To see what your friends thought of this quote, please sign up! Zia 1, books view quotes. Jun 07, PM. Claudia books view quotes. Mar 30, AM. Mary 2 books view quotes. Jan 24, PM. Lana 12, books view quotes. Jul 12, AM. Tomer Umesh 37 books view quotes. Feb 20, AM. Suzie 85 books view quotes.
Jan 10, AM. Anita 1, books view quotes. Aug 27, PM. Cheryl 2, books view quotes. Oct 31, PM. Lucia books view quotes. Dec 18, AM. Denise books view quotes. Jan 14, PM. Cr books view quotes. Dec 14, AM. To know those arms around you and to make your home in the world just by being wanted.
To see eyes looking back at you, as eyes should see you at last, seeing you, as you always wanted to be seen, seeing you, as you yourself had always wanted to see the world.
In many ways love has already named us before we can even begin to speak back to it, before we can utter the right words or understand what has happened to us or is continuing to happen to us: an invitation to the most difficult art of all, to love without naming at all.
Vulnerability is not a choice. Vulnerability is the underlying, ever-present, and abiding undercurrent of our natural state. To run from vulnerability is to run from the essence of our nature.
The attempt to be invulnerable is the vain attempt to become something we are not, and most especially, to close off our understanding of the grief of others. More seriously, in refusing our vulnerability, we refuse the help needed at every turn of our existence and immobilize the essential title and conversational foundations of our identity. All Quotes Add A Quote. David Whyte. Books by David Whyte.
Consolations 2, ratings Open Preview See a Problem? Details if other :. Thanks for telling us about the problem. Return to Book Page. Preview — Consolations by David Whyte. The House of Belonging ratings. The surprise in the revelation is that I have the experience of the hawk looking just as deeply into that corner of creation that I occupy in my humanity. But it is looking straight beneath any surface personality, any David Whyte-ness and straight to another, unnameable foundation that I am just beginning to understand.
Many years later, I look back on that fixed image of the hawk as a guardian to the temple of the self — which once we enter the temple is, actually, no fixed self at all. But a moving conversation. The encounter with the hawk is the first of a series of ever deeper steps into the conversation every human being discovers and is initially frightened by, between what you think is you, and what you think is not you.
It is the ancient, conversational dynamic around what seem like two opposing poles, and one every great contemplative tradition has centered its disciplines around. I return to North Wales on a cold October day, the wind like a knife off the Irish Sea, felt very keenly indeed after two years in South America.
I am returning to Eryrie, those mountains of longing, not knowing what I will do in the future, as a scientist or an artist. I come back to this place halfway up the mountain in Wales almost in retreat, to try and find out who is here after that extraordinary experience in those far-flung Islands.
How can I follow that? I start writing. I am in some way, like the classic Vietnam veteran, hiding away from the mainstream, except I had not been traumatized by violence, I had in a way been traumatized by beauty, the island sights still filling my dreams and its sounds still ringing in my ears. I move into a tiny caravan on the farm, a tiny freezing caravan, looking out from the mountain, facing Ireland and the wind.
I live there, I work there with John, the Welsh farmer. In the evenings, I write. Take some time to imagine David here. I know the land of Northwest Wales a little bit so I can see it. What do you see?
Let the space, the big skies soften your shoulders. WHYTE: I spend a good year there, digging the animals out of snowdrifts: lambing and shearing, dipping the sheep helped by the extraordinarily well-trained sheepdogs owned by John.
Even in his worst temper, he never hits a dog; his aluminum crook is bent, however, from hitting stone walls in frustration as he instructs at high volume across the fields. Somehow he manages to produce some of the best dogs in North Wales. People come from far away to buy these dogs. There are many winter nights when the wind comes up the Ogwen Valley below and threatens to blow my caravan away. Although we associate invisible help with unseen parallels, I always feel that invisible help can actually be interpreted in a very practical way.
We are a little community at Tan-y-Garth. Besides the main farm, there is an older cottage which is tucked into the very rock itself, a cottage whose back wall is the living rock of the mountain. Probably the original farmhouse. A new family moves into this cottage.
And I notice that the father in the family is employed to do work around the farm that I am not doing. So, I see him every now and again, off in the distance. One day I am writing, or more accurately not writing at my table, when I hear a great deal of noise outside of my caravan window. You could spend your whole life rebuilding stone walls around Tan-Y-Garth farm.
The rebuilding of a stone wall is no easy task; it actually has five components. There are two outer walls, one on each side. There is an unstable, Dr. Seuss-like wall tottering up outside of my window. I am trying to concentrate on my writing. I walk out with the two mugs of tea. David Whyte. And nice to meet you. Michael Higgins. Michael and I have real conversational chemistry: Every evening, I go across to his small family cottage to sit with him by his coal fire. His wife, Diane, is a very religious woman, and she has herself and the kids to bed by every night.
So Michael and I sit by the fire with a glass of illicit brandy, brought out of a cupboard when the coast is clear, and every evening we start to talk, and as we talk, I begin to realize that Michael is actually more of a realized artist than I am.
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