Blend In With Your Surroundings Quotes

He waited while Gilan and Will moved the cloaks experimentally, eyeing each other and studying the unusual colors, seeing how they would blend into the landscape of rock and desert that surrounded Al Shabah. All right, ladies," he said, "if you're finished with the fashion show, let's go meet the Wakir.

MY PEACE is like a shaft of golden Light shining on you continuously. During days of bright sunshine, it may blend in with your surroundings. On darker days, My Peace stands out in sharp contrast to your circumstances. See times of darkness as opportunities for My Light to shine in transcendent splendor.

When you love something like reading—or drawing or music or nature—it surrounds you with a sense of connection to something great. If you are lucky enough to know this, then your search for meaning involves whatever that Something is. It’s an alchemical blend of affinity and focus that takes us to a place within that feels as close as we ever get to “home.” It’s like pulling into our own train station after a long trip—joy, relief, a pleasant exhaustion.

When you love something like reading—or drawing or music or nature—it surrounds you with a sense of connection to something great. If you are lucky enough to know this, then your search for meaning involves whatever that Something is. It’s an alchemical blend of affinity and focus that takes us to a place within that feels as close as we ever get to “home.

When you love something like reading - or drawing or music or nature - it surrounds you with a sense of connection to something great. If you are lucky enough to know this, then your search for meaning involves whatever that Something is. It's an alchemical blend of affinity and focus that takes us to a place within that feels as close as we ever get to "home." It's like pulling into our own train station after a long trip - joy, relief, a pleasant exhaustion.

Dear God, I love this tree. I love the light filtering through the moss and the leaves. I love all your earth songs—the breeze rustling through the grass, the rhythm of crickets, the beating of wings. I love the rain water in the bird bath and the dragonflies that flit over it. I love the air so laden with moisture that the dew rains out of the tree and bathes my face. I love the artistic little prayers that the spiders weave through the woods. I love the way you blend daylight into darkness, how dusk softens the sharp edges of the world. I love the way the moon changes shape every night. I love the slope of your hills—horizons inside and out. I feel that I’m part of it, that it’s part of me. Here, surrounded and permeated by your creation, I feel you. I feel life. I know myself connected. O God, is there anything you’ve made that can’t pour life and healing into me? When I think of the simplicity and extravagance of creation, I want to bend down and write the word yes across the earth so that you can see it.

When I was younger, I remember taking pride in people’s well-meaning remarks: “You’re so lucky that no one would ever know!” or “You don’t even look like a guy!” or “Wow! You’re prettier than most ‘natural’ women!” They were all backhanded compliments, acknowledging my beauty while also invalidating my identity as a woman. To this day, I’m told in subtle and obvious ways that I am not “real,” meaning that I am not, nor will I ever be, a cis woman; therefore, I am fake. These thoughts surrounding identity, gender, bodies, and how we view, judge, and objectify all women brings me to the subject of “passing,” a term based on an assumption that trans people are passing as something that we are not. It’s rooted in the idea that we are not really who we say we are, that we are holding a secret, that we are living false lives. Examples of people “passing” in media, whether through race (Imitation of Life and Nella Larsen’s novel Passing), class (Catch Me if You Can and the reality show Joe Millionaire), or gender (Boys Don’t Cry and The Crying Game), are often portrayed as leading a life of tragic duplicity and as deceivers who will be punished harshly by society when their true identity is uncovered. This is no different for trans people who “pass” as their gender or, more accurately, are assumed to be cis or blend in as cis, as if that is the standard or norm. This pervasive thinking frames trans people as illegitimate and unnatural. If a trans woman who knows herself and operates in the world as a woman is seen, perceived, treated, and viewed as a woman, isn’t she just being herself? She isn’t passing ; she is merely being.

Imagine Jesus standing right beside you reassuring you of His love, one arm around your shoulder and a hand where you can see the nail scar. His glory surrounds you, and His beauty indwells you. His Spirit of love, grace, forgiveness, and joy fills you with peace. Your heart is so full of love and gratitude to Him for His love and grace that you no longer want anything less than His grace to fill your heart. You are partnering with Jesus in His mission to save the world, forgiving each person who has offended you, one at a time.

Gazebo Ottawa is a perfect element to add up in your garden or any other surroundings. It can be the focal point amidst your environment, giving you a sense of serenity. It’s a perfect blend as it provides shade as well as it is airy. Adding to your home space, gazebos are one of their kind which can be a part of your lifestyle throughout all seasons. In summer, it is shady.

