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Arkiv for kategorien 'Om sånt som gir håp'

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You deserve to look in the mirror every morning and see someone that, though not perfect, isn’t trying to be.
You deserve to walk past the billboards and commercials that show staged-and-Photoshopped images of what
and who you are supposed to be and laugh at them, secure in the knowledge that you are wonderful because
you are real. You could imagine that the models themselves must be so much greater in person when not reduced
to a pose and a cheesy tagline – maybe they are at their most beautiful when just stepping out of the shower,
hair still wet, and excited to go eat a good breakfast – but you don’t compare yourself to them.
You deserve to love your body simply because it is yours, and it is capable of so much.

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You deserve to look past whatever is displayed on the outside, whatever code lingers on your skin to be read by society and neatly organized into some compartment about who you “are” – fat, thin, ugly, tall, awkward – and be even more in love with what exists within you. Of course you may have moments in which you regret past mistakes, or dislike a character flaw that you know you need to work on, or feel the rope of maturity tugging at your ankle saying “Come on, catch up,” but it doesn’t define you. You deserve to appreciate all of the wonderful qualities you bring to the table, instead of relentlessly harping on yourself for the categories in which you fall just a tiny bit short.

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You deserve to look for love, if that’s what you want, and be ready to accept it when it comes your way.
You might find yourself overwhelmed and even briefly in disbelief when you realize that someone actually loves you
for who you are and wants nothing more than to be with you, but you should be able to embrace that unconditional caring with your own. You should wrap your arms around them and cover them with your whole body – flesh, bone,
the ugly little cracks and scars that they can’t stop kissing – and know that you are a good person, who is worthy of
such joy. You deserve not to question every person who gives you a compliment or tells you that you’re wonderful,
not to wonder if they have some ulterior motive, or if you are somehow the victim of an elaborate prank.
You should realize that you are worth loving because you are ready to love back.

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You deserve to go through your day and take in the good parts, breathe in the good air and appreciate the little things that too often go unnoticed. You should know that a strong flower growing in a city sidewalk, a child laughing and blowing bubbles, or strangers that smile at one another and mean it are all things worth loving, and which
make your day a net positive. You deserve to live your life for the joys and not the frustrating slights that are
out of your control, to be able to say that because you held the door open for an older man with too many bags
on his arms, your afternoon was good. Though the profound effect these tiny moments of happiness can have on
all of us are often lost in the shuffle of life and its myriad injustices, you deserve to look at them and
see them for the victories of compassion and simplicity that they are.

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You deserve to try, and give it your all, but be okay if you fail. You deserve not to spend so much of
your life berating yourself for not having been “good enough,” especially when you’re not even sure what “good enough” might entail. Your job might be strenuous, your classes impossible, but you deserve to be able
to do your best work and, at the end of the day, put your pen down and sleep well. You deserve to have
a personal best that is good enough for you, to not constantly feel as though you’re outrunning yourself with expectations, to the point of sapping the joy out of a hard day’s work.

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You deserve to be truly happy for others. You deserve a life that is filled with its own successes and triumphs,
that is carved out in the image you desire, and that is not effected by the perceived victories of others.
Sometimes others may get things that we wanted for ourselves, but you deserve to be confident enough
with your own life and journey that someone else’s achievement is not directly detrimental to your own desires.
You deserve to see success not as some finite pie from which we must all take exactly one slice, but rather
a constantly evolving and growing garden in which we can all flower and reach the sunlight.

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Perhaps most of all, though, you deserve to be okay. You deserve to know that a day in which you can just barely get out of bed because you are sad, or sick, or simply not ready to see the outside is not the end of the world. You deserve to know that moments of weakness do not make you fundamentally weak, only fundamentally human, and that sometimes we’re not going to be effusively happy, and that is okay. You deserve to be happy just existing and not constantly holding yourself up to a standard of fake smiles and forced cheerfulness. You deserve to not beat yourself up when you do not reach perfect acceptance of your body, your personality, the love you receive, or anything else that may come your way. Though you should know that you are worthy of these things, learning to be happy just in a kind of stasis with yourself is a long process, and you should know that we are all working on it. You deserve to live through all of your emotions, all of your states of motivation, and know that as long as you are treating everyone with kindness (including yourself), you have nothing to be ashamed of. – Lachy Wells

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“Ikke gråt, min venn.

