Awe Struck Quotes

Do not be awe struck by other people and try to copy them. Nobody can be you as efficiently as you can.

And still, for all the jealously, all the doubt, sometimes I will be struck with a kind of awe that we're together. That someone like me could find someone like you --- it renders me wordless. Because surely words would conspire against such luck, would protest the unlikelihood of such a turn of events.

dumbfounded, adj. And still, for all the jealousy, all the doubt, sometimes I will be struck with a kind of awe that we're together. That someone like me could find someone like you - it renders me wordless. Because surely words would conspire against such luck, would protest the unlikelihood of such a turn of events. I didn't tell any of my friends about our first date. I waited until after our second, because I wanted to make sure it was real. I wouldn't believe it had happened until it had happened again. Then, later on, I would be overwhelmed by the evidence, by all the lines connecting you to me, and us to love.

dumbfounded, adj. And still, for all the jealousy, all the doubt, sometimes I will be struck with a kind of awe that we’re together. That someone like me could findsomeone like you — it renders me wordless. Because surely words would conspire against such luck, would protest the unlikelihood of such a turnof events.

My dearest friend Abigail, These probably could be the last words I write to you and I may not live long enough to see your response but I truly have lived long enough to live forever in the hearts of my friends. I thought a lot about what I should write to you. I thought of giving you blessings and wishes for things of great value to happen to you in future; I thought of appreciating you for being the way you are; I thought to give sweet and lovely compliments for everything about you; I thought to write something in praise of your poems and prose; and I thought of extending my gratitude for being one of the very few sincerest friends I have ever had. But that is what all friends do and they only qualify to remain as a part of the bunch of our loosely connected memories and that's not what I can choose to be, I cannot choose to be lost somewhere in your memories. So I thought of something through which I hope you will remember me for a very long time. I decided to share some part of my story, of what led me here, the part we both have had in common. A past, which changed us and our perception of the world. A past, which shaped our future into an unknown yet exciting opportunity to revisit the lost thoughts and to break free from the libido of our lost dreams. A past, which questioned our whole past. My dear, when the moment of my past struck me, in its highest demonised form, I felt dead, like a dead-man walking in flesh without a soul, who had no reason to live any more. I no longer saw any meaning of life but then I saw no reason to die as well. I travelled to far away lands, running away from friends, family and everyone else and I confined myself to my thoughts, to my feelings and to myself. Hours, days, weeks and months passed and I waited for a moment of magic to happen, a turn of destiny, but nothing happened, nothing ever happens. I waited and I counted each moment of it, thinking about every moment of my life, the good and the bad ones. I then saw how powerful yet weak, bright yet dark, beautiful yet ugly, joyous yet grievous; is a one single moment. One moment makes the difference. Just a one moment. Such appears to be the extreme and undisputed power of a single moment. We live in a world of appearance, Abigail, where the reality lies beyond the appearances, and this is also only what appears to be such powerful when in actuality it is not. I realised that the power of the moment is not in the moment itself. The power, actually, is in us. Every single one of us has the power to make and shape our own moments. It is us who by feeling joyful, celebrate for a moment of success; and it is also us who by feeling saddened, cry and mourn over our losses. I, with all my heart and mind, now embrace this power which lies within us. I wish life offers you more time to make use of this power. Remember, we are our own griefs, my dear, we are our own happinesses and we are our own remedies. Take care! Love, Francis. Title: Letter to Abigail Scene: "Death-bed" Chapter: The Road To Awe

The match I struck shall not run dead You’re my first inhale, my last cigarette.

Dumbfounded adj. And still for all the jealousy, all the doubt, sometimes I will be struck with a kind of awe that we're together. That someone like me could find someone like you - it renders me wordless.

Ah me! what hand can pencil guide, or pen, To follow half on which the eye dilates Through views more dazzling unto mortal ken. Than those whereof such things the bard relates, Who to the awe-struck world unlocked Elysium’s gates?

And still, for all the jealousy, all the doubt, sometimes I will be struck with a kind of awe that we’re together.

That kiss had left me awe-struck. It was earth-shattering in its simplicity, mind-numbing in its intimacy, and completely raw in its emotional depths.

And still, for all the jealousy, all the doubt, sometimes I will be struck with a kind of awe that we’re together. That someone like me could find someone like you — it renders me wordless.

