“Alone I cannot lift my voice in song—Then you come near and sing with me. Our prayers fuse, and a new voice soars. Our bond is beyond voice and voice. Our bond is one of spirit and spirit.”
“This dish was served to Mr Knott, cold, in a bowl, at twelve o’clock noon sharp and at seven p.m. exactly, all the year round.
That is to say that Watt carried in the bowl, full, to the dining-room at those hours, and left it on the table. An hour later he went back and took it away, in whatever state Mr Knott had left it. If the bowl still contained food, then Watt transferred this food to the dog’s dish. But if it was empty, then Watt washed it up, in readiness for the next meal.
So Watt never saw Mr Knott at mealtime. For Mr Knott was never punctual, at his meals. But he was seldom later than twenty minutes, or half an hour. And whether he emptied the bowl, or did not, it never took him more than five minutes to do so, or seven minutes at the outside. So that Mr Knott was never in the dining-room when Watt brought in the bowl, and he was never there either when Watt went back, to take the bowl away. So Watt never saw Mr Knott, never never saw Mr Knott, at mealtime.”
There is something primordially powerful about immersing yourself into the water and propelling yourself into motion and silent thought, the daily bustle of the world left to the land. Most of the researches to understand how swimming affects the brain has been done in rats. The researchers found that 20 minutes of moderate-intensity breaststroke swimming improved their cognitive function. My brain must probably be like a zebrafish.
“The older I grow, the more I notice that childhood and old age not only meet but are the two most profound states we are given to live. The essence of a being is revealed in them, before or after the efforts, aspirations, ambitions of life. The eyes of the child and those of the old man gaze with the calm candor of one who has not yet entered the masked ball or already left it. And the whole interval seems a vain tumult, an empty commotion, an unnecessary chaos through which we wonder why we had to go through” Marguerite Yourcenar.
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