Blooms Inspirational Quotes

The flower that blooms in adversity is the rarest and most beautiful of all.

Life is painful. It has thorns, like the stem of a rose. Culture and art are the roses that bloom on the stem. The flower is yourself, your humanity. Art is the liberation of the humanity inside yourself.

Keep good company, read good books, love good things and cultivate soul and body as faithfully as you can.

And like a colorful bloom of temporary lights in the sky, you will shine.

the moment you don't feel like praying, get on your knees. And the moment you don't feel like reading your bible, you'd better get that Book open.

I am in awe of flowers. Not because of their colors, but because even though they have dirt in their roots, they still grow. They still bloom.

When one flower blooms spring awakens everywhere

You are beautiful like demolition. Just the thought of you draws my knuckles white. I don’t need a god. I have you and your beautiful mouth, your hands holding onto me, the nails leaving unfelt wounds, your hot breath on my neck. The taste of your saliva. The darkness is ours. The nights belong to us. Everything we do is secret. Nothing we do will ever be understood; we will be feared and kept well away from. It will be the stuff of legend, endless discussion and limitless inspiration for the brave of heart. It’s you and me in this room, on this floor. Beyond life, beyond morality. We are gleaming animals painted in moonlit sweat glow. Our eyes turn to jewels and everything we do is an example of spontaneous perfection. I have been waiting all my life to be with you. My heart slams against my ribs when I think of the slaughtered nights I spent all over the world waiting to feel your touch. The time I annihilated while I waited like a man doing a life sentence. Now you’re here and everything we touch explodes, bursts into bloom or burns to ash. History atomizes and negates itself with our every shared breath. I need you like life needs life. I want you bad like a natural disaster. You are all I see. You are the only one I want to know.

Withhold a smile only when the smile can hurt someone. Otherwise, let it bloom forth in a riot.

I hope you will go out and let stories, that is life, happen to you,and that you will work with these stories from your life--not someone else's life--water them with your blood and tears and your laughter till they bloom, till you yourself burst into bloom. That is the work. The only work.

You need to be buried deep in the dirt before you can find your bloom.

Writing is.... being able to take something whole and fiercely alive that exists inside you in some unknowable combination of thought, feeling, physicality, and spirit, and to then store it like a genie in tense, tiny black symbols on a calm white page. If the wrong reader comes across the words, they will remain just words. But for the right readers, your vision blooms off the page and is absorbed into their minds like smoke, where it will re-form, whole and alive, fully adapted to its new environment.

Everyone wants a prodigy to fail; it makes our mediocrity more bearable.

Roses do not bloom hurriedly; for beauty, like any masterpiece, takes time to blossom.

As the earth dies your spirit will bloom; as the world fades your soul will rise and glisten. Amongst the dehydrated crevices of a desert earth you will stumble upon your diamonds; in between the dry skulls and cracked bones you will find your sapphires.

Where flowers bloom so does hope.

A flower does not use words to announce its arrival to the world; it just blooms.

The Lotus in Buddhism is a sacred symbol that represents purity and resurrection as attributes that develop through a spiritual awakening of the self. With humble beginnings in swamplands, the Lotus flower exquisitely blooms, pure and untainted, from this murky world it thrives in. The Lotus flower represents a higher state of mind, a strong spirit cultivated far from the suffering and temptations of this muddied world that personifies beauty through the present moment.

A flower blooms best in a happy pot.

Love yourself, even a little bit each day, and your life will bloom into infinite joy.

From the tattered edges of an exhausted mind, inspiration blooms... mental filters disintegrate and walls crumble, as the ocean of creativity washes over everything.

As the flower blooms in spring, compassion grows in mindfulness.

Meditation is blossoming of the prefrontal cortex to overcome the momentum of the nature. It is coming out of the loops of memories, patterns,fears, dreams and anger.