Ikke gråt. For tårene dine er vene, blanke krystaller i sjelens regnbue som englene ser opp mot når regnet har gitt seg. Snart vil solen bryte frem gjennom skylaget og spre strålene sine over trekronene. Snart vil alt det som var for alltid forsvinne i skyggene. Snart vil alt bli bra igjen; Snart vil håpet omslutte hjertet ditt og fylle det med varme.

Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt.
For jeg vet hvordan du har det. Når vi lever i hverdagen er vi i grunnen så usikre innerst inne. Vi er så redde for å dumme oss ut; Det er så mye vi gjerne skulle ha sagt, men som vi aldri sier fordi vi er så redde for at andre ikke skal forstå og gjøre narr av følelsene våre. Vi er så redde for at andre skal baksnakke og dømme oss; Vi føler at verden er så overfladisk at vi ikke tør å si noe annet enn de tomme frasene vi har sagt tusen ganger før. Hvis vi hadde kunnet skulle vi gjerne vært ærlige og vist andre hva vi egentlig føler. Vi skulle så gjerne ha satt ord på tankene våre uten at noen kunne håne oss og såre åpenheten vår. Til slutt sitter vi der mutters alene med tårene våre. Vi gråter ikke fordi vi vil det, men fordi vi føler at vi ikke har noe annet valg; Vi tør ikke å åpne vinduet og rope så høyt vi bare kan: Forstå meg.
Vær så snill og prøv å forstå meg.

Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt.
For her er du trygg; Her er det ingen som ser ned på følelsene dine. Når du nå leser dette er du fri til å gjøre det du har lyst til. Du er fri til å la natten løfte tankene dine og la dem sveve i vinden. Her opphører tiden og evigheten begynner. Disse ordene er en sfære fylt av stillhet og håp; Lik sju små, brune bamser som samler seg utenfor vinduet ditt i månelyset, og sammen synger de i kor: Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt.

Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt.
For du er så vakker der du sitter. Du er så vakker når du tørker tårene dine; Du er så vakker når øyelokkene sakte lukker seg og sinnets rosenstein gjenspeiles i disse ordene. En gang, for lenge, lenge siden skinte en stjerneglorie i eonets rike: Like mild og strålende som stjernene som fyller nattehimmelen en fredelig høstnatt. Hadde du sett lyset den fylte mørket med hadde du kanskje følt at den var så yndig at du fikk lyst til å ta den i hånden og gjemme den i hjertet ditt. Så, en dag, eksploderte stjernene, og edelglansen de var laget av spredde seg i en ufattelig undergjørende tåke av stjernestøv. I denne tåken ble først solen til. Siden ble jorden født. Og mange, mange år etterpå så en liten baby dagens lys; Det var deg. Men selv om de storslåtte stjernene ikke er der lenger er jorden vi bor på dannet av støvet de etterlot seg, og hvert minste atom i kroppene våre var en gang, for lenge siden, en bitteliten del av disse underbare og praktfulle stjernene som lyste opp en mørk himmelhvelving. Derfor er du vakrere enn noen er i stand til å forestille seg, for hele kroppen din er et speilbilde av stjernene du ser i natten. Tårene dine er laget av stjernestøv og sjelen din er fylt av den samme lengselen som er å finne på uendelighetens terskel. I hele universet finnes det ingen annen som deg; Du er så enestående.
Du er så vakker.

Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt.
Jeg vet hvor vondt du må ha det nå. Jeg vet hvor vondt det er å se seg selv i speilet og føle at man ikke strekker til fordi at andre ikke forstår og prøver å skjule usikkerheten sin bak falske, overfladiske masker og kommer med dumme kommentarer. De tenker ikke på den glemte stjernen og stjernestøvet tårene dine er laget av. De tenker ikke på skjønnheten som fyller livsblusset i kroppen din. De sier det fordi de ikke vet bedre; De kjenner ikke til hemmelighetene i hjertet ditt. De har aldri følt gleden som blir til i tankene dine når du drømmer eller blir forelsket. De er selv redde for å åpne døren til følelsene sine i fullt dagslys og forsøker å dekke over dette ved å legge vekt på tomme ting som blir meningsløse i forhold til stjernehimmelens høymod eller ei trist jentes såre tårer. Vær så snill, ikke hør på dem. Ikke bry deg om den tåpelige dømmingen av andre menneskers speilbilde; Ikke bry deg om de ydmykende flirene som kommer til syne når man har sagt noe oppriktig og vist frem de innerste, forsvarsløse krokene i hjertet sitt: Ikke bry deg om alt det ytre folk legger vekt på fordi de er så feige at de ikke tør å blottstille sjelen sin.
Hvorfor skjønner de ikke hvor mye følelsene og tårene dine er verdt?

Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt.
For hadde stjernene kunnet synge hadde de nynnet disse ordene. Hadde blomstene kunnet snakke hadde de fortalt deg det samme. Og hadde solstrålene som kommer gjennom vinduet en lun sommermorgen hatt en stemme hadde også de hvisket: Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt. Lik de sju små, brune bamsene som ville samle seg utenfor vinduet ditt en stjerneklar natt og sammen sunget i kor: Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt. Lik en liten engel som stryker håret ditt med den vesle hånden sin når du er lei deg og synger en lydløs sang for deg: Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt.

Ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt.
Snart vil morgenduggen dekke blomstene på marken. Snart vil solskinnet omfavne deg og tørke tårene på kinnet ditt. Snart vil fuglene synge i trærne. Snart vil lyshavet folde hendene sine ut og fylle naturen med livets musikk; Snart vil smerten din være over. Snart er det morgen. Snart vil alt det som var bare være et vagt minne fra fortiden som langsomt vil blekne hen etter hvert som tiden går. Snart vil livsgledens smil banke på døren din og ha med seg en krans av hvite liljer; Snart er det en ny dag i livet ditt fylt av håp og undring; Skjønnhet og liv; Ta vare på denne dagen og ikke vær redd; Ikke vær redd for å gå den i møte.

Så ikke gråt, min venn. Ikke gråt.
Vær så snill.
Ikke gråt.”

– En tekst jeg synes var så utrolig vakkert skrevet at jeg bare måtte dele den videre. Funnet her

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«There are dark days ahead.”

Yes. The darkest.

You will not be able to light enough candles to push away the encroaching of this night.
The dark has its own heavy weight. There is a night sky obscured by impenetrable clouds.
The stars are as impossible to imagine as if they did not exist.

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But they are there, lover. They are always there. Shining and exploding and fragmenting into pieces too far away to see. The light moves toward us over countless miles, and even in their eventual darkness, they travel toward us still.

Millions of meteors burn, every day, as they enter the atmosphere. Incinerate and turn to dust. Disintegrate into the finest particles. So that every time you breathe you are inhaling the universe.

Right now, this very moment, your lungs are filled with stardust.

So keep breathing in the stars every time you sing. Stretch in asana and exhale divinity. Know that you are made of this universe and this universe was made for you. The very atoms that have made you whole are formed from stardust. Your light? It’s inborn. Been in you since the beginning before the beginning. Will still be here in the end after the end.

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It’s still going to get dark sometimes. The cycle between darkness and light is predictable and necessary and true. We must go deep and explore the murky shadows. We must travel down and dig our fingers into into the earth and discover the root of things. We must dance in the underworld. And we must – and we will and we do – eventually rise again.

But we need to remember, when the shadows lengthen and the nights grow ever longer, that we bring our own light into the darkness. That even when it burns out a star is still a star. And you are still you. And your light is as true and as necessary and as ever present as the North Star that still guides the sailors home.

So do me a favor, love. Know this. No matter how dark the night may get, your light will never burn out.

The incandescence is you. – Jeanette LeBlanc

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Er det én ting som alltid kan få meg i godt humør uansett hvor langt nede jeg er så er det dyr. Dyr gjør meg alltid glad. Alle slags dyr. Alltid. Jeg kan komme over et bilde av et lite lam som smiler på Facebook og kjenne varme i hjertet mitt igjen. Smile stort for meg selv. Og ser jeg bilder av dyr som viser kjærlighet seg imellom blir jeg kanskje litt ekstra varm. Jeg bare elsker dyr. De er så fantastiske at jeg ikke har ord. Jeg er litt ekstra glad i hunder siden jeg selv har fått kjenne på kroppen hvor gode venner de faktisk kan være uten å si et eneste ord. De blir så himla glad hver gang de ser deg uavhengig av om du har vært borte i bare noen minutter eller flere timer. Det spiller ingen rolle. De blir like glad, og de er så god og snill og alltid i strålende humør uansett hva. De gir fra seg så mye ubetinget kjærlighet til alle og enhver, og merker de at du er lei deg trøster de mer enn gjerne. Verden hadde virkelig ikke vært like fin uten alle disse vakre skapningene med bankende hjerter og så enormt mye kjærlighet å gi.

