At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom–the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February’s snow.
Moby Dick, the White Whale by Herman Melville
Did we awake from the stupor that can consume our lives — lost amidst bits & bytes, screens & feeds — and find ourselves, as G.K. Chesterton once wrote, “in a street full of splendid strangers?”
The idea is not that we will win in our own lifetimes and that’s the measure of us, but that we will die trying.”
Barbara Ehrenreich
Stopping puts some space in your long haul. Rest is a way of being. Pacing is recalibrated care. ~Pato Hebert