By Mark Nepo
Tales hold the seeds of our humanness. they assist us, educate us, heal us, and fix us to what concerns. As some distance because the middle Can See is a call for participation to be in dating with deep and life-giving fabric. Poet and thinker Mark Nepo reaches humans via their hearts, bringing whatever clean and new to the sphere by means of stimulating switch via mirrored image of ideas and emotions. The tales he stocks in As a long way because the center Can See come from many places--from Nepo's own historical past to desires to the myths of our ancestors. Each one is an invitation to wake up a facet of residing in dating with the sacred.
Following all the forty-five tales are 3 different types of a call for participation to extra the dialog: magazine questions, desk questions, and meditations. The questions, even if mirrored upon in a magazine or mentioned in deeper dialog with neighbors or kinfolk, are supposed to lead the seeker down unimagined paths and again into existence; the meditations are supposed to flooring the educational. those tales and parables approximately common options and subject matters provide a poet's sensuality and a philosopher's sensibility to personalizing the adventure of the human adventure on the earth.
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Additional info for As Far As the Heart Can See: Stories to Illuminate the Soul
Two hours later, we were deep in sharing stories and learning even more about each other. From that night, every meal with friends is accompanied by a table question. In response, we roll up our sleeves and drop our stories into the sea of life, like oars that bring us a few strokes along. As with the stories, use the questions you are drawn to. They are not meant to be sequential, but a series of starting points. They are also interchangeable: questions to journal with can be table questions for conversation and the other way around.
This is how a tribe and its elders would pack their questions and pass on their meaning, as if to say, “We have done all we can with this. ” We often need to tell our stories over and over, not because we are forgetful or compulsive, but because their meaning is too great to be digested in any one telling. So we recount them, again and again, till we can absorb their meaning and learn to love each other on the way. I have always been compelled by stories. Like most people, I started out as a witness, retelling the episodes of life that would unfold around me.
Fear surges electric, forcing me flatter. I scrape a few yards and then the snap, the tug, and I’m a dog shot, hauled in on a leash. I hug tight. My cheek presses the stone. It grows hot from my heaving. I am seven or eight, hit between the legs with a line drive, falling to the street flush, cheek pressed to the asphalt, hearing feet and screen doors. But the rock face is steep, and I have just lost my soul out my scraped cheek and I am stiffly being reeled in. My palms flatten as they search the stone like fossilized braille and there, just above—the same arm’s reach as before—the jut of stone I slipped from.