Bright Sunny Day Quotes

The ship of my life may or may not be sailing on calm and amiable seas. The challenging days of my existence may or may not be bright and promising. Stormy or sunny days, glorious or lonely nights, I maintain an attitude of gratitude. If I insist on being pessimistic, there is always tomorrow. Today I am blessed.

Perhaps ... To R.A.L. Perhaps some day the sun will shine again, And I shall see that still the skies are blue, And feel one more I do not live in vain, Although bereft of you. Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet, Will make the sunny hours of spring seem gay, And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet, Though You have passed away. Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright, And crimson roses once again be fair, And autumn harvest fields a rich delight, Although You are not there. But though kind Time may many joys renew, There is one greatest joy I shall not know Again, because my heart for loss of You Was broken, long ago.

You’re my safe harbor in an endless stormy sea. You’re my shady willow on a sunny day. You’re sweet music in a distant room. You’re unexpected cake on a rainy day. You’re my bright penny on the roadside, you are worth more than the moon on the long night walk. You are sweet wine in my mouth, a song in my throat and laughter in my heart.

London on a gloomy and rainy day is still better than Paris on a bright and sunny day.

What a bright sunny day, and I don't know what to say...

But Margaret was at an age when any apprehension, not absolutely based on a knowledge of facts, is easily banished for a time by a bright sunny day, or some happy outward circumstance. And when the brilliant fourteen fine days of October came on, her cares were all blown away as lightly as thistledown, and she thought of nothing but the glories of the forest.

Once he went into the mountains on a clear, sunny day, and wandered about for a long time with a tormenting thought that refused to take shape. Before him was the shining sky, below him the lake, around him the horizon, bright and infinite, as if it went on forever. For a long time he looked and suffered. He remembered now how he had stretched out his arms to that bright, infinite blue and wept. What had tormented him was that he was a total stranger to it all. What was this banquet, what was this great everlasting feast, to which he had long been drawn, always, ever since childhood, and which he could never join? Every morning the same bright sun rises; every morning there is a rainbow over the waterfall; every evening the highest snowcapped mountain, there, far away, at the edge of the sky, burns with a crimson flame; every little fly that buzzes near him in a hot ray of sunlight participates in this whole chorus: knows its place, loves it, and is happy; every little blade of grass grows and is happy! And everything has its path, and everything knows its path, goes with a song and comes back with a song; only he knows nothing, understands nothing, neither people nor sounds, a stranger to everything and a castaway.

For no good reason, he thought of Xhex. Xhex was a thunderstorm made up of hues of black and iron gray, power leashed but no less lethal for its control. Cormia was a sunny day cast in rainbow of brightness. He put his hand over his heart and bowed to her, then left. As he started up for his room, he wondered whether he liked the storm or the sunshine better.

Become like the sun. If you do so, all darkness will be dispelled. No matter what happens, live confidently with the conviction that you, yourself are the “sun.” Of course, in life there are sunny days and cloudy days. But even on cloudy days, the sun is still there. Even when you are suffering, it is vital that you strive to keep the sun shining brightly in your heart.

London on a gloomy and rainy day is still better than San Francisco on a bright and sunny day.

But Benny was already walking through the doors and into the bright sunny day, pulling the bottle from his shirt and thrusting it at his father: terrified, astonished, ready for his love.

The news did not trouble her particularly; all news was bad, like wage demands, strikes, or war, and the wise person paid no attention to it. What was important was that it was a bright, sunny day; her first narcissi were in bloom, and the daffodils behind them were already showing flower buds.

There is something beautiful about a sunny winter day, A break from harsh gray skies and harsh cold winds, A bright warm sun and clear blue skies instead.

After that exercise, the ship of my life might or might not be sailing on calm seas. The challenging days of my existence might or might not be bright and promising. From that encounter on, whether my days are stormy or sunny and if my nights are glorious or lonely, I maintain an attitude of gratitude. If pessimism insists on occupying my thoughts, I remember there is always tomorrow. Today I am blessed.

I am a sanguinely optimistic person, I see the bright side, the silver lining, a half-full glass. Hence, my day is always sunny even though the sky foreboding.

Flowers are pretty stupid. See, it's a bright, sunny day out, right? Well, with this watering can, I can make them think it's raining. It's fun to mess with their minds.

