I owe it all to you @edbloodysheeran - Tumblr Blog

We know three things about intelligence. One, it’s diverse. We think about the world in all the ways that we experience it. We think visually, we think in sound, we think kinesthetically. We think in abstract terms, we think in movement. Secondly, intelligence is dynamic. If you look at the interactions of a human brain, as we heard yesterday from a number of presentations, intelligence is wonderfully interactive. The brain isn’t divided into compartments. In fact, creativity — which I define as the process of having original ideas that have value — more often than not comes about through the interaction of different disciplinary ways of seeing things.

Ken Robinson, Ken Robinson: How Schools Kill Creativity

Watch here.

(via wordsnquotes)

anewcrowd

goaheadlilyevans-deactivated201

What is it like to die?

When Ron asks him, eyes not meeting, as the sun sets on the second day, Harry stops. He is thinking of crunching leaves and waving branches and vicious laughter and then silence. “It’s like a punch in the stomach,” he says.

When Hermione asks him, with a soft voice and her head on his shoulder, Harry frowns. His parents’ graves spring to mind: strong and proud under all that snow. “It’s like a burial,” he tells her.

When George asks him, with too many tears in his desperate eyes, Harry holds his breath. He is trying to remember how it feels to laugh. “It’s like waiting for the punchline,” he lies.

When Neville asks him, with a trembling voice and a nervous smile, Harry sniffs. He can smell wet grass and stale dirt and the sharp scrape of fresh blood and a little bit of fear. “It’s like tripping over your own feet,” he offers.

When Luna asks him, with an expression that suggests she already know the answer, Harry sighs. His head is starting to pound and his brain begins to buzz, bouncing around his skull. “It’s like waking up in reverse,” he shrugs.

When Ginny asks him, with sweaty twisted fingers and a dying fire in her voice, Harry has to press his hands against his face. He sees popping lights and remembers a lot of green, a lot of red, a lot of noise. “I don’t know,” he confesses.

When Fleur asks him, sharp pointed syllables after too many glasses of wine, Harry almost laughs. He feels something dripping at the corner of his mind, but doesn’t care to pursue it. “It’s like the pause between two songs on the radio,” he answers.

When a reporter asks him for the twentieth time, shuffled paper and an enchanted microphone in hand, Harry hexes her. He hears voices ringing in his ears, can imagine tomorrow’s headline. “None of your fucking business,” he chokes.

When Teddy asks him all those years later, with a creased photograph that shows a tall man in grey robes and a woman with bubblegum hair, Harry closes his eyes. He is back at the edge of the forest, staring at faded impressions of his family, wondering the same thing himself. His godfather’s words float through the air with a fragile sort of truth. “It’s quicker and easier than falling asleep,” he whispers.