my

sunshine

day dreaming

Yoga refers to traditional physical and mental disciplines originating in India. The word is associated with meditative practices in Hinduism, Buddhism and Jainism. Within Hinduism, it also refers to one of the six orthodox (āstika) schools of Hindu philosophy, and to the goal toward which that school directs its practices.^[ In Jainism yoga is the sum total of all activities—mental, verbal and physical.

Sanskrit mantra:

vande gurūṇāṁ caraṇāravinde saṁdarśitasvātmasukhāvabodhe
niḥ śreyase jāṅ̇galikāyamāne saṁsāra hālāhala mohaśāntyai
ābāhu puruṣākāraṁ śaṅ̇khacakrāsi dhāriṇam
sahasra śirasaṁ śvetam praṇamāmi patañjalim

I bow to the lotus feet of the gurus,

The awakening happiness of ones own self revealed,
Beyond better, acting like the jungle physician,
Pacifying delusion, the poison of samsara.

Taking the form of a man to the shoulders,
Holding a conch, a discus, and a sword,
One thousand heads white,
To Patanjali, I salute.

Mangala mantra:

svasti prajābhyaḥ paripālayantāṁ nyāyena mārgeṇa mahīṁ mahīśāḥ
gobrāhmaṇebhyaḥ śubhamastu nityaṁ lokāḥ samastāḥ sukhino bhavantu

May prosperity be glorified -
may rulers, (administrators) rule the world with law and justice
may divinity and erudition be protected
May all beings be happy and prosperous.

And finally my favorite part comes.

Namaste is a common spoken greeting or salutation used in India and Nepal. It has multi-religious or else common usage where it may simply mean "I bow to you." The word is derived from Sanskrit namas, to bow,obeisance, reverential salutation, and te, "to you."

When spoken to another person, it is commonly accompanied by a slight bow made with hands pressed together, palms touching and fingers pointed upwards, in front of the chest. This gesture, called Añjali Mudrā, can also be performed wordlessly and carries the same meaning.

Namaste. I bow to you.

Silence

be silent,
as I approach the bushes
I can't hear the human words you say,
but I hear newer words spoken
by droplets and leaves
remotely

listen
rain is dripping from broken cloud
rain on salty burned tamarisks
rain on sharp edged pines
rain on divine myrtles
on glowing blooming brooms,
on thick junipers red berried cones
rain on our sylvan faces
rain on our skyclad hands
on our thin clothes
on new thoughts blooming in our soul
on the radiant tale
that yesterday enchanted you
and today charmes me,
Hermione

can you hear?
rain drips on remote greens
with a burst varying in the air
according to foliage
thicker or thinner

listen,
respond to the weeping
the chant of cicadas
the austral cry can not frighten
nor does the ashy sky
the pine has one sound
and the myrtle another
and the juniper yet another
different instruments
under numberless fingers
and swallowed we are
in the sylvan spirit
living of arboreal life;
and your inebriate face
is soft with rain
as a leaf
o earthly creature
whose name is Hermione

listen, listen.
the chord of the aerial cicadas
fading slowly
covered by the crescendoed weeping
but a chant mixes
hoarser arising from there
from the humid far shadow
softer and dimmer
releases, extinguishes
only a note still shivers
fading away, rises, shivers,
fades away until
is heard no voice from the sea
now is heard on all the foliage
tickling
the purifying silver rain
the tickling varies
from foliage
thicker, thinner

listen,
the daughter of air
is mute,
but the daughter of silt
is far,
the frog
chants in the deeper shadows
who knows where,
who knows where
and rains on your eyelashes,
Hermione
rains on your black eyelashes
as you were crying
but of pleasure
not pale
but almost verdant
as though you emerged from bark
and the whole life is in us
fresh and fragrant
the heart in the chest
is like a whole peach
untouched
between the eyelids
the eyes
are like springs in the grass
are like green almonds

and we go from bush to bush
now joined, now alone
and the vigorous rough green
harshly wraps our ankles
and ties our knees
who knows where,
who knows where!
And rains on our skyclad hands
on our thin clothes
on new thoughts
blooming in our soul
on the radiant tale
that yesterday enchanted you
and today charms me,
Hermione