She is wearing her black dress. She isn’t crying, but she never did cry, anyhow. It’s a bright sunny day and she’s like a black shadow creeping down the empty street.

God...made childhood joyous, full of life, bubbling over with laughter, playful, bright and sunny. We should put into their childhood days just as much sunshine and gladness, just as much cheerful pleasure as possible. Pour in the sunshine about them in youth. Let them be happy, encourage all innocent joy, provide pleasant games for them, romp and play with them; be a child again among them. Then God's blessing will come upon your home, and your children will grow up sunny-hearted, gentle, affectionate, joyous themselves and joy-bearers to the world.

If I were making up a story, I would have it gray and miserable outside, but it was sunny and miserable instead, glaringly bright and bitterly cold, as if the sky could not decide if it was in a good mood or would spend all day growling. I didn’t mind this kind of weather, weather that cannot make up its mind, because I am often the same way, or at least I think I am. I don’t know.

After that exercise, the ship of my life might or might not be sailing on calm seas. The challenging days of my existence might or might not be bright or promising. From that encounter on, whether my days are stormy or sunny and if my nights are glorious or lonely, I maintain an attitude of gratitude. If pessimism insists on occupying my thoughts, I remember there is always tomorrow.

I'm Looking forward to summer. If you miss it don't look back but try to bring sunny days into your life instead.

I was on South Bank one day by the Royal Festival Hall. It was a sunny day with a bright blue sky. I was looking up at a train crossing the Hungerford Bridge. Through the train I could see the sky successively framed by each window as the carriage passed. Each window moving quickly forward and away held briefly a rectangle of blue. The windows passing, the blue remained.

It was a slow day, bright and sunny, the type of day people wanted to be running around outside, not browsing the shelves of a bookstore. Not that Hazel understood that line of reasoning. She always wanted to be browsing the shelves of a bookstore.

People often wondered what it was that made her so very compelling. Why she drew people in again and again? It wasn’t her beauty or her talent, though many, including myself, found those impossible to argue. I believe it was because she refused to deny the storm of her. She wasn’t all sunny days and brightness, and she knew it. Most people shy away from their own darkness, but she cast it across the sky without shame and it turns out none of us could resist the raw truth of that. - for women who harness the storm

Usually, we think of an apple as being red. This is not the same red as that of a cherry or tomato. A lemon is yellow and an orange like that of its name. Bricks vary from beige to yellow to orange, and from ochre to brown to deep violet. Foliage appears in innumerable shades of green. In all these cases the colors named are surface colors. In a very different was, distant mountains appear uniformly blue, no matter whether covered with green trees or consisting of earth and rocks. The sun is glaring white in daytime, but it is full red at sunset. The white ceiling of houses surrounded by lawns or the white-painted eaves of a roof on a sunny day appear in bright green, which is reflected from the grass on the ground. All these cases present film colors. They appear as a thin, transparent, translucent layer between the eye and an object, independent of the object's surface color.

The next day came bright, sunny and beautiful – a real hay-making day. I started chopping. I went about a hundred yards, and then my hay head quit working. Was I surprised and disappointed! Here I had this large amount of hay down, and I barely get started, and my hay head quits working. Well, I got off the tractor

Away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, from the town, burrowing among the dwellings of men and making the streets hum, flashing out into the meadows for a moment, mining in through the damp earth, booming on in darkness and heavy air, bursting out again into the sunny day so bright and wide; away, with a shriek, and a roar, and a rattle, through the fields, through the woods, through the corn, through the hay, through the chalk, through the mould, through the clay, through the rock, among objects close at hand and almost in the grasp, ever flying from the traveller, and a deceitful distance ever moving slowly with him: like as in the track of the remorseless monster, Death!

the ship of my life might or might not be sailing on calm seas. The challenging days of my existence might or might not be bright and promising. From that encounter on, whether my days are stormy or sunny and if my nights are glorious or lonely, I maintain an attitude of gratitude. If pessimism insists on occupying my thoughts, I remember there is always tomorrow. Today I am blessed.