We leave this behind in your capable hands, for in the black-foaming gutters and back alleys of paradise, in the dank windowless gloom of some galactic cellar, in the hollow pearly whorls found in sewer like seas, in starless cities of insanity, and in their slums . . . my awe-struck little deer and I have gone frolicking.

There was the old myth of divine intervention. You blasphemed, and a lightning bolt struck you. That was a little steep too. If punishment is at all proportionate to the offense, then power becomes watered. The only way you generate the proper attitude of awe and obedience is through immense and disproportionate power.

I question what it would be like to just let someone in, to tell them all of your unforgivable truths and discover they still love you in return. I find myself utterly fascinated, awe-struck even, that there are people actually capable of truly loving someone without wondering when and how they will be betrayed.

Oh what marvels fill me with thanksgiving! The deep mahogany of a leaf once green. The feathered fronds of tiny icicles coating every twig and branch in a wintry landscape. The feel of goosebumps thawing after endured frozen temperatures. Both hands clamped around a hot mug of herbal tea. The aromatic whiff of mint under my nose. The stir of emotion from a child's cry for mommy. A gift of love detached of strings. Spotted lilies collecting raindrops in a cupped clump of petals. The vibrant mélange of colors on butterfly wings. The milky luster of a single pearl. Rainbows reflecting off iridescence bubbles. Awe-struck silence evoked by any form of beauty. Avocado flecks in your eyes. Warm hands on my face. Sweetness on the tongue. The harmony of voices. An answered prayer. A pink balloon. A caress. A smile. More. These have become my treasures by virtue of thanksgiving.

Gary,” the dragon whispered in awe, the name on his lips sounding almost like benediction. “Have two syllables ever sounded more beautiful together? Geh. Ree. The gods must have outdone themselves the day that word was born. They took the exquisiteness from the earth and rolled it together with a pinch of sunshine and love and gorgeousness and when it was finished, it was Gary.” “Wow,” Gary said. “That was… words.

It struck cold awe to my heart, now, to look at who I had been who had thought it was impossible that he or I could touch another.

Thus far then have we travelled along the terrible road we chose at the call of duty. The mood of Britain is wisely and rightly averse from every form of shallow or premature exultation. This is no time for boasts or glowing prophecies, but there is this: A year ago our position looked forlorn, and well nigh desperate to all eyes but our own. To-day we may say aloud before an awe-struck world: 'We are still masters of our fate. We are still captain of our souls.

I am also awe-struck - not by the evident heroism, but by the magnitude of the stupidity of human beings. Is all history merely the outcome, the artificially hallowed outcome, of a chance concatenation of ignorance and arrogance in some one character?

In the dark sheaf of her hair, I saw the forest floors where wolves stalked milk-skinned maidens. In the hollow of her neck, I saw the light of precious jewels kept safe in the stinking jaws of a slumbering sea monster. In her parted lips, I glimpsed something that -- in my own unpracticed, sloppy awe -- struck me as holy. For a moment, I saw a window and not my wife. When I walked to her, it was like peering straight into something primordial and desperate, where the inscrutable space between stars had once birthed myths and gods, built palaces of story and scripture in which human doubts found a place to rest their weary brows.

Above them, a shadow passed over Lorehaven, its long tail stretching behind it like a kite’s ribbon. Not an it. A he, she decided. The dragon’s breadth of figure and build struck her as masculine, a majestic creature as brilliant as the rubies decorating her favorite tiara. She watched him soar, her emotions treading a fine line between awe and envy. In

…we saw a lion take down a gazelle – I mean at close quarters. It quite took my breath away. It was as if something happened to the gazelle at the moment of capture, something awe-inspiringly terrible and wonderful at the same time – as if, in knowing the gazelle was to die a dreadful death, ripped apart by the jaws of the lion, the Creator had given the captive a reprieve by taking her soul before she was dead, so that no pain would be felt because the essence had gone already… And I saw the eyes of the gazelle again in France [during WWI], and it struck me that perhaps a heartsick God had looked down and taken up a soul, leaving only the shell of a man.” [of those who developed PTSD and/or “war neuroses”]

It struck her that it was hopeless to look for chivalry in such a man. He would do her no harm by idle gossip; he was trustworthy, intelligent, and even kind; he might even have a high opinion of her. But he lacked chivalry; his thoughts, like his behavior, would not be modified by awe. It was useless to say to him, “And would you—“ and hope that he would complete the sentence for himself, averting his eyes from her nakedness like the knight in that beautiful picture. She had been in his arms, and he remembered it, just as he remembered the blood on the photographs that she had bought in Alinari’s shop. It was not exactly that a man had died; something had happened to the living; they had come to a situation where character tells, and where childhood enters upon the branching paths of Youth.

