![](https://i0.wp.com/nondualsharing.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/09/Gustave-Flaubert_51394898159_5bfc428610_k_1400x1183.jpg?resize=750%2C634&ssl=1)
An email reply, I just received from a friend, inspired this post:
“My last minute most of the day is emptying bedpans, cooking, and hundreds of other vital chores all day…
In each, I feel blessed…
Things are going splendidly.
But,
Dont forget to read Gustav Flaubert, to be really awake.
He is what I love.
He is Real.”
Love is a springtime plant that perfumes everything with its hope, even the ruins to which it clings.
Anything becomes interesting if you look at it long enough.
Success is a consequence and must not be a goal.
Poetry is as precise a thing as geometry.
It seems to me that I have always existed and that I possess memories that date back to the Pharaohs.
![](https://i0.wp.com/nondualsharing.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/09/Gustave_Flaubert_Medaille_AV-995x1024.jpg?resize=750%2C772&ssl=1)