When I was young, I lived for Oreo ice cream blended with Reese’s cups and Heath bars. But after a summer of working in an ice-cream shop surrounded by all the Oreo ice cream I could eat, not only did my obsession with the frozen dairy treat vanish, but also the mere thought of the stuff repulsed me.

wall against his back, then frowned as he heard a creaking sound coming from somewhere close by. He was about to investigate, when the house was plunged into darkness once again. * * * Ryan swung his car through the gates and was forced to reduce his speed along the narrow driveway, for which Phillips was eternally grateful. They followed the road over the little stone bridge next to the Archimedes screw and heard the water bubbling furiously through its crushing blades as they passed. They rounded a bend and the house materialised through the trees, its windows flaming brightly against the inky blue-black sky. “It doesn’t look real, does it?” Phillips said, his eyes trained on the perfect backdrop. “It’s not going to disappear before your eyes,” Ryan muttered. Then, in a moment of extreme irony, that is exactly what happened. The two men looked on in shock as the house seemed to disappear, its walls blending with the colour of the night sky and the trees surrounding it. CHAPTER 30 “What the hell?” Martin Henderson swore beneath his breath as the lights went out. He stepped away from the wall to begin feeling his way towards the doorway but the house was pitch black and he could barely see his own hand in front of his face. The circuit had blown again, he thought, which was hardly surprising when a couple of old crackpots insisted on living like Victorian throwbacks rather than relying on the National Grid like the rest of the known world. The sooner he could get away from here, the better. His fingers brushed against the architrave on the doorway and he began to retrace his steps using the wall as a guide, no longer concerned about keeping his meeting at nine o’clock. He only hoped the other person was having as much trouble as he was, finding their way through the maze of rooms in the old house. When his fingers touched nothing but air, he realised he’d reached the turning to lead him back into the small hallway outside the bedrooms and the morning room, and the lift shaft was somewhere over his left shoulder. Blind without any light source, Henderson’s other senses were heightened considerably. He shivered as he stepped in front of the doors to the lift shaft, feeling an icy breath of wind brush against his cheeks. His brain was slow to compute the fact and he did not realise the implication until it was too late. The doors were open. The figure stepped out in front of him, barely making a creak against the floorboards but it was enough to alert him to the presence of another. “For The Valiant,” they whispered. Two firm hands came up to thrust against his chest and

You could make yourself blend into the surroundings, the way Warren Reeves specialized in, painting your face and covering yourself with leaves or bark so you looked more like a bush than a human. However, this method had its limitations. It was very difficult to drop a radio receiver into a shoe on the beach when you were dressed like a bush. People tended to notice bushes wandering around.

Cause no matter what you do, you can't outgrow, out-lie, out-perform, out-play, out-run or, out-joke being different. And after a while it starts hurting like in your chest, being something you not. The older you get and the more you learn just how different you really are, you get tired of trying to blend in. You get lonely, even when you surrounded by people

Look, Dad. I’m okay. I like this girl. Everything’s normal. “Only my father,” I say to Tina, “would imagine that anyone could find paperwork arousing.” “What?” Her smile is a touch too wide, a little too faked. “Don’t tell me your media training didn’t cover this, either.” I set the stack of papers on the flat surface of my desk and gesture Tina to sit in the leather-bound executive chair. “What am I supposed to say, then? Come on, baby. It’s a nondisclosure agreement. You’ll like it. I promise.” She gives me an unimpressed look. “God,” she says. “And I thought you were supposed to be a good liar. That’s not how you do it.” She bites her lip and then she leans toward me. Her eyelashes sweep down, and when she talks, she lowers her voice toward sultry. “I don’t know, Blake.” She bites her lip and reaches gingerly for the papers, stroking her thumb along the edge. “It’s so…big. I’m not sure it will fit.” I almost choke. She looks up with a touch of a smile. Fuck. I started this. “We’ll go nice and slow.” I pull a chair beside her and sit down, and very slowly take a pen from the holder. “Tell me if it hurts and I can stop anytime. I promise.” “Be gentle.” I know we’re just joking. I know this doesn’t mean anything. Still, my body doesn’t know this is a show when I lean toward her. I don’t feel like I’m lying when I inhale the sent of her hair. It goes straight to my groin, a stab of lust. “Trust me,” I murmur. She’s sitting in my chair. She’s smaller than me and all that dark leather surrounds her, blending in with her hair. But when she looks up, tilting her head toward me, she doesn’t seem tiny. She pulls the first paper-clipped section of pages to her, glances at the first paragraph, and wrinkles her nose. “Ouch,” she says in a much less sensual tone of voice. “It hurts already.” “It basically says that if you tell anyone anything about Cyclone business, we get one of your kidneys,” I translate helpfully. “How sweet.” She hasn’t looked up from the document. “Do your lawyers know you summarize their forms like that?” “Disclose two things,” I say, “and we get two kidneys.” “Mmm. Playing rough. What happens if I disclose three? You shut down my dialysis machine?” “You get a commemorative Cyclone pen,” I say mock-seriously. “Come on. We’re not monsters.” She cracks a smile at that. She’s not one of those girls who always smiles, and that means that when she does smile, it means something. Her whole face lights up and my breath catches at the sight. I lean in, as if I could breathe in her amusement. But then she drops her head and goes back to reading. When she finishes, she signs with a flourish. “What’s next?” she says. “Bring it on.” I hand over the next few pages. She holds it up and looks at me. “Don’t lie to me, baby. I bet you make all the girls you bring in here sign this.” You know what? I have never before found SEC regulations this sexy. I lean close to her. “No way,” I murmur. “This is just for you.” “Really?” She manages that look of hurt skepticism so well. I reach out, almost touching her cheek—until I remember that this isn’t real. “No,” I whisper back. “Not really. Everyone does sign it; it’s company policy.” “Oh, too bad.” She’s still reading the page. “I was hoping you had a selective disclosure just for me.” Selective, I realize, is a sexy word when drawn out the way she does it, her tongue touching her lips on the l sound. So is disclosure. “I can disclose,” I hear myself saying. “Selectively.” “Maybe you can give it to me in a material and nonpublic place.” I lean toward her. “You know me. I put the inside in insider trading.” She’s still holding the pen poised above the paper. I touch my finger to the cap and then slowly slide it down the barrel until my hand meets hers. A shock of electricity hits me, followed by a jolt of lust.