Once, during a concert of cathedral organ music, as I sat getting gooseflesh amid that tsunami of sound, I was struck with a thought: for a medieval peasant, this must have been the loudest human-made sound they ever experienced, awe-inspiring in now-unimaginable ways. No wonder they signed up for the religion being proffered. And now we are constantly pummeled with sounds that dwarf quaint organs. Once, hunter-gatherers might chance upon honey from a beehive and thus briefly satisfy a hardwired food craving. And now we have hundreds of carefully designed commercial foods that supply a burst of sensation unmatched by some lowly natural food. Once, we had lives that, amid considerable privation, also offered numerous subtle, hard-won pleasures. And now we have drugs that cause spasms of pleasure and dopamine release a thousandfold higher than anything stimulated in our old drug-free world.

It ended a few feet from where he sat. The sea, broad and vast, with all its mighty force, ended right there before his eyes. Be it the edge of time or space, there is nothing so awe-inspiring as a border. To be here at this place with his three companions, at this marvellous border between land and sea, struck him as being very similar to being alive as one age ending and another beginning, like being part of a great moment in history. And then too the tide of their own era, in which he and Kiyoaki lived, also had to have an appointed time and ebb, a shore on which to break, a limit beyond which it could not go. The sea ended right there before his eyes. As he watched the final surge of each wave as it drained into the sand, the final thrust of mighty power that had come down the countless centuries, he was struck by the pathos of it all. At that very point, a grand pan-oceanic enterprise that spanned the world went awry and ended in annihilation.

The system was psychological and physical at the same time. The slaves were taught discipline, were impressed again and again with the idea of their own inferiority to “know their place,” to see blackness as a sign of subordination, to be awed by the power of the master, to merge their interest with the master’s, destroying their own individual needs. To accomplish this there was the discipline of hard labor, the breakup of the slave family, the lulling effects of religion (which sometimes led to “great mischief,” as one slaveholder reported), the creation of disunity among slaves by separating them into field slaves and more privileged house slaves, and finally the power of law and the immediate power of the overseer to invoke whipping, burning, mutilation, and death. Dismemberment was provided for in the Virginia Code of 1705. Maryland passed a law in 1723 providing for cutting off the ears of blacks who struck whites, and that for certain serious crimes, slaves should be hanged and the body quartered and exposed.

Why, all our art treasures of to-day are only the dug-up commonplaces of three or four hundred years ago. I wonder if there is real intrinsic beauty in the old soup-plates, beer-mugs, and candle-snuffers that we prize so now, or if it is only the halo of age glowing around them that gives them their charms in our eyes. The “old blue” that we hang about our walls as ornaments were the common every-day household utensils of a few centuries ago; and the pink shepherds and the yellow shepherdesses that we hand round now for all our friends to gush over, and pretend they understand, were the unvalued mantel-ornaments that the mother of the eighteenth century would have given the baby to suck when he cried. Will it be the same in the future? Will the prized treasures of to-day always be the cheap trifles of the day before? Will rows of our willow-pattern dinner-plates be ranged above the chimneypieces of the great in the years 2000 and odd? Will the white cups with the gold rim and the beautiful gold flower inside (species unknown), that our Sarah Janes now break in sheer light-heartedness of spirit, be carefully mended, and stood upon a bracket, and dusted only by the lady of the house? That china dog that ornaments the bedroom of my furnished lodgings. It is a white dog. Its eyes blue. Its nose is a delicate red, with spots. Its head is painfully erect, its expression is amiability carried to verge of imbecility. I do not admire it myself. Considered as a work of art, I may say it irritates me. Thoughtless friends jeer at it, and even my landlady herself has no admiration for it, and excuses its presence by the circumstance that her aunt gave it to her. But in 200 years’ time it is more than probable that that dog will be dug up from somewhere or other, minus its legs, and with its tail broken, and will be sold for old china, and put in a glass cabinet. And people will pass it round, and admire it. They will be struck by the wonderful depth of the colour on the nose, and speculate as to how beautiful the bit of the tail that is lost no doubt was. We, in this age, do not see the beauty of that dog. We are too familiar with it. It is like the sunset and the stars: we are not awed by their loveliness because they are common to our eyes. So it is with that china dog. In 2288 people will gush over it. The making of such dogs will have become a lost art. Our descendants will wonder how we did it, and say how clever we were. We shall be referred to lovingly as “those grand old artists that flourished in the nineteenth century, and produced those china dogs.” The “sampler” that the eldest daughter did at school will be spoken of as “tapestry of the Victorian era,” and be almost priceless. The blue-and-white mugs of the present-day roadside inn will be hunted up, all cracked and chipped, and sold for their weight in gold, and rich people will use them for claret cups; and travellers from Japan will buy up all the “Presents from Ramsgate,” and “Souvenirs of Margate,” that may have escaped destruction, and take them back to Jedo as ancient English curios.

