By Thich Nhat Hanh in June 2002
Do not scold the little birds. We need their songs. Do not hate your own body. It is the altar for humanity's spirit. Your eyes contain the trichiliocosm, and your ears have sovereignty over the birds, the springs, the rising tide, Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, the cries of the baby, and the song that lulls her to sleep. Your hands are flowers of love that need not be picked by anyone,
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By Thich Nhat Hanh in June 2002
Do not scold the little birds. We need their songs. Do not hate your own body. It is the altar for humanity's spirit. Your eyes contain the trichiliocosm, and your ears have sovereignty over the birds, the springs, the rising tide, Beethoven, Bach, Chopin, the cries of the baby, and the song that lulls her to sleep. Your hands are flowers of love that need not be picked by anyone, and your forehead is the most beautiful morning of all mornings. Do not destroy the structure of suchness within you. The corn, the grass, and the fragrance of the night have all spoken out for peace. I know a bullet may strike the heart of the little bird this morning, the bird that is celebrating life with all its might. The corn, the grass, the fragrance of the night, together with the stars and the moon— all of us are doing our best. We are doing everything we can to keep you alive.
Found in Call Me by My True Names.