And so you were in here, chatting with God?" Bruce stared at her face, studying her features in minute detail. His voice dropped to a soft, velvety whisper. "I wanted to thank Him for my many blessings." The burning of her eyes increased. She would not cry like some ninny just because Bruce was happy. He was a devout and wonderful person who always looked to the bright side. Knowing that prompted her to say, "You're such a good man, Bruce." "I'm a fortunate man, in many, many ways." He made a grand gesture toward the glass blocks. "It's a beautiful, sunny day, and my very own church is almost complete." "It is shaping up. Everyone will like it." His thumb moved to her bottom lip with a teasing, gentle touch. "Good friends surround me, and I enjoy good health." "All things you deserve." He smiled. "And I've been given the greatest gift of all." "What's that?" He laughed, tweaked her chin. "You." "Me?" He slowly nodded. "God's given me a lot. But best of all, He's given me you." He took her mouth in a long, toe-curling, stomach-tightening kiss, and in a husky rumble: "I'll be thinking Him every day for the rest of my life." -Bruce and Cyn

These were my countrymen, these were the new Californians. With their bright polo shirts and sunglasses, they were in paradise, they belonged. But down on Main Street, down on Towne and San Pedro, and for a mile on lower Fifth Street were the tens of thousands of others; they couldn't afford sunglasses or a four-bit polo shirt and they hid in the alleys by day and slunk off to flop houses by night. A cop won't pick you up for vagrancy in Los Angeles if you wear a fancy polo shirt and a pair of sunglasses. But if there is dust on your shoes and that sweater you wear is thick like the sweaters they wear in the snow countries, he'll grab you. So get yourselves a polo shirt boys, and a pair of sunglasses, and white shoes, if you can. Be collegiate. It'll get you anyway. After a while, after big doses of the Times and the Examiner, you too will whoop it up for the sunny south. You'll eat hamburgers year after year and live in dusty, vermin-infested apartments and hotels, but every morning you'll see the mighty sun, the eternal blue of the sky, and the streets will be full of sleek women you never will possess, and the hot semi-tropical nights will reek of romance, you'll never have, but you'll still be in paradise, boys, in the land of sunshine. As for the folks back home, you can lie to them, because they hate the truth anyway, they won't have it, because soon or late they want to come out to paradise, too.

Preface: "It was a bright, sunny normal day…but it wasn’t. The enemy lurked unseen, the ravenous beast it was, undetected and slowly moving forward. Unobtrusive, silent, ravenously consuming light, happiness, hope, and all that mattered. Darkness the love, hate the prize, evil intent the hope, bitterness the joy. No one wanted to see it. Blindness consumed the concerned… Until the children came forward refusing to surrender the greatest power of all… The power to choose their own Destiny!

Sunday Morning I Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair, And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice. She dreams a little, and she feels the dark Encroachment of that old catastrophe, As a calm darkens among water-lights. The pungent oranges and bright, green wings Seem things in some procession of the dead, Winding across wide water, without sound. The day is like wide water, without sound, Stilled for the passing of her dreaming feet Over the seas, to silent Palestine, Dominion of the blood and sepulchre. II Why should she give her bounty to the dead? What is divinity if it can come Only in silent shadows and in dreams? Shall she not find in comforts of the sun, In pungent fruit and bright, green wings, or else In any balm or beauty of the earth, Things to be cherished like the thought of heaven? Divinity must live within herself: Passions of rain, or moods in falling snow; Grievings in loneliness, or unsubdued Elations when the forest blooms; gusty Emotions on wet roads on autumn nights; All pleasures and all pains, remembering The bough of summer and the winter branch. These are the measures destined for her soul. III Jove in the clouds had his inhuman birth. No mother suckled him, no sweet land gave Large-mannered motions to his mythy mind He moved among us, as a muttering king, Magnificent, would move among his hinds, Until our blood, commingling, virginal, With heaven, brought such requital to desire The very hinds discerned it, in a star. Shall our blood fail? Or shall it come to be The blood of paradise? And shall the earth Seem all of paradise that we shall know? The sky will be much friendlier then than now, A part of labor and a part of pain, And next in glory to enduring love, Not this dividing and indifferent blue. IV She says, "I am content when wakened birds, Before they fly, test the reality Of misty fields, by their sweet questionings; But when the birds are gone, and their warm fields Return no more, where, then, is paradise?" There is not any haunt of prophecy, Nor any old chimera of the grave, Neither the golden underground, nor isle Melodious, where spirits gat them home, Nor visionary south, nor cloudy palm Remote on heaven's hill, that has endured As April's green endures; or will endure Like her remembrance of awakened birds, Or her desire for June and evening, tipped By the consummation of the swallow's wings