She was still standing there several moments later when Ian walked in to invite her to ride with him. “Still trying to find your answer, sweetheart?” he asked with a sympathetic grin, mistaking the cause of her wary stare. “No, I found mine,” she said, her voice unintentionally accusing as she thrust both pieces of paper toward him. “What I would like to know,” she continued, unable to tear her gaze from him, “is how it happens to be the same answer you arrived at in a matter of moments.” His grin faded, and he shoved his hands into his pockets, ignoring the papers in her outthrust hand. His expression carefully impassive, he said, “That answer is a little more difficult than the one I wrote down for you-“ “You can do this-calculate all those figures in your mind? In moments?” He nodded curtly, and when Elizabeth continued to stare at him warily, as if he was a being of unknown origin, his face hardened. In a clipped, cool voice he said, “I would appreciate it if you would stop staring at me as if I’m a freak.” Elizabeth’s mouth dropped open at his tone and his words. “I’m not.” “Yes,” he said implacably. “You are. Which is why I haven’t told you before this.” Embarrassed regret surged through her at the understandable conclusion he’d drawn from her reaction. Recovering her composure, she started around the desk toward him. “What you saw on my face was wonder and awe, no matter how it must have seemed.” “The last thing I want from you is ‘awe,’” he said tightly, and Elizabeth belatedly realized that, while he didn’t care what anyone else thought of him, her reaction to all this was obviously terribly important to him. Rapidly concluding that he’d evidently had some experience with other people’s reaction to what must surely be a form of genius-and which struck them as “freakish”-she bit her lip, trying to decide what to say. When nothing came to mind, she simply let love guide her and reacted without artifice. Leaning back against the desk, she sent him an amused, sidelong smile and said, “I gather you can calculate almost as rapidly as you can read?” His response was short and chilly. “Not quite.” “I see,” she continued lightly. “I would guess there are close to ten thousand books in your library here. Have you read them all?” “No.” She nodded thoughtfully, but her eyes danced with admiring laughter as she continued, “Well, you’ve been quite busy the past few weeks-dancing attendance on me. No doubt that’s kept you from finishing the last thousand or two.” His face softened as she asked merrily, “Are you planning to read them all?” With relief, she saw the answering smile tugging at his lips. “I thought I’d attend to that next week,” he replied with sham gravity. “A worthy endeavor,” she agreed. “I hope you won’t start without me. I’d like to watch.” Ian’s shout of laughter was cut short as he snatched her into his arms and buried his face in her fragrant hair, his hands clenching her to him as if he could absorb her sweetness into himself. “Do you have any other extraordinary skills I ought to know about, my lord?” she whispered, holding him as tightly as he was holding her. The laugher in his voice was replaced by tender solemnity. “I’m rather good,” he whispered, “at loving you.

Once, during a concert of cathedral organ music, as I sat getting gooseflesh amid that tsunami of sound, I was struck with a thought: for a medieval peasant, this must have been the loudest human-made sound they ever experienced, awe-inspiring in now-unimaginable ways. No wonder they signed up for the religion being proffered. And now we are constantly pummeled with sounds that dwarf quaint organs. Once, hunter-gatherers might chance upon honey from a beehive and thus briefly satisfy a hardwired food craving. And now we have hundreds of carefully designed commercial foods that supply a burst of sensation unmatched by some lowly natural food. Once, we had lives that, amid considerable privation, also offered numerous subtle, hard-won pleasures. And now we have drugs that cause spasms of pleasure and dopamine release a thousandfold higher than anything stimulated in our old drug-free world. An emptiness comes from this combination of over-the-top nonnatural sources of reward and the inevitability of habituation; this is because unnaturally strong explosions of synthetic experience and sensation and pleasure evoke unnaturally strong degrees of habituation.90 This has two consequences. First, soon we barely notice the fleeting whispers of pleasure caused by leaves in autumn, or by the lingering glance of the right person, or by the promise of reward following a difficult, worthy task. And the other consequence is that we eventually habituate to even those artificial deluges of intensity. If we were designed by engineers, as we consumed more, we’d desire less. But our frequent human tragedy is that the more we consume, the hungrier we get. More and faster and stronger. What was an unexpected pleasure yesterday is what we feel entitled to today, and what won’t be enough tomorrow.

