“There is no poetry for the practical man. There is poetry only for the man who spends a certain amount of his time turning the practical wheel, because if he spends too much time at the mechanics of practicality, he’ll become something less of a man or be eaten up the by the frustrations that are stored in his irrational personality. An ulcer is the unkissed imagination taking its revenge for having been jilted. It’s an unwritten poem, an undanced dance, an unpainted water color. It’s a declaration from the mankind of a man that a clear spring of joy has not been tapped and that it must break through muddily on its own.”
We are not machines, even if our organizations, corporations, schools, and other institutions often treat us that way in pursuit of efficiency, predictability, and rationality.
We are humans, fallible, vulnerable and with hearts. Organizations that don’t allow space for the human spirit are deadening.
We need to create workplaces and schools that allow integration of the mind, spirit, heart and soul. These are the only truly sustainable organizations.
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here, And you must treat it as a powerful stranger, Must ask permission to know it and be known. The forest breathes. Listen. It answers, I have made this place around you, If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here. No two trees are the same to Raven. No two branches are the same to Wren. If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you, You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows Where you are. You must let it find you.