I think that the best kind of change, is the change that comes from the inside and begins it's way out until it emerges on the outside; a change that is born underneath then continues and spreads until it has reached the surface. That's a true change. A powerful change. And I have found that while we are emerging, changing into something glorious; it is actually us becoming who we really are. A water lily is born underneath the water, inside the soil at the bottom of the river or lake. And the water lily has always been a water lily for that whole time that it was sprouting out of the wet soil, reaching up through the dark water towards the sunlight, stretching and grasping for the surface; where it then buds and blooms on the outside in the sunshine. It doesn't bud and bloom on the surface and then try to reach down below into the soil.

Transformation doesn’t ask that you stop being you. It demands that you find a way back to the authenticity and strength that’s already inside of you. You only have to bloom.

Nourish your eye and spirit with inspiring things. They will bloom with your tending.

The art and passion of reading well and deeply is waning, but [Jane] Austen still inspires people to become fanatical readers.

But just remember: a woman's like a rose; if you treat her right, she'll bloom, if you don't, she'll wilt.

Maybe just...Don't try to be what you think you should be. Be what you love.

Every flower blooms in its own time.

Bloom as if you want to make the whole world beautiful.

Today might be the day to grasp the chance to let your talent bloom. Maybe tomorrow, the day after, or next year...Maybe even when you're thirty...But if you think it'll never come, it probably never will.

The beauty of a morning glory, is that of its patient wait for the sun to bloom in the morning!

If beautiful lilies bloom in ugly waters, you too can blossom in ugly situations.

In the garden of my heart Flowers of loves were blooming Not just to express the beauty But to spread the fragrance Of happiness.

If you tend to a flower, it will bloom, no matter how many weeds surround it.

Happiness will bloom With fragrance and beauty If you plant the seeds of love With a deep driving desire in the garden of hope And nurture with tenderness, Compassion, and care; If you are always eager to share.

Don’t deny the dreams. They’re a gift given to make your life full. Accept them. Reach for them. We are not here just to endure hard times until we die. We are here to live, to serve, to trust, and to create out of our longings.

What a strange thing it is to wake up to a milk-white overcast June morning! The sun is hidden by a thick cotton blanket of clouds, and the air is vapor-filled and hazy with a concentration of blooming scent. The world is somnolent and cool, in a temporary reprieve from the normal heat and radiance. But the sensation of illusion is strong. Because the sun can break through the clouds at any moment . . . What a soft thoughtful time. In this illusory gloom, like a night-blooming flower, let your imagination bloom in a riot of color.

There are only two emotions. Love and fear.... Love and fear is all there is == Everything else is just an offshoot motivated by those two.

It was in my flaws, I found a much deeper truth and it is from them, I bloom ..a black rose.

Most of the great evil in the world happens not at the hands of malice, but of fear. Because good people, the ones who would do the right thing, don’t do it, out of that fear.

Be the gardener of love and joy, Happiness will bloom in your garden.

Fear is like a weed in a garden. Once you allow it to take root, it spreads, replicating itself, until, eventually, it chokes out all the other life there. Trust, love, kindness – none of those things can ever really bloom in a garden of fear.

When I see a dancing butterfly, When I see a half blooming flower, Their eager wish to make this world happy, My mind dances with joy, My soul emerges in happiness.

Be like a rose; no matter how many thorns you encounter in life, bloom.

Despite the heart numbing frost, my soul is blooming like spring.

Let happiness bloom In the freshness of your mind, In the gentle wind of your thoughts. On the ground of kindness and compassion.

Bloom like a flower; unfold your own beauty.

Nothing's ever all bad if you think hard enough about it.

Read. Read until your eyes are sore. Then read some more.

The more I love, the more flowers bloom in my heart.

Be an educator, bloom like a flower, be a philosopher.

Plant the trees just for beauty, If flowers bloom or fruits ripen, Enjoy it as a gift and appreciate nature as a universal giver.

Come out of the don'ts and impossibles. Manifest your dream. Bloom your worth.

You don’t have to remind a flower when its time to bloom is near; it has been preparing for it all of its life.

In a fruitless year, take a fearless heart Those who bloom late will light sparks through the dark

A flower must bloom inside first before revealing its beauty to the world.

Dad they think she has Down Syndrome." He smiled genuinely as his eyes welled up with tears. "That's okay. We love her.