You Were" I am the one standing in the rain, invisible beside you. I am the one in the dirt which is now turning to mud around my feet. I am the one weighed down by each of our partings and the one lifted up by each meeting, reachings that could not be completed, that nevertheless held up the force of their hunger. And, yes, you were always a seeking, an unknown, a mystery to me. And not less that I to myself— beginner that I have become all over again on the paths and mountain slopes of this journey. I watch my mind watch each moment in its passage, it fades into, blends, with what came before. Nothing remains as it was in the mind after the path has been seen and walked upon, there is always the next thing arriving as if from behind, catching up with one’s sight, surrounding. And all the while the snows of memory are falling, covering the roads of the present. The past overflows this moment without meaning to, just as your face is more real in my remembering than this present one sitting next to me, just as each of us hurt the other without intending it. And after a time we thought experience might bring us to calm, and we see we are standing in the river of passing, each waiting for the warmth of the other’s face, unable to understand why they are not with us, startled by their absence, traveler and traveler distant as two dots unconnected in a yellow field. The American Poetry Review Vol. 28, No. 3, May/June 1999

It’s time you started building your tribe. But if I can make a suggestion?” I cleared my throat, still clogged with emotion. “Go right ahead, all tips are welcome.” “Stay away from the normals.” “The normals?” “Yep.” She nodded once, the side of her mouth hitching in a way that reminded me of Cletus. “Stay away from the normals, the small-minded people who fill their brains with small-minded pursuits, who blend in and keep up with the Joneses. Those people will tear you down and make you boring. Instead, surround yourself with the weirds. With the misfits, oddballs, and outcasts. Because the normals, bless their hearts, have no idea how to have fun.

The flat brown fields of Louisiana quickly give way to green wooded hills, and somewhere to our left, beyond the lush forest, rolls the great brown river. I cannot smell it yet, but I feel it, a subtle disturbance in the earth’s magnetic field, a fluid force that shapes the surrounding land and souls. I roll down the window and suck in the life smell of hardwood forest, creek water, kudzu, bush-hogged wildflowers, and baking earth. The competing aromas blend into a heady gestalt you couldn’t find in Houston if you grid-searched every inch of it on your hands and knees.

series of torches surrounded the curved opening of a large pit, the opening of the Abyss. The high priestess from earlier stood on the opposite side of the pit, before an entourage of twelve nymphs, all seductively alluring in translucent gowns and jewelry. The priestess wore a headdress of gems on her raven black hair. Her purple robe, made from the finest of Phoenician silks, flowed behind her like a spirit. Her eyes were large, deep brown and hypnotic. Her beauty was beguiling. When she spoke, her voice sounded like seven voices blended into one bewitching unity. “Welcome to the Gates of Hades, Son of God,” she said. “And your ass-kissing suck-upssss.” Her “esses” slid through the air like the serpents that wrapped around her arms and neck. Jesus stared her down. She faltered and visibly shivered, but regained her composure and approached him. “What is your name, woman?” “I am the Ob of Paniassss.

Nothing I do to describe these experiences can possibly convey the emotions that went with them. If there were a drug that could reproduce the same effect, I would be on that drug right now, and damn the side effects. Imagine a blend of all your favorite things: ice cream, sex, white sandy beaches, Beethoven’s symphonies, all those happy times with your Garden-Weasel, the whole nine yards. Picture these experiences combined, boiled down into their most concentrated elements of pure joy, then multiplied by trillions and injected into every one of your cells. That might begin to help you imagine what I felt when the sense of Something Bigger emerged in the hurricane’s eye of my life, surrounded by events that were otherwise completely devastating. The peace and joy were so dazzling, so potent, that I thought they would never fade.

Bown explains. He told Justin about a pattern he had noticed among people who had done multimonth stints in complete isolation in nature. After ten days, time starts to distort. You begin to lose the awareness of what day it is, or exactly how many days have passed since you began. Around twenty-five days in, you begin to lose the habit of compressing thoughts into words, and your internal monologue evaporates. You run on intuition. At forty days, you enter into a kind of dream state in which days and nights blend together; you dream when you’re awake, and you’re aware of reality when you sleep. At sixty-five days, Bown told Justin, you begin to become more aware of the natural processes around you. You start to notice the life cycles of birds and animals and even subtle changes in plants fluctuating by day or night, in cool weather or hot. But the biggest change after two months is that you lose your “self.” Your sense of being an individual relating to a community or society fades, and you become just another aspect of the nature that surrounds you.