“My brother asked the birds to forgive him; that sounds senseless, but it is right; for all is like an ocean, all is flowing and blending; a touch in one place set up movement at the other end of the earth…It’s like an ocean, I tell you. Then you would pray to the birds too, consumed by an all-embracing love…and pray that they too will forgive you your sin. Treasure this ecstasy, however senseless it may seem to men.”
I heard of a bird’s love today.
He was speaking of God…I don’t think I am.
We are inherently connected through, through what? Through love? Too hoaxy. Through our bond as Brothers in this Great Fraternity. Through the mutual understanding, however lost and obscure, that doing good for you is doing good for me. It’s the idea of succeeding as an entity, succeeding as an Earth.
Love the bird that lives for others, the nest builder, the provider. Thank the bird, be humbled by Him, treat Him as your Brother, and find your peace.
“Love all men, love everything. Seek that rapture and ecstasy. Water the earth with the tears of your joy and love those tears. Don’t be ashamed of that ecstasy, prize it, for it is a gift of God and a great one…”
Come here, my Son. I want you to sit here and gaze out at your little plot of land and realize that you are nothing. I want you to look up at your little patch of sky and realize that you are nothing.
The sands of time pass you by as you wonder where it goes. It spins around your head, spins you around until you don’t know where you are. Who you are. Who you’ve become.
But the air that moves the sand that moves you is the same air that moves the sands of Normandy, the leaves of the Andes, the soil of distant lands past and future. The same wind blows through the hair of the world’s greatest thinkers, leaders and destroyers; around the modest crawlers and beggars of the poor, the king of the meek, the jester for the mighty.
“Oh! In this rapture I was weeping even over those stars, which were shining to me from the abyss of space, and I was not ashamed of that ecstasy.”
Come here, my Son. This little plot of land is not yours. This little patch of sky is not yours. It is borrowed from the past for the future. Be thankful for it, be humbled by it, be joyous over it. In this today, you are fueled by the wind of the past and the great and the weak. You share in this! the glorious ebbing of life.
 The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoevsky