IF – Rudyard Kipling


IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream – and not make dreams your master;
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
‘ Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!



To be in love, is akin to sharing your life, in it’s totality, with your partner, your best friend. One who believes in you and understands your goals and your dreams. A relationship is about growth and understanding of the others needs. A latent knowledge of the little things that makes the other tick, the details that make them tock and the intricacies that either enrage them or engulf them with passion.

The key essence is that each must complete the other.



As it should be….

Hot shadow

I am tormented by a Love i can not have and the Love i can not give…

In a garden…


Two hedges stand
each wonders
how many hide behind
their opposing


Me thinks…

I love the freedom that these last few days have given me, I love the chance to read again to read that which I want to read, I love the reality that in a few months I will be free again. I love the fear of the hardships of PMing that I have ahead to me, so much uncertainty, yet so many possibilities. I love the challenges that I have given to myself (& fear its possible negative consequences) but all in all I Love Love.


life presently feels as if I trudging though waist deep snow
or walking through water…
its weight influences and slowly transforms me
forces me to figure out how to do things more efficiently

D.H. Lawrence’s Epitaph – Words we hope will be said about us and our purpose…


From an obituary of D.H. Lawrence, by Catherine Carswell:

“In the face of formidable initial disadvantages and life-long delicacy, poverty that lasted for three quarters of his life and hostility that survives his death, he did nothing that he did not really want to do, and all that he most wanted to do he did.

He went all over the world, he owned a ranch, he lived in the most beautiful corners of Europe, and met whom he wanted to meet and told them that they were wrong and he was right.

He painted and made things, and sang, and rode.

He wrote something like three dozen books, of which even the worst page dances with life that could be mistaken for no other man’s, while the best are admitted, even by those who hate him, to be unsurpassed.

Without vices, with most human virtues, the husband of one wife, scrupulously honest, this estimable citizen yet managed to keep free from the shackles of civilization and the cant of literary cliques.

He would have laughed lightly and cursed venomously in passing at the solemn owls– each one secretly chained by the leg– who now conduct his inquest.

To do his work and lead his life in spite of them took some doing, but he did it, and long after they are forgotten, sensitive and innocent people– if any are left –will turn Lawrence’s pages and will know from them what sort of a rare man Lawrence was.”


1. An inscription on a tombstone in memory of the one buried there.
2. A brief literary piece commemorating a deceased person
[Middle English, from Old French epitaphe, from Latin epitaphium, from Greek epitaphion, from neuter of epitaphios, funerary : epi-, epi- + taphos, tomb.] n.