So proud reading a good book i carry it with me as if i wrote it but the feeling is better since i did not write it: there is someone somewhere who went through the trouble to articulate my thinking on the other side of the world. This thing alone makes life worth living
Faith comes and goes. God diffracts into a bewildering plentitude of elements—the environment, love, friends and family, career, profession, “fate”, biochemical harmony or disharmony, whether the sky is slate-grey or a bright mesmerising blue. These elements then coalesce again into something seemingly unified. But it’s a human predilection, isn’t it?—our tendency to see, and to wish to see, what we’ve projected outward upon the universe from our own souls?
Beyond our seed-littered pond a small forest of bamboo grows wild.
Hear the wind-rustling like shaken paper? Bamboo.
Shabby and peeling but erect with greeny health? Bamboo.
“The zombie of tree-life? Bamboo”—La Rochefoucauld.
Not to require beauty for survival? Bamboo.
Not to require syntax for survival? Bamboo.
Not to require your permission for survival? Bamboo.
To be wild bamboo is to march in all directions simultaneously.
Like the expanding universe of legend.
Like grace marching into our lives, unbidden.
Sometimes recognized, more often hidden …
“Repairing means taking part of the past that reaches into the present. It is taking care as a selection of what we want to continue into the future.”
“And I aim for an architecture that then becomes only a platform for those people to create their own lives.”