Many people have talked to me about God in the middle of difficulties, and after listening to them, I have been struck that, if I believed in the “God” they described, I wouldn’t run to him for help either, and I’d be in a panic

Soothsayer vs. Forsooth Sayer [10w] Soothsayers are prophets; Forsooth sayers are awe struck Shakepearean characters

When God of old came down from heaven, In power and wrath He came; Before His feet the clouds were riven, Half darkness and half flame. * * * * * * But when He came the second time, He came in power and love; Softer than gale at morning prime Hover'd His holy Dove. The fires that rush'd on Sinai down In sudden torrents dread, Now gently light, a glorious crown, On every sainted head. Like arrows went those lightnings forth, Wing'd with the sinner's doom; But these, like tongues o'er all the earth, Proclaiming life to come. And as on Israel's awe-struck ear The voice, exceeding loud, The trump, that angels wake to hear, Thrill'd from the deep, dark cloud— So, when the Spirit of our God Came down His flock to find, A voice from heaven was heard abroad, A rushing, mighty wind. * * * * * * It fills the Church of God; it fills The sinful world around; Only in stubborn hearts and wills No place for it is found. J. KEBLE.

His account of the approach to the monastery of the Grande Chartreuse high in the mountains of Savoy inspired generations of artists and students to head for the wild landscapes of the south: It is six miles to the top; the road runs winding up it, commonly not six feet broad; on one hand is the rock, with woods of pine trees hanging over head; on the other, a monstrous precipice, almost perpendicular, at the bottom of which rolls a torrent, that sometimes tumbling among the fragments of stone that have fallen from on high, and sometimes precipitating itself down vast descents with a noise like thunder, which is still made greater by the echo from the mountains on each side, concurs to form one of the most solemn, the most romantic, and the most astonishing scenes I ever beheld.17 This is a highly influential early usage of the word ‘romantic’ to describe mountain scenery. It is also a classic instance of what Edmund Burke classified as a ‘sublime’ as opposed to a ‘beautiful’ scene, the distinction being that the sublime creates a reaction of awe with an element of fear, in this case created by the raging torrent, the noise resembling thunder, the echo from the mountain walls. For Wordsworth and Jones, as for Gray and Walpole before them, the approach to the Grande Chartreuse was one of the most ‘astonishing’ scenes that they ever beheld. Astonishment – being struck dumb with awe – was the hallmark of the sublime.

Shastar had awed and overwhelmed him, yet its tragedy had left him curiously unmoved. But this struck straight at his heart and spoke in a language he could understand; and as it did so, the last vestiges of his condescension toward the past were scattered like leaves before a gale.

Onto your sea my ship set sail, (dentro il tuo mare viaggiava la mia nave) Into that sea I sank and was born. (Dentro quell mare mi sono immersa e nacqui) I am struck by how strange a season it is And by how my body felt the cold. From figure to figure love migrated, (di figura in figura transmigrave amore) Now it stops and shows itself. I recognize it in that crimpled current On your forehead, small waves alike And contrary- and on the surface a kind of awe Moved, surging through Whatever seemed rigid, and gave way. Was transformed into tenderness.

