Giving Thanks

Posted on November 24, 2022 by Enchanted Seashells by Princess Rosebud

In Hawaiian culture it is said that each person is born with a bowl of light.

This light is the light of consciousness and love.

Each time we give way to negative emotions such as jealousy or hate, a stone appears in the bowl and the light is diminished.

Sometimes it seems that the weight of the accumulated stones will extinguish the light forever.

Hawaiian spiritual teachers say it is always possible to tip the bowl over, empty the stones, and live again in the embrace of the miraculous light we were gifted at birth.

For more on this beautiful concept, read The Bowl of Light by Hank Wesselman. In 1996, a revered Hawaiian elder befriended an American anthropologist, and from their rare and intimate rapport, something miraculous emerged. Through the words and teachings of the kahuna wisdom-keeper Hale Makua, Dr. Wesselman was gifted with an enhanced perspective into the sacred knowledge of ancient Hawaii.

Info curated from https://www.facebook.com/burt.kempner

Cogitate and Vegetate

Posted on June 7, 2013 by Enchanted Seashells by Princess Rosebud

I’m sick.

Not with a fever or muscle aches or even allergies….

I have all the symptoms of “writer’s block“, a disease peculiar to writers — or in my case, a wanna-be writer.

I have lots of posts started — none finished.

One-hundred-twenty-one posts in the Drafts folder.

That’s a lot of procrastination.

This’ll be one-hundred-twenty-TWO.

Maybe I’ll be struck by the muse after a few glasses of this…or maybe not.

Happy Friday, y’all!

Happy Birthday, Edward Albee

Posted on March 12, 2013 by Enchanted Seashells by Princess Rosebud

Edward Albee-Courtesy of flavorwire.com

“Well, when I was six years old I decided, not that I was going to be, but with my usual modesty, that I was a writer. So I starting writing poetry when I was six and stopped when I was twenty-six because it was getting a little better, but not terribly much. When I was fifteen I wrote seven hundred pages of an incredibly bad novel—it’s a very funny book I still like a lot. Then, when I was nineteen I wrote a couple hundred pages of another novel, which wasn’t very good either. I was still determined to be a writer. And since I was a writer, and here I was twenty-nine years old and I wasn’t a very good poet and I wasn’t a very good novelist, I thought I would try writing a play, which seems to have worked out a little better.” — In an interview with The Paris Review, 1966