Hope is a flower bud in the garden of the mind, waiting to bloom in the morning sun.

Like a flower, be soft, loving, kind, and beautiful, but never lose the courage to bloom.

Vision is defined as a program for restoring the human.

Spring is the time to bloom like a flower with all our beauty. It is the time to spread the fragrance of our love and fill the air with joy.

Flowers that bloom in the winter may not survive till spring.

Once the roots of love have grown deep and firm, the flowers will keep on blooming!

Let us never get so jaded by the complexities of life that we forget the sweetness, pureness, innocence of love at first bloom.

You’ve got to plant flowers in the center of your soul if you want to bloom.

The living are always trying to find the shortcuts to happiness in life. But look what happens when someone achieves premature success: they bloom too early and spend the rest of their lives dying....Success without struggle warps a person.

A star will shine in the midst of darkness. A flower will bloom in the midst of dirt. A camel will flourish in the midst of drought. A diamond will form in the midst of pressure. A champion will rise in the midst of hardship.

You may think the actions that mean the most are the ones we get credit for, but I happen to believe they mean more when people aren't aware.

Let us bloom like a flower, by opening our heart and mind, by smiling and by becoming kind.

Open your heart; open your mind. Let love bloom; let’s be kind.

Thorns do not keep a rose from blooming, neither should obstacles keep you from success.

Dreams are the flowers of imagination which bloom on the fertile grounds of the mind.

The earth is gentle. And the earth allows the flowers to bloom. We need to be gentle. And the flowers will bloom in our life.

Today I woke up! Someone else saw their last day yesterday. That is all I need to know to make this day great.

Life is giving you another chance to plant your seeds. Take care of them by watering them, nurturing them throughout all seasons, and watch your flowers bloom.” ~Love is respect ♥~

Do not let the world tell you not to bloom Just because they aren't ready for you Just because few days after they bloomed They died on a barren land, in the rain You may face the same fate But deep down you would know It's better to die blooming Than choosing to never grow...

...I love dandelions. They make me feel like sunshine itself, and you will always see some creature resting on an open bloom, if you have a little patience to wait. This vital source for all emerging pollinators is a blast of uplifting yellow to brighten even the greyest of days. It stands tall and proud, unlike all the others opening and swaying in the breeze. The odd one out.

Like flowers we grow, bloom, and whither - each day and each life. In our next life we'll grow, bloom, and whither even more beautifully. But although we blossom more grandiose in each new life, all our lives are perfect in their own way.

Morning sunrise wakes me up with rays of hope. Clouds of fear can hide the sun but not for long. If rays of hope are strong and patience is a song, then hope will bloom and rain will bring a rainbow.

I love autumn despite the drench weather. I think it symbolises the end of misery and the beginning of glee. It gives hopes that sooner or later, flowers will bloom again, green buds will sprout from trees, and that which is dead will come back alive.

There's as much benefit to wishing the world away as there is in demanding a bud to bloom," responded Iphigenia as she patted Prue's hand gently. "It's better to live presently. By living thus, perhaps we can learn to understand the nature of this fragile coexistence we share with the world around us.

To him, she was like a flower that bloomed in the snow. Thriving under conditions in which nothing could grow. To some, she was a weed born benighted. But in his eyes, she was a wildflower with a soul ignited.

[Jürgen Habermas' obituary to friend and philosopher, Richard Rorty] One small autobiographical piece by Rorty bears the title 'Wild Orchids and Trotsky.' In it, Rorty describes how as a youth he ambled around the blooming hillside in north-west New Jersey, and breathed in the stunning odour of the orchids. Around the same time he discovered a fascinating book at the home of his leftist parents, defending Leon Trotsky against Stalin. This was the origin of the vision that the young Rorty took with him to college: philosophy is there to reconcile the celestial beauty of orchids with Trotsky's dream of justice on earth. Nothing is sacred to Rorty the ironist. Asked at the end of his life about the 'holy', the strict atheist answered with words reminiscent of the young Hegel: 'My sense of the holy is bound up with the hope that some day my remote descendants will live in a global civilization in which love is pretty much the only law.