Star Struck Our group visited the laser light show, an attraction mixing music and beams of bright colors as they formed constellations and abstract shapes. An awe-inspiring performance, but as it ended, I noticed the stranger, eyes still focused on me. I turned away quickly. “Look--over by the door. There he is again.” I gestured for my friend to sneak a peek in the direction of the man. “Where?” She squinted, her head pointed straight at him. “I don’t see him--maybe he left.” Frustration tinged my voice. “He’s right there--hasn’t moved an inch. He’s almost smiling at me now. Please don’t try to say I’m imagining him.” Fear mounted in me. Was I being stalked? I tucked the thought away, determined to enjoy this time with my companions, to relax in the gentle warmth of the sun. As our excursion neared its end, I glanced to the left, at the wall of a building, devoid of gates or doors of any sort. The man leaned against it, looking at me. This time I stared back, determined to show a bravery I didn’t feel. Hidden in pockets, my hands trembled. A calm smile and deep compassion shone on his face as we locked eyes for what felt like minutes, but probably lasted only seconds. Then--I don’t know how to explain it--it was as though a burst of conversation swept from his mind to mine. “Everything’s going to be all right.” I felt an intense warmth head to toe, as though embraced in a spiritual hug from the inside out. “There’s work ahead.” I took a deep breath, maintaining the eye contact, listening. He continued to smile with his eyes. “I’ll be watching.” I nodded slowly, softly. I understood. And felt safe. A friend tugged on my arm, pulling me toward another monument. I turned my head back for a glimpse of the man, but he was gone. I scanned the building once more, searching for openings he could have exited through. There were none. I shook my head. I knew I’d seen him. And he’d seen me. I was certain he was real. I still felt his warmth. We headed for home, my mind filled with questions about the man, and the message I’d somehow received. Reason fought against intuition. He was just an ordinary guy. Or was he? In the months to come, I overcame my fears and visited the doctor. I underwent three cardiac catheterization operations, and a successful triple-bypass surgery. Through them all, I knew I’d be al right. Years have passed since that day. But the peace he projected has remained with me. God sent me comfort in a way I needed, in a form I could understand and trust--an ordinary-looking man. He gave me the courage and the confidence to take care of my health problems. My angel. And even though I can’t see him, I know he’s still watching. I know things are going to be all right. How can I be so sure? Because there’s still work for me to do. He told me so. -Nancy Zeider

As a professional speaker, Susanne travels all over the country and practically lives on airplanes. One day as she entered security to board yet another flight, she was struck by the poise, posture, and gestures of the man in front of her in line. As a communications expert, she observed his excellent presentation with appreciation and awe. The gentleman was dressed impeccably in a crisp white shirt and well-fitted suit and he sported a new haircut. She watched him as he removed his flawless leather belt, his gold money clip, and well-polished shoes. (And of course, he had Listerine in a baggie to ensure fresh breath!) The care with which he dismantled was impressive. His poised and fluid movements were deliberate and respectful of his personal possessions. As he regrouped and proceeded down the concourse, she was struck by how his stance and carriage intrigued and impressed her. His projection of elegance created a presence of pride and dignity. He left a remarkable impression.

Stories of the lone wolf were often spoken in packs with a level of awe that would make any youngling excited for the day they struck off alone to find their own home. Just like most stories, it seemed, the elders of his pack had left out some very important details.

One hand [was] raised in the gesture of blessing, the other was touching the garment at the breast. From beneath the garment, slightly drawn aside at the breast, there were emanating two large rays, one red, the other pale. In silence I kept my gaze fixed on the Lord; my soul was struck with awe, but also with great joy.

At first I felt something like an oppressed anxiety when I was near the little sick girl, which later changed into pious and reverential awe in face of this dumb and strangely moving suffering. Whenever I saw her, an obscure sensation would arise in me that she must surely die. And then I grew afraid to look her in the face. Whenever I roamed the forests during the day, feeling so joyful in this solitude and peace, when I stretched out wearily on the moss and gazed for hours together into the bright, shimmering sky, into whose very depths one could see, when a strange and profound sense of joy thrilled me, I would suddenly think of the sick Maria - then I would get up and roam aimlessly about, overwhelmed by inexplicable thoughts and feel a dull pressure in my head and my heart which brought me to the verge of tears. At times when I walked in the evening along the dusty main street which was filled with the scent of the blossoming lime and watched whispering couples as they stood in the shadows of the trees; when I saw two people pressed close together as though they were one being, sauntering slowly beside the fountain as it quietly played in the moolight, and a feverish thrill of presentiment coursed through me as I thought of poor sick Maria; then I was seized by a quiet yearning for something inexplicable and all at once I saw myself strolling arm in arm with her in the shade of the fragrant lime trees. And a strange radiance shone from Maria's great dark eyes, and the moon made her slender little face appear still paler and more transparent. Then I fled upstairs into my attic, leaned against the window, looked up into the deep dark heavens where the stars appeared to have gone out and for hours abandoned myself to formless and confusing dreams until overcome by sleep. And yet - and yet I did not exchange so much as ten words with poor sick Maria. She never spoke. I would only sit at her side for hours gazing into her sick, suffering face, feeling ever and again that she must die. In the garden I lay in the grass and breathed in the fragrance of a thousand flowers; my eye was intoxicated by the gleaming colours of blossoms flooded with sunlight, and I listened too for the silence in the air above, interrupted only by the mating call of a bird. I sensed the ferment of the fruitful, torrid earth, that mysterious sound of ever-creative life. I could then darkly feel the greatness and beauty of life. Then it semed to me as if life belonged to me. But then my eye lit upon the bay-window of the house. I could see the sick Maria sitting there - silent and motionless and with closed eyes. And all my thinking was again drawn to the suffering of this being and remained there - became a painful but shyly conceded yearning which struck me as puzzling and confusing. And I left the garden timidly, silently, as though I had no right to linger in this temple.

