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I thought this passage was quite beautiful and in harmony with my own personal beleifs. It is from the book The Silver Wolf by Alice Borchardt
To the wolf there was no right or wrong, good or evil. There was only the pattern and she was part of the patter. To judge as the woman did was as foregin to her nature as were hope and despair.
To the wolf, the world was a tapestry of things given--sunrises scarlet, then gold; sunsets arrayed in purple shadow and bloody light; plains awash in tall grasses and mountains drifting against blue skies; and gray storms that rose, coalescing seemingly out of nothing in the upper air, then roaming at random, drenching the earth with rain. Spending thier fury in wild bursts of lightening.
Life was part of the pattern and death, too, as were blood and pain. She herself had struggled uncountable times, sodden with suffering, down the long, dark path into starless night. But this, too was part of the pattern, part of the seamless tapestry of light and darkness whose only assurance was its own endless ever-changing repetition, always different, yet the same forever.
The pattern was beauty, somehow always in everlasting harmony with itself. Beautuy was! Ugiliness, saddnes, despair, were human judgements imposed by lesser frightend minds on the whole shinning spectrum of reality whose boundries the wolf couldn't even dimly comprehend.
8:54 AM - 11/27/2007 -
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