Some people misunderstand evil and believe it will relent, and because their misplaced hope inspires dark hearts to dream darker dreams, they are the fathers and mothers of all wars. Evil does not relent; it must be defeated. And even when defeated, uprooted, and purified by fire, evil leaves behind a seed that will one day germinate and, in blooming, again be misunderstood.

Because it has lived its life intensely the parched grass still attracts the gaze of passers-by. The flowers merely flower, and they do this as well as they can. The white lily, blooming unseen in the valley, Does not need to explain itself to anyone; It lives merely for beauty. Man, however, cannot accept that 'merely'. If tomatoes wanted to be melons, they would look completely ridiculous. I am always amazed that so many people are concerned with wanting to be what they are not; what's the point of making yourself look ridicuolous? You don't always have to pretend to be strong, there's no need to prove all the time that everything is going well, you shouldn't be concerned about what other people are thinking, cry if you need to, it's good to cry out all your tears (because only then will you be able to smile again).

The moon shines in my body, but my blind eyes cannot see it: The moon is within me, and so is the sun. The unstruck drum of Eternity is sounded within me; but my deaf ears cannot hear it. So long as man clamors for the I and the Mine, his works are as naught: When all love of the I and the Mine is dead, then the work of the Lord is done. For work has no other aim than the getting of knowledge: When that comes, then work is put away. The flower blooms for the fruit: when the fruit comes, the flower withers. The musk is in the deer, but is seeks it not within itself: it wanders in quest of grass.

Tomorrow’s flower is today’s seed. And it’s okay that the seed is not a flower yet. It’s okay that it has a bit of a process to undertake before it blooms. There’s nothing wrong with the seed right now. It’s exactly what it’s supposed to be in this moment. And so are you.

Yesterday it was sun outside. The sky was blue and people were lying under blooming cherry trees in the park. It was Friday, so records were released, that people have been working on for years. Friends around me find success and level up, do fancy photo shoots and get featured on big, white, movie screens. There were parties and lovers, hand in hand, laughing perfectly loud, but I walked numbly through the park, round and round, 40 times for 4 hours just wanting to make it through the day. There's a weight that inhabits my chest some times. Like a lock in my throat, making it hard to breathe. A little less air got through and the sky was so blue I couldn’t look at it because it made me sad, swelling tears in my eyes and they dripped quietly on the floor as I got on with my day. I tried to keep my focus, ticked off the to-do list, did my chores. Packed orders, wrote emails, paid bills and rewrote stories, but the panic kept growing, exploding in my chest. Tears falling on the desk tick tick tick me not making a sound and some days I just don't know what to do. Where to go or who to see and I try to be gentle, soft and kind, but anxiety eats you up and I just want to be fine. This is not beautiful. This is not useful. You can not do anything with it and it tries to control you, throw you off your balance and lovely ways but you can not let it. I cleaned up. Took myself for a walk. Tried to keep my eyes on the sky. Stayed away from the alcohol, stayed away from the destructive tools we learn to use. the smoking and the starving, the running, the madness, thinking it will help but it only feeds the fire and I don't want to hurt myself anymore. I made it through and today I woke up, lighter and proud because I'm still here. There are flowers growing outside my window. The coffee is warm, the air is pure. In a few hours I'll be on a train on my way to sing for people who invited me to come, to sing, for them. My own songs, that I created. Me—little me. From nowhere at all. And I have people around that I like and can laugh with, and it's spring again. It will always be spring again. And there will always be a new day.

Sunflowers, Not Facing the Sun (A Poem) I stand tall As gracious as one could be Blooming to my best As slender as it touches my being Everyone else is facing the sun Bending towards its unfathomable galore They and I are both undoubtedly Grown on the benevolence of life’s essence The brighter side mercilessly feeding desires unbound By daunting the “courage to know” with each spin Though, I am not able to face the sun the way they do Yet, I learn from the knowledge bred within me Beyond achievement markers, but an adverse ability An opportunity to exercise my special self From the cherubic attire of my blessed soul To the unfathomable mystery the drape of this world hides That I, by not facing the sun Hunt the gems in the milieu of the human existence

When you find yourself falling into the pit of anxiety, remember the ladder of hope that reminds you there is no reason to be afraid. There is still a way out of this, and you are still capable—not perfect, but capable—and you have permission to try to climb again. Even if your hands shake, and your knees are weaker from the fall, you can still trade your fears of tomorrow with hope for today: the courageous decision to climb on anyway out of the pit of anxious thoughts. There is no reason to live afraid.

