—and tells them

it’s all right, that he knows

they didn’t believe him

when he said he couldn’t swim,

and blesses his killers

in the way that only the dead

can afford to forgive.

MISTY COPELAND RECREATES ICONIC EDGAR DEGAS ARTWORK