When I was a very small boy, Halley’s comet visited our solar system. For a long time I did not see the giant in the sky because I was not permitted to remain up after sundown. My chums had seen it and had told me perfectly amazing things about it. Also I had heard of what were called “comet pills.” The theory was that if the pills were taken according to directions, then when the tail of the comet struck the earth one would not be consumed. One night I was awakened by my mother, who told me to dress quickly and come with her out into the backyard to see the comet. I shall never forget it if I live forever. My mother stood with me, her hand resting on my shoulder, while I, in utter, speechless awe, beheld the great spectacle with its fan of light spreading across the heavens. The silence was like that of absolute motion. Finally, after what seemed to me an interminable time interval, I found my speech. With bated breath I said, “What will happen to us if that comet falls out of the sky?” My mother’s silence was so long that I looked from the comet to her face, and there I beheld something in her countenance that I had seen only once before, when I came into her room and found her in prayer. When she spoke, she said, “Nothing will happen to us, Howard; God will take care of us.” O simplehearted mother of mine, in one glorious moment you put your heart on the ultimate affirmation of the human spirit! Many things have I seen since that night. Times without number I have learned that life is hard, as hard as crucible steel; but as the years have unfolded, the majestic power of my mother’s glowing words has come back again and again, beating out its rhythmic chant in my own spirit. Here are the faith and the awareness that overcome fear and transform it into the power to strive, to achieve, and not to yield.

Most of us Christians live as though Jesus is dead. The way we live our lives, …”Love thy neighbor as thyself..” Can we see that? Just Hate along the way… A quake of panic and our faith diminishes just at the sight of trouble; Turning Jesus’ teachings so lightly as though , it is a piece of fiction. Hating to hear the Truth of the Word , and try to synchronise the Word that fits us only, no more teachable, we do not take rebuking for our wrongs. Whatever the Bible has condemned as Sin, we try to manipulate it as to disprove the Bible and drag ourselves into the devil’s lie.. And many others… Jesus is not dead, He is alive!! And His coming is nearer, At the Blink of an Eye, and We will be struck in awe if His Return is today or tomorrow. There is still time to turn away from our sins and asking Him to come into our lives, into our Hearts ♥️. He loves and He cares, He’s just a prayer away..

the “small self” effect of awe arises in all eight wonders of life, and not just vast nature. Finding awe in encounters with moral beauty, for example, or music, or when struck by big ideas, quiets the voice of that interfering and nagging neurotic.

I’m struck by the fact there was nothing supernatural about my heightened perceptions that afternoon, nothing that I needed an idea of magic or a divinity to explain. No, all it took was another perceptual slant on the same old reality, a lens or mode of consciousness that invented nothing but merely (merely!) italicized the prose of ordinary experience, disclosing the wonder that is always there in a garden or wood, hidden in plain sight—another form of consciousness “parted from [us],” as William James put it, “by the filmiest of screens.” Nature does in fact teem with subjectivities—call them spirits if you like—other than our own; it is only the human ego, with its imagined monopoly on subjectivity, that keeps us from recognizing them all, our kith and kin. In this sense, I guess Paul Stamets is right to think the mushrooms are bringing us messages from nature, or at least helping us to open up and read them. Before this afternoon, I had always assumed access to a spiritual dimension hinged on one’s acceptance of the supernatural—of God, of a Beyond—but now I’m not so sure. The Beyond, whatever it consists of, might not be nearly as far away or inaccessible as we think. Huston Smith, the scholar of religion, once described a spiritually “realized being” as simply a person with “an acute sense of the astonishing mystery of everything.” Faith need not figure. Maybe to be in a garden and feel awe, or wonder, in the presence of an astonishing mystery, is nothing more than a recovery of a misplaced perspective, perhaps the child’s-eye view; maybe we regain it by means of a neurochemical change that disables the filters (of convention, of ego) that prevent us in ordinary hours from seeing what is, like those lovely leaves, staring us in the face. I don’t know. But if those dried-up little scraps of fungus taught me anything, it is that there are other, stranger forms of consciousness available to us, and, whatever they mean, their very existence, to quote William James again, “forbid[s] a premature closing of our accounts with reality.” Open-minded. And bemushroomed. That was me, now, ready to reopen my own accounts with reality.