Love was her nature 
 and that’s why the sun 
 sets behind her smile,
t hat’s why her eyes drown entire oceans,
 that’s why her laughter
 calms the rain,
 when her love pours
 and heals all the pain,
 when storms, winds
 whisper her name,
 when touching her lips
 feels like a hurricane.
 she makes broken
 bloom in her light,
 she’s the sun to
 my dark nights,
 she’s nature, wild and free,
 loving her, is healing me.

We are nature. Our bodies carry its swimming waters. We are made of the soil and eat the plants that grow from it. From dust to dust we come and go. Each time I bring my hands to my heart in prayer, flowing my body with my breath, it is devotional, a dance with the earth and of the earth. I dance with every tree, sway with the wind, bloom with every flower in my being. My breath, Mother Earth, is yours. —the whole planet is in me

She bleeds poetry. She is an old soul. She has already existed since the day the Earth gave birth to nature. She felt the sweet caress of the wind touch her skin and the silent cries of night. She heard the screaming of thunder as the lightning bolt stabbed the heart of the weeping sky. She saw everything bloom and heard a soft sound of relief as they threw their burdens into the listening earth. She is strong enough to bear it all as time changes and has learned to live with the pain of losing and winning. She can't be defeated, nor be broken. She'll continue to live again and again. And if someone were to break her down or break her heart, she couldn't be shaken. She'll stand up and let poetry bleed into her. She's rare and SHE IS ME.

I think that the most beautiful of people are like exquisite serpents— glorious sheen, glorious patterns and elaborate grace— but you do wrong to cast envy upon them, lest you want to also taste of the venom they carry in their mouthes! Beauty is so often born from adversity of circumstance, like the lotus born of the mud, reaching up through the water and into the light! I often wake up from dreams of being underwater, I suppose I am a lotus flower that has made her way! But you do wrong to envy the lotus blossom, for you know not of her journey! Not all of us are serpents and lotus flowers, not all of us are beautiful like that; too many people just sit there, ignorantly casting envy on what they do not even comprehend!

Do More… Do more than exist—live.      Do more than hear—listen.           Do more than agree—cooperate. Do more than talk—communicate.      Do more than grow—bloom.           Do more than spend—invest. Do more than think—create.      Do more than work—excel.           Do more than share—give. Do more than decide—discern.      Do more than consider—commit.           Do more than forgive—forget. Do more than help—serve.      Do more than coexist—reconcile.           Do more than sing—worship. Do more than think—plan.      Do more than dream—do.           Do more than see—perceive. Do more than read—apply.      Do more than receive—reciprocate.           Do more than choose—focus. Do more than wish—believe.      Do more than advise—help.           Do more than speak—impart. Do more than encourage—inspire.      Do more than add—multiply.           Do more than change—improve. Do more than reach—stretch.      Do more than ponder—pray.           Do more than just live—live for Jesus.