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«Miracles do happen. You must believe this. No matter what else you believe about life, you must believe in miracles. Because we are all, every one of us, living on a round rock that spins around and around at almost a quarter of a million miles per hour in an unthinkably vast blackness called space. There is nothing else like us for as far as our telescopic eyes can see. In a universe filled with spinning, barren rocks, frozen gas, ice, dust and radiation, we live on a planet filled with soft, green leaves and salty oceans and honey made from bees, which themselves live within geometrically complex and perfect structures of their own architecture and creation. In our trees are birds whose songs are as complex and nuanced as Beethoven’s greatest sonatas. And despite the wild, endless spinning of our planet and its never-ending orbit around the sun – itself a star on fire – when we pour water into a glass, the water stays in the glass. All of these are miracles.

The gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe is a miracle of stratospheric proportions: That there is such a thing as gum, such at thing as a shoe, such a thing as a human being. I mean, what are the odds? Think of the actual physical elements that compose our bodies: We are 98 percent hydrogen and oxygen and carbon. That’s table sugar. You are made of the same stuff as table sugar. Just a couple of tiny differences here and there and look what happened to the sugar: It can stand upright and send tweets.

Because the sun seems yellow and friendly and we only notice the air when it stinks and we take all of this existing business entirely for granted, it’s easy to forget or not even consider in the first place, not even once, the fact that we exist, that we are a we at all, is the very definition of a miracle. It is simply a miracle that you woke up this morning. And it is a miracle that, in billions of miles filled with blackness and rocks, you were born.”

― Augusten Burroughs, This Is How

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This is for the fat girls.
This is for the little brothers.

This is for the schoolyard wimps and for the childhood bullies that tormented them. For the former prom queen and for the milk crate ballplayers. For the nighttime cereal eaters and for the retired elderly Wal-Mart store front door greeters.

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Shake the dust.

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This is for the benches and the people sitting upon them.
For the bus drivers driving a million broken hymns. For the men who have to hold down three jobs simply to hold up their children for the nighttime schoolers and for the midnight bike riders trying to fly.

Shake the dust.

This is for the 2-year-olds who cannot be understood because they speak half-English and half-God. Shake the dust.
For the boys with the beautiful, beautiful sisters.

Shake the dust.

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For the girls with the brothers who are going crazy.
For those gym class wallflowers, and the 12-year-olds afraid of taking public showers.
For the kid who’s always late to class because he forgets the combination to his locker.
For the girl who loves somebody else.

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Shake the dust.

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This is for the hard men who want love but know that it won’t come. For the ones who are forgotten. The ones the amendments do not stand up for. For the ones who are told to speak only when you are spoken to and then are never spoken to. Speak every time you stand so you do not forget yourself. Do not let one moment go by that doesn’t remind you that your heart beats thousands of times every single day and that there are enough gallons of blood to make every one of you oceans.
Do not settle for letting these waves settle and for the dust to collect in your veins.

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This is for the celibate pedophile who keeps on struggling. For the poetry teachers and for the people who go on vacations alone. For the sweat that drips off of Mick Jagger’s singing lips, and for the shaking skirt on Tina Turner’s shaking hips.
For the heavens and for the hells through which Tina has lived.

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This is for the tired and for the dreamers.
For the families that will never be like the Cleavers with perfectly made dinners and sons like Wally and the Beaver.
This is for the bigots, for the sexists, for the killers, for the big house jail-sentenced cats becoming redeemers, and for the springtime that somehow always seems to know to show up after every one of our winters.

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This is for you.

Make sure that by the time the fisherman returns you are gone. Because just like the days I burn at both ends and every time I write, every time I open my eyes, I am cutting out parts of myself just to give them to you. So shake the dust.
And take me with you when you do. For none of this has ever been for me. All that pushes and pulls it pushes for you.

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So grab this world by its clothespins, and shake it out again and again. And jump on top and take it for a spin.
And when you hop off, shake it again. For this is yours.

Make my words worth it.

Make this not just another poem that I write. Not just another poem like just another night that sits heavy above us all. Walk into it. Breath it in. Let it crash through the halls of your arms like the millions of years of millions of poets coursing like blood, pumping and pushing, making you live, shaking the dust. So when the world knocks at your front door, clutch the knob tightly and open on up. And run forward. Run forward as fast and as far as you must. Run into its widespread greeting arms with your hands outstretched before you, fingertips trembling though they may be.

– Anis Mojgani, Shake the Dust