Snickersnee


Snickersnee. While this word sounds like something funny or possibly cute, it is actually referring to a long, dangerous knife. It was first used in reference to cut-and-thrust fighting in the 1700s and is still occasionally used when referencing the knife, though it is becoming more and more obsolete.

\SNIK-er-snee\

noun
1. a knife, especially one used as a weapon.
Quotes
The commander of the sloop was hurrying about and giving a world of orders, which were not very strictly attended to, one man being busy in lighting his pipe, and another in sharpening his snicker-snee.
— Washington Irving, Bracebridge Hall, 1882
Origin
Snickersnee came to English in the late 1600s from the Dutch steken meaning “to stick” and snijden meaning “to cut.”

The only photo I can find that even remotely matches this word is from Nepal.  The women in Nepal were really the toughest I have seen around the world. You meet a Nepali woman on a hike and their look alone is compelling.

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You pass them and realize what they are holding behind their back.

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“blessed be
she
who is
both
furious
and
magnificent”
― Taylor Rhodes

No way we could pass without a closeup.  Though it is not long.. it is as dangerous as it looks and as you can imagine.

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I seized him by his little pig-tail,
And on his knees fell he,
As he squirmed and struggled,
And gurgled and guggled,
I drew my snickersnee!

W. S. Gilbert

dangerous: words; brave; bohotea; ron; ennenbach; Lorne; lotte

Nemophilist


Nemophilist (n.) – Origin: Greek – Definition: A haunter of the woods; one who loves the forest and its beauty and solitude.

So many forests in so many countries with so many people with so little time. Park forests, mountain forests, island forests, animal forests.  I cannot say all of this better than the people I am quoting below.

“And into the forest I go to lose my mind and find my soul.”

– John Muir

“Gold is a luxury. Trees are necessities. Man can live and thrive without gold, but we cannot survive without trees.”

– Paul Bamikole

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“I found far more answers in the woods than I ever did in the city.”

– Mary Davis

“In some mysterious way woods have never seemed to me to be static things. In physical terms, I move through them; yet in metaphysical ones, they seem to move through me.”

John Fowles

“For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.”
― Herman Hesse

forest: roth; michele; mark; sustainabilitea; becky; Mason; Eddie; paula; phillip; Ingrid; cherie; cepcarol; sandy; paul; sue; rebecca

Eudaimonia


Eudaimonia (noun) Origin: Greek | U·de·‘mOn·E·a  The contented happy state you feel when you travel.

“It isn’t what you have or who you are or where you are or what you are doing that makes you happy or unhappy. It is what you think about it.”
― Dale Carnegie

When I travel, I am able to stop thinking about myself. I am able to remove myself from the daily grind.  All thoughts of work, stress, anxiety, irritations, etc. fly out the window.

I feel happy walking anonymously through cities and the countryside.  Watching people, talking to strangers, viewing normal folks doing normal things. 

“Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness.” –Mark Twain

I love imagining what they are thinking and how they got to where they are.  I love even more the realization that no matter where I am, I am no different than the people I meet are in regards to the basics of life.  

My to-do list for today:
– Count my blessings
– Practice kindness
– Let go of what I can’t control
– Listen to my heart
– Be productive yet calm
– Just breathe

These things make me happy.  These things put everything in my world back into perspective and help me balance myself. I let go of my expectations on others, but even more importantly, I let go of the expectations I have put upon myself.  Traveling is how I learn to breathe again.

“Travel isn’t always pretty. It isn’t always comfortable. Sometimes it hurts, it even breaks your heart. But that’s okay. The journey changes you; it should change you. It leaves marks on your memory, on your consciousness, on your heart, and on your body. You take something with you. Hopefully, you leave something good behind.” – Anthony Bourdain

contented travelers: tgeriatrix; salwa; aletta; sustainabilitea; sue; chris; rarasaur; nancy; woollymuses; david; coreen; cauldrons

Morii


Morii (noun) Origin: Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows | The desire to capture a fleeting experience.

The truth is you don’t know what is going to happen tomorrow. Life is a crazy ride, and nothing is guaranteed.  – Eminem

“A happening was looming. It was out there somewhere beyond the regular enclosed life that I had been living. It was out there, not waiting, but existing. Being. Perhaps it was only slightly wondering if I would come to it.”
― Markus Zusak

“If we only take a hard look at the facts of life, we will know that, really, nothing is in our hands – not even our hands are in our hands. Just try to hold your hand with your hand and you will know the reality. Really, nothing is in our power. Then what is the meaning of saying ”I” and ”me” and ”mine”? Here everything is happening, and happening together. It is an organic arrangement, an organic whole.”
― Osho

Fleeting – Anushk; Caeli; Pauli; MeRaw; Al; Soye; River; Jennie; LA; paean; shivani; abigail

Exulansis


Exulansis (noun) The tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because others are unable to relate to it.

This is true of almost every place you will ever go.  You cannot put into words the experience you had in a different country.  You cannot find the right words to explain the sounds, smells, tastes, the beauty, the sorrow, or the joy of a place because there were just too many ideas from each portion of your time there.  The chaos, the silence, the life of the people who live there.  So much like every other place and yet so different from every other place.  Specifically so different from my own experiences growing up in the U.S. and yet still sort of exactly like every experience I have ever had growing up in the U.S.

I have taken some amazing photos of many different places in the world.  My friends and family love looking at them, but often cannot even imagine what it was actually like.  I’m always a little surprised because when I live in or visit a different country, I see what I know.  I see families eking out a life and a living.  I see the rich and the poor, the politics, and the criminals.  I also sometimes cannot imagine me being in some of the places I have been. Even when I am actually there.  It will sometimes cross my mind how strange it is that I am just walking down a street in Lagos, or Kathmandu, or Caracas, or.. or .. or.  It’s sort of like an out of body experience at times.  If I feel that way, how can others even relate to the experience?

If an average day in a foreign country experience is difficult to explain, imagine how much more difficult it would be to try and explain going through a not average day in a foreign country.  People wandering aimlessly through the streets.  The heartbreak and the true chaos. The confusion and the trying to find assistance for the injured.  It’s something that even now I struggle to put into words.  It’s surreal.  The pictures can show an aspect of the experience but not the recurring tremors.  The “lost”ness that so many felt and very possibly still feel today after so many years. Even more important was discovering the immense strength of a nation’s people.  I will never be able to fully explain it and I will never be able to ever forget it.

experiences: LU; carmen; aprilgrey; esoteric; kaushal; jim; joan; kuntala; renx; exile; pattimoed; jaya; Rebecca; Aakriti