My baby boy: Oliver

 "Where the spirit does not work with the hand, there is no art." - Leonardo da Vinci

Fatima Mensen-Potter’s life is a testimonial to her belief in the positive. In 2009, a serious health
problem requiring two brain surgeries took her away from her financial career and regular routine.
After three years of recovering and celebrating every improvement, Fatima felt confident enough
to coordinate mind and hands again.
An art lover, Fatima tries to pause and watch beauty everywhere, noting creative individuals
tend to be smart, yet naive. “They enjoy and often celebrate their achievement, but they get hurt
easily for their openness and sensitivity.” Almost immediately her resilience shows itself.
“I’ve been able to deal with most challenges,” she says.
She describes herself as a brave woman, doing what she likes best – Art.


My favorite poems:

  • She Walks in Beauty
    She walks in beauty, like the night 
    Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
    And all that’s best of dark and bright 
    Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
    Thus mellowed to that tender light
    Which heaven to gaudy day denies.
    One shade the more, one ray the less, 
    Had half impaired the nameless grace
    Which waves in every raven tress,   
    Or softly lightens o’er her face;
    Where thoughts serenely sweet express, 
    How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
    And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
    So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
    The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
    But tell of days in goodness spent,
    A mind at peace with all below,
    ​A heart whose love is innocent!
    • Canção de Ninar 
      Canção da tarde no campo
      Caminho do campo verde
      ​estrada depois de estrada.
      Cerca de flores, palmeiras, serra azul, água calada. 
      Eu ando sozinha no meio do vale.
      Mas a tarde é minha.
      Meus pés vão pisando a terra
      ​Que é a imagem da minha vida: tão vazia, mas tão bela, tão certa, mas tão perdida! 
      Eu ando sozinha por cima de pedras.
      Mas a tarde é minha. 
      Os meus passos no caminho são como os passos da lua; vou chegando, vai fugindo, minha alma é a sombra da tua. 
      Eu ando sozinha por dentro de bosques.
      Mas a fonte é minha. 
      De tanto olhar para longe, não vejo o que passa perto, meu peito é puro deserto. 
      Subo monte, desço monte. 
      Eu ando sozinha ao longo da noite,
      Mas a estrela é minha.

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