Azriel grunted. “I’d still be careful.” With a wicked smile toward Az, Rhys used his power to draw away the black scabbard. It did not go easily, as if the sword did not wish to be revealed—or not by Rhysand. But inch by inch, the scabbard slid from the blade. And inch by inch, fresh steel glowed—truly glowed, like moonlight lay within the metal. Even Az didn’t school his features into anything but gaping awe as the scabbard fell away at last. Cassian stumbled back, gawking. Iridescent sparks danced along the blade. Pure, crackling magic. The light danced and spurted as if an invisible hammer still struck it. The hair on Cassian’s body rose. Rhys inhaled, rallying his magic, then floated and unsheathed the other sword and the dagger. They did not spark with raw power, but Cassian could feel them. The dagger radiated cold, its blade gleaming so bright it looked like an icicle in the sun. The second sword seemed hot—angry and willful. But the great sword between the two others … The sparks faded, as if sucked into the blade itself. None of them dared touch it. Something deep and primal within Cassian warned him not

I wait for the wave of fear and upset. The doom of reality at knowing I’ll bring another spoiled Royal into this world. It never comes. Instead, I’m struck by a sense of awe, protectiveness, and truth. I just see my baby boy. Our baby boy.

If you can look at a phenomenon of nature, and be struck by awe without being struck by superstition, know that you have finally grown up.

Uriel had seen Behemoth. Uriel was there at the creation and was privileged to be a part of the morning stars who sang praises to Elohim when he laid the foundation of the earth, struck its line, determined the measurements and sunk its bases. He had gloried when Elohim created a firmament in the midst of the waters to separate the waters above from the waters below. He watched with awe as Elohim made the waters swarm with great sea monsters like Rahab and Leviathan, and let the earth bring forth living creatures according to their kind, creeping things and beasts of the earth, including Behemoth. The irony was not lost on him that creation was both wonderful and fearsome.

Badrinath temple is brightly painted in red, green, yellow, blue with a multitude of decorations and lights, and its main entrance, the Singh dwar, always wears a festive look, unlike Kedarnath temple where the imposing stone structure alone, speaks volumes. Standing before the gaily decorated temple, I was struck with awe at having finally realized my dream of many years. To me it seemed, at that point of time, that I had completed my pilgrimage. Little did I know that this was just the beginning, of a greater inner journey, which was to last a lifetime and maybe, even beyond it, maybe, it had continued from another lifetime; the possibilities were enormous.

The Annapurna region, located in central Nepal, is renowned for its stunning mountain ranges, picturesque valleys, and diverse flora and fauna. The region is named after Annapurna, the tenth-highest mountain in the world. Trekking in the Annapurna region offers a blend of natural beauty, cultural encounters, and thrilling adventures. The trails in this region are well-developed and cater to trekkers of all experience levels. Highlights of the Annapurna region trek Trekking in the Annapurna region offers a multitude of highlights that will leave you awe-struck. One of the most popular treks in this region is the Annapurna Circuit, which takes you through lush green forests, quaint traditional villages, and high mountain passes. The trek offers breathtaking views of snow-capped peaks like Annapurna I, Dhaulagiri, and Machhapuchhre (Fishtail). Another highlight of this region is the Annapurna Base Camp trek, which takes you to the foot of the majestic Annapurna massif. The trek offers panoramic views of the surrounding peaks and a chance to immerse yourself in the unique culture of the local Gurung and Magar communities.

​​“What I feel for Sabine in this moment has nothing to do with games of power; to love her is to dance with the fire of the gods, fearless and forever bound by the heart. A fire I would willingly walk into to be at her side for a lifetime. I'm not intimidated by Sabine's power-I'm fucking awe-struck.

It was supernatural for me, too. As far as I’m concerned, your new nickname is Peter the Great. My flabber was most definitely gasted, sir.” “Not only was my flabber gasted, my awe was struck.” “It was?” “Also, my gob was smacked.