_________________________

Taci. Su le soglie
del bosco non odo
parole che dici
umane; ma odo
parole più nuove
che parlano gocciole e foglie
lontane.
Ascolta. Piove
dalle nuvole sparse.
Piove su le tamerici
salmastre ed arse,
piove sui pini
scagliosi ed irti,
piove sui mirti
divini,
su le ginestre fulgenti
di fiori accolti,
sui ginestri folti
di coccole aulenti,
piove sui nostri volti
silvani,
piove sulle nostre mani
ignude,
sui nostri vestimenti
leggieri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l'anima schiude
novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri
l'illuse, che oggi m'illude,
o Ermione
Odi? La pioggia cade
su la solitaria
verdura
con un crepitio che dura
e varia nell'aria
secondo le fronde
più rade, men rade.
Ascolta. Risponde
al pianto il canto
delle cicale
che il pianto australe
non impaura,
nè il ciel cinerino.
E il pino
ha un suono, e il mirto
altro suono, e il ginepro
altro ancora, stromenti
diversi
sotto innumerevoli dita.
E immersi
noi siam nello spirto
silvestre,
d'arborea vita viventi;
e il tuo volto ebro
è molle di pioggia
come un foglia,
e le tue chiome
auliscono come
le chiare ginestre,
o creatura terrestre
che hai nome
Ermione.
Ascolta, ascolta. L'accordo
delle aeree cicale
a poco a poco
più sordo
si fa sotto il pianto
che cresce;
ma un canto vi si mesce
più roco
che di laggiù sale,
dall'umida ombra remota.
più sordo e più fioco
s'allenta, si spegne.
Sola una nota
ancora trema, si spegne,
risorge, treme, si spegne.
Non s'ode voce del mare.
Or s'ode su tutta la fronda
crosciare
l'argentea pioggia
che monda,
il croscio che varia
secondo la fronda
più folta, men folta.
Ascolta.
La figlia dell'aria
è muta; ma la figlia
del limo lontane,
la rana,
canta nell'ombra più fonda,
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su le tue ciglia,
Ermione.
Piove su le tue ciglia nere
sì che par tu pianga
ma di piacere; non bianca
ma quasi fatta virente,
par da scorza tu esca.
E tutta la vita è in noi fresca
aulente,
il cuor nel petto è come pesca
intatta,
tra le palpebre gli occhi
son come polle tra l'erbe,
i denti negli alveoli
son come mandorle acerbe.
E andiam di fratta in fratta,
or congiunti or disciolti
(e il verde vigor rude
ci allaccia i malleoli
c'intrica i ginocchi)
chi sa dove, chi sa dove!
E piove su i nostri volti
silvani,
piove sulle nostre mani
ignude,
sui nostri vestimenti
leggieri,
su i freschi pensieri
che l'anima schiude
novella,
su la favola bella
che ieri
m'illuse, che oggi t'illude,
o Ermione.

longing for a

cuddly cloudy afternoon

provoke

i just love this photo

the matter of my soul

music and love, that's it

Kartoffelpfanne

Zutaten:

2-3 Kartoffeln

1 rote Paprika

1 Morzarella

1/2 Dose Aubergine

(1 Frühlingszwiebel )

Pfeffer

Salz

Schäle und würfle Kartoffeln,

Würfle Paprika und halbiere Auberginen

Brate alles in einer Pfanne

Zum Schluss wird der Morzarella zerpflückt und gewürzt.

Das ganze dauert 15 Minuten. schnell einfach lecker.

Lasagne (german version)

1 Kilo Hack (gemischt)

1 Dose geschälte Tomaten

2-3 Zwiebeln

3 EL Tomatenmark
(1 Knoblauchzehe kleingehackt...wenn man es mag)

200ml Milch

150ml Wasser

Salz & Pfeffer

Lasagneplatten

Mehl

-Hack mit Zwiebeln anbraten,Knoblauch dazu

-dann alles mit den Tomaten ablöschen

-Tomatenmark dazu,mit Gewürzen abschmecken und gut & gerne 45 Minuten köcheln lassen

-aus Milch,Wasser,Mehl & kleingehackten Zwiebelrest eine Soße herstellen,(durch Mehl andicken und wieder mit Salz,Pfeffer,Gewürzen (evtl.Pizzawürzmischung) abschmecken

-in eine Auflaufform die Zutaten schichten,beginnend mit Soße

-Soße-Lasagneplatten-Soße-Hackfleischsauce-Käse

-zum Schluss kommt eine nach belieben dicke Schicht Käse

-und dann ab, für eine Stunde bei 190 Grad in den Ofen!

happily ever after????

BOOOOOOOOORING!

every journey

begins with the first step

a wall

I'm trying. changing numbers, running the simulation.

it's so frustrating. i do not obtain convergence and i do not have an hint of the reason why. and all the help that i get is "do you have any news?"

keep telling myself that life is not just work. luckily

when

when a chapter of your life slowly disappears and you do not know anymore if what you remember was reality or fantasy.

no photos anymore, no letters, the sound of the voice slowly forgotten, smells, colors, musics melt altogether.

and you can hardly believe that you are just 26 years old. those things seem to belong to another age. another person. and in memories that person that you used to be is always happier than you are now. time enjoys playing with us. and you live waiting for another age like that.

or you should better to be here and now. like yogis.

can i make you cry?

once you were admired with what I wrote about mum. well, now it looks like i can do that for you. because we tend to forget the good things we have achieved in our life.

we come from a good family. maybe a little suffocating. this attachment to 'home' makes us somehow weak.

but maybe you never realized your achievements and your role for me. from you I learnt to believe. to believe in solidarity and not just charity. in being active. in taking part. in democracy as participation. in fighting for my rights. in loving people as human beings.

you going to demonstrations. you going to ex-Yugoslavia to help children. you conjugating God and left-wing ideas, recalling me the basic ideas that Jesus thaught us.

i learnt that one is not his profession. that if one does not like his job, can look for something different. that my future had not necessarily to be becoming a wife and mother. or not only.

from you I learnt that parents are important, but are human and make mistakes. And what they say is not always right. Even though dad thinks so.

I love you,

sista