I do have a jō (short wooden staff) of which I’m fond. I crave books, but since I could care less whether I read them as paper or on a screen and gladly give any but those with long-term reference value away after reading, I don’t think they count.
Being fonder of ideas than anything material, I like the story about Diogenes the Cynic who, upon seeing a boy drink from cupped hands, threw away his cup in self-anger for being such a hoarder.
Knowledge can be a wicked curse,
Like gold coins in a sturdy purse.
Tied up -- inviolably pent --
To be rattled... but never spent.
A lone goose flies in from the sea,
Not daring to land in water.
Glimpsing a pair of Kingfisher --
Nested Three Pearl Tree squatters --
It asks, "High up in that rare tree
Of gold spheres, are you not afraid?
Fancy clothes incur points and jeers
And those high up are harshly weighed.
As I roam dark rivers and hills,
Envious hunters give me chills."
This is the first of the 300 Tang Poems [唐诗三百首] and it is also the first of a quartet of poems. The original poem in Simplified Chinese:
孤鸿海上来， 池潢不敢顾；
侧见双翠鸟， 巢在三珠树。
矫矫珍木巅， 得无金丸惧？
美服患人指， 高明逼神恶。
今我游冥冥， 弋者何所慕？
It is a happy talent to know how to play.
Ralph waldo emerson
Just living is not enough… one must have sunshine, freedom, and a little flower.
Hans christian andersen
Don’t abandon kindness, mercy, and sympathy in an emergency.
Qiānzì wén [千字文], Ch. 3
Logic will take you from A to B. Imagination will take you everywhere.
albert Einstein
You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.
Henry david thoreau
Virtually anything but myself. Philosophy, literature, science, economics, public policy, meditation, martial arts, health / well-being, travel, nature, culture, food, the end of the world as we know it, etc.
I do have some blind spots where I could not speak intelligently (e.g. large swathes of history, sports, and pop culture.)
To surrender to my ignorance. If one can never know exactly what game one is playing, it becomes much easier to avoid getting worked up about whether one is playing it right or whether one will “win” or not.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That sends the frozen-ground-swell under it,
And spills the upper boulders in the sun;
And makes gaps even two can pass abreast.
The work of hunters is another thing:
I have come after them and made repair
Where they have left not one stone on a stone,
But they would have the rabbit out of hiding,
To please the yelping dogs. The gaps I mean,
No one has seen them made or heard them made,
But at spring mending-time we find them there.
I let my neighbor know beyond the hill;
And on a day we meet to walk the line
And set the wall between us once again.
We keep the wall between us as we go.
To each the boulders that have fallen to each.
And some are loaves and some so nearly balls
We have to use a spell to make them balance:
'Stay where you are until our backs are turned!'
We wear our fingers rough with handling them.
Oh, just another kind of out-door game,
One on a side. It comes to little more:
There where it is we do not need the wall:
He is all pine and I am apple orchard.
My apple trees will never get across
And eat the cones under his pines, I tell him.
He only says, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
Spring is the mischief in me, and I wonder
If I could put a notion in his head:
'Why do they make good neighbors? Isn't it
Where there are cows? But here there are no cows.
Before I built a wall I'd ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offense.
Something there is that doesn't love a wall,
That wants it down.' I could say 'Elves' to him,
But it's not elves exactly, and I'd rather
He said it for himself. I see him there
Bringing a stone grasped firmly by the top
In each hand, like an old-stone savage armed.
He moves in darkness as it seems to me,
Not of woods only and the shade of trees.
He will not go behind his father's saying,
And he likes having thought of it so well
He says again, 'Good fences make good neighbors.'
The hot, molten core. Because it is hot, and molten… And because I am a fancy bag of water.
A psychology teacher taught us about what he called “the gestalt of expectations.” It’s when one builds an alternative reality in one’s mind (typically a worst-case scenario) and then one acts as though it is a reality, when – in fact – it is not. (Though sometimes it creates a self-fulfilling prophecy situation, which — of course — triggers selection bias in people of the unexamined life.)
It was my introduction to what I would come to know as the most fundamental insight of human existence — i.e. that one’s experience of the world is not the world itself, and while one has minimal influence over the latter, one can have tremendous influence over the former. One can even train oneself to perceive difficulties and sorrows as learning and growth opportunities.
Curling. I don’t know why. By all logic, it should be boring as hell, but – somehow – it’s like a slow-motion train wreck, and I can’t take my eyes off it.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 