To write, to be able to write, what does it mean? It means spending long hours dreaming before a white page, scribbling unconsciously, letting your pen play round a blot of ink and nibble at a half-formed word, scratching it, making it bristle with darts and adorning it with antennae and paws until it loses all resemblance to a legible word and turns into a fantastic insect or a fluttering creature half butterfly, half fairy. To write is to sit and stare, hypnotized, at the reflection of the window in the silver ink-stand, to feel the divine fever mounting to one's cheeks and forehead while the hand that writes grows blissfully numb upon the paper. It also means idle hours curled up in the hollow of the divan, and then the orgy of inspiration from which one emerges stupefied and aching all over, but already recompensed and ladened with treasures that one unloads slowly on to the virgin page in the little round pool of light under the lamp. To write is to pour one's innermost self passionately upon the tempting paper, at such frantic speed that sometimes one's hand struggles and rebels, overdriven by the impatient god who guides it — and to find, next day, in place of the golden bough that bloomed miraculously in that dazzling hour, a withered bramble and a stunted flower. To write is the joy and torment of the idle. Oh to write! From time to time I feel a need, sharp as thirst in summer, to note and to describe. And then I take up my pen again and attempt the perilous and elusive task of seizing and pinning down, under its flexible double-pointed jib, the many-hued, fugitive, thrilling adjective.… The attack does not last long; it is but the itching of an old scar.

Please Call Me By My True Names Don’t say that I will depart tomorrow— even today I am still arriving. Look deeply: every second I am arriving to be a bud on a Spring branch, to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings, learning to sing in my new nest, to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower, to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone. I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry, to fear and to hope. The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death of all that is alive. I am a mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river. And I am the bird that swoops down to swallow the mayfly. I am a frog swimming happily in the clear water of a pond. And I am the grass-snake that silently feeds itself on the frog. I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones, my legs as thin as bamboo sticks. And I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to Uganda. I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat, who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea pirate. And I am also the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving. I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my hands. And I am the man who has to pay his “debt of blood” to my people dying slowly in a forced-labor camp. My joy is like Spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth. My pain is like a river of tears, so vast it fills the four oceans. Please call me by my true names, so I can hear all my cries and laughter at once, so I can see that my joy and pain are one. Please call me by my true names, so I can wake up and the door of my heart could be left open, the door of compassion.

THE ANTHEM OF HOPE Tiny footprints in mud, metal scraps among thistles Child who ambles barefooted through humanity’s war An Elderflower in mud, landmines hidden in bristles Blood clings to your feet, your wee hands stiff and sore You who walk among trenches, midst our filth and our gore Box of crayons in hand, your tears tumble like crystals Gentle, scared little boy, at the heel of Hope Valley, The grassy heel of Hope Valley. And the bombs fall-fall-fall Down the slopes of Hope Valley Bayonets cut-cut-cut Through the ranks of Hope Valley Napalm clouds burn-burn-burn All who fight in Hope Valley, All who fall in Hope Valley. Bullets fly past your shoulder, fireflies light the sky Child who digs through the trenches for his long sleeping father You plant a kiss on his forehead, and you whisper goodbye Vain corpses, brave soldiers, offered as cannon fodder Nothing is left but a wall; near its pallor you gather Crayon ready, you draw: the memory of a lie Kind, sad little boy, sketching your dream of Hope Valley Your little dream of Hope Valley. Missiles fly-fly-fly Over the fields of Hope Valley Carabines shoot-shoot-shoot The brave souls of Hope Valley And the tanks shell-shell-shell Those who toiled for Hope Valley, Those who died for Hope Valley. In the light of gunfire, the little child draws the valley Every trench is a creek; every bloodstain a flower No battlefield, but a garden with large fields ripe with barley Ideations of peace in his dark, final hour And so the child drew his future, on the wall of that tower Memories of times past; your tiny village lush alley Great, brave little boy, the future hope of Hope Valley The only hope of Hope Valley. And the grass grows-grows-grows On the knolls of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom Across the hills of Hope Valley The midday sun shines-shines-shines On the folk of Hope Valley On the dead of Hope Valley From his Aerodyne fleet The soldier faces the carnage Uttering words to the fallen He commends their great courage Across a wrecked, tower wall A child’s hand limns the valley And this drawing speaks volumes Words of hope, not of bally He wipes his tears and marvels The miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley And the grass grows-grows-grows Midst all the dead of Hope Valley Daffodils bloom-bloom-bloom For all the dead of Hope Valley The evening sun sets-sets-sets On the miracle of Hope Valley The only miracle of Hope Valley (lyrics to "the Anthem of Hope", a fictional song featured in Louise Blackwick's Neon Science-Fiction novel "5 Stars".