Welcome to Scatter joy!

Art grows, as do we. If we stay in our safe shadows and do not reach for the fresh, new, dewy, light, we remain a seed. Potential halted momentarily.
This quote I am about to put down was introduced to my class in 1990, freshman philosophy, in college. It, of course, is part of something so much bigger, but what isn't? I grow everyday and think of this paragraph every morning. I will share it with you.
Rabindranath Tagore quoted in the 1990 Real Philosophy ( Interesting title, I know, don't get me started hee hee) from
'Thought Relics' in Sadhana

The life of the seed within the fruit is absolutely different from its life of growth as a tree.
The life which is bound on all sides within the environment of our self, within the limited range of our senses, must be so fundamentally different from the life of an emancipated soul that it is impossible to imagine the latter while we are immured in the sheath of self. And therefore, in our desire for eternal life we pray for an eternity of our habit and comfort, forgetting that immortality is in repeatedly transcending the definite forms of life in order to pursue the infinite truth of life.
Those who think that life's true meaning is in the persistence of its particular forms which are familiar to us are like misers who have not the power to know that the meaning of money can only be found by spending it, by changing the symbol into truth.
The world of sleep is fundamental; it is the world of the mother's womb. It is the world where the grass and the trees live and find their beauty of reposefulness. Our consciousness has freed itself from its embrace, asserting its independence. It is the freedom of the fountain which must come over and over again to its origin to renew its play. The whole depth and spread of the still water finds in our own consciousness that the universe knows itself. Therefore, this consciousness has to be great in order to be true. Our consciousness is the music of the world, its dance, its poem. It has its pauses in the bosom of the original sleep, to be fed with immortality at her breast.