Do You Like Quotes?

Imagine keeping the water in this pool from sloshing.

I’ve had so many quotes rumbling through my head that I couldn’t think of a blog to write, so I’m writing about quotes. I’ve spent the last couple of days chasing down pithy sayings of wise people who have gone before us; well, some are alive today. Guess you don’t have to be dead to be quoted.

I suppose many of us like quotes, for they are the best of what some illustrious folks have said. They are short, to the point, offer advice, are funny, inspirational, or pertinent to the human condition. They point to our funny bones, our hearts, or our foibles. The ones that endure are Universal and timeless. 

How many times have I included this particular quote by Zig Zigler? 

“Some say that motivation doesn’t last. Neither does bathing, that’s why we do it daily.”

I’ve lost count, but I like to be reminded that we need a steady stream of positive thoughts, feelings, and experiences flowing into us regularly. This is to combat the mud of negativity that splatters us.

So, why am I collecting quotes?

Glad you asked.

I’m putting together a little notebook called Chirp.

Here is the introduction:

I love little notebooks—such as this one—that are bound and have lined pages and pretty covers. I fill them with social media information, passwords, addresses, blog data—all things computer.

Pretty notebooks are fun to use and more interesting than a simple spiral notebook—which I use daily to keep a running tab on what I’m doing. However, I love buying and using the distinctive bound ones, for they are unique and look classy on my desk.

And think of this, you can write your own book on these pages.

Since I forget passwords and thus write in new ones, and then addresses change, I’ve filled so many of those books that I have a boneyard of them.

But can I part with them? No. Even if they get shabby, I still love them. Therefore, I need a steady supply.

I long to make a travel book like those you see in artists’ studios with sketches and commentary. So far, none on mine slightly resembles what I envision. I have placed little sprigs of pressed wildflowers in a booklet my daughter gave me. That journal is like Dr. Henry Jones’s journal (Indiana Jones father) with a leather cover and non-slick pages.

You will find quotes, like breadcrumbs, scattered among the pages in Chirp. It will be bound as a paperback edition.

Pick up some crumbs and write until the cows come home or the muse has flown out the window. Perhaps she was a bird. You know what they say, that birds are messengers.

I hope Chirp can be that for you.  

To joy and inspiration. 


Want a sneak preview?

I have four in mind—you know we need a choice or a group. Here are the first two covers, front, and back. The pages are lined, quotes are sprinkled.  

Back Front

These are not actual size.

I’ll write something you can clamp your teeth into on the next blog.

You Know What?

To write, to compose, to draw, to paint, to crochet, to knit, to build rockets, that plugs us in, at least for a short time, to the garden we were expelled from.

You know what I mean—the garden represents our connection with our divine nature. When we follow our divine nature, our calling, we are egoless and defenseless for a little while—what a reprieve. The air in that space is so pure it makes us heady with the belief that we can live forever.

And you know what?

We can point others to their calling as well.

Steven Pressfield called me. I’m calling you. Pass it on.

I know many want to write, and I received comments from people who wanted to blog, so I wrote a little book titled, Grab a Pen and Kick-Ass. Not that I can tell writers how to write, but I list ten books that can. My intent was to motivate them to do it. Maybe I was writing it for myself.

We have a job to perform, and that is to do the thing that means the most to us. Some call it their calling. 

Remember the movie You Can’t Take it with You? The grandfather swooped people into his house and let them work on whatever they chose. The old men were making firecrackers in the basement. The mother was writing a novel and had written herself into a monastery and couldn’t get out. The little man that grandfather rescued from being an accountant was making toys. All didn’t go perfectly—otherwise, it would have been a utopia and not a story, but the idea is there. Do your thing.

Singers sing, and painters paint, babies giggle, and children play, and kitty cats sleep on your desk because they are happy to be with you.

My buddy, Obi.

I talk about this subject of doing your own thing a lot because if everyone had a dream and followed it, whether they were successful or not in terms of acclaim or finances, they would still be doing what they came here to do. 

They might get frustrated, for perfecting one’s projects can require patience–who wants that? And it requires perseverance and determination. Darn, and I wanted it to be easy.

It is still worth the doing.

And think about it, we would have those moments of transcendence where we touch the garden.

For fun:

Watch this baby laugh hysterically at ripping paper.