I would want to have died on a sunny day. The seed of this small secret wish I carry since childhood. What frightens me most about the death, is the perception of darkness with which it is connected. I admire the religions of the East that have managed to bring to humanity a bright, sunny death, to instill in t the perception of the endless jás after the grave. They have, perhaps, given to mankind the greatest good that a mortal can receive. I would want to have died lying prone on the good, hot soil, all bathed in sun and glory, to have died in the plentitude of a day, into the hour of the scorching crickets. Into the hour in which sleepily silence the folded wheat fields, in which ripen the bulking grapes, into the hour of the searing after noon silence. It scares me, the death at sunset, the death in the autumn, the death behind the slanting curtains of the rain. Vladan Desnica, The Springs Of Ivan Galeb (*English translation from the Serbo-Croatian: Boris Gregoric)

Dear Lily Don't think me silly, but I forget what time you said. Are we meeting at two thirty? It's gone right from my head. Did you say Monday or Thursday? I have quite forgotten what day. Was it late lunch, or afternoon tea? Tell me, what did you say? I think I would like to do Tuesday. Let's go for a lovely lunch. Or, if you prefer we could even go early, and settle for brunch. A lovely Bistro or Cafe Bar, or maybe a country pub. I don't really mind that much, as long as we get some grub. Dear Maisie, Are you going crazy? We didn't set a date. You needed to check your diary. I think you are losing it, mate. But since you are free on Tuesday, and that day suits me fine. Could we meet, about twelve…ish? Its early I like to dine. You mentioned the pub, or Bistro, or some fancy Cafe Bar. Not sure I like the sound of that, and I'm not coming in the car. If the weather is bright and sunny, we could always dine al fresco. Failing that, we could just go get a cake and a cuppa in Tesco.

It was a beautiful sunny day in March, made more special after three continuous days of rain. The bright day was one of the reasons that Marvin’s spirits were high, and the other reason was his four-year-old niece, Rose. Of the five older members of the Kauffman family, Marvin was the one with whom Rose spent most of the day. The little girl was the closest person to Marvin, who always loved to spend time with the little girl. Rose would always bring a smile to his face and Marvin thought her the most precious blessing. He thought about Rose and a smile played on his lips again. “Look who is smiling to himself. You finally found your better half, bruder?” a familiar voice broke Marvin from his thoughts. He turned back, startled by the sudden remark. “Eric, you’re here!” Marvin exclaimed as he rushed toward his childhood best friend and gave him a boyish hug. Eric seemed equally excited. It was the first time the boys were meeting since Eric’s wedding. Marvin had missed his best friend after he went on his honeymoon, but even now that he

I found heaven, nirvana, elysium (whatever the hell you want to call it)...and it is not the heaven of the bible. It is in my backyard, on a bright sunny, blue-sky day, underneath the green canopy of our hundred year old oak tree with a stack of books on the table next to my chair.

Our feelings and our eyes I asked her, “Irma, what have you done?” She looked at me and replied, “nothing!” I cannot find few of my heart beats a lot seems undone, But there was a feeling that reminded me of something, And I tracked the rhythm of my every heart beat, Which led just to one trace, That whenever I see her and our eyes meet, My heart loses its pace, And there goes my heart beat missing in between this space, The distance between her eyes and mine, Though we stand on the same ground at the same place, Yet my heart beats rush towards her making a bee line, Just to beat closer to her heart, To feel her warmth and swim in the sea of her feelings, And as these love seeking heart beats depart, My heart cries in its painful reelings, Where it finds itself left in the wilderness of nowhere, She is there, her heart is there too, But our eyes still tend to wander somewhere, Where she is willing to say I love you, But her heart beats are yet to feel the miracle of a missing heart beat, That always rushes unto me, Creating love’s fondest retreat, Where wherever I may see, I see her and she only sees me, This is the distance that grows in the eyes, That only these missing heart beats can shorten, Just like when I look at those skies, I am always by her beauty smitten, Her eyes, her smiles, her face and her sweet ways, Are actually the twinkle that the night stars bear, And ah their pain on those Sunny and bright days, When they long to see her, But today, she looked at me and I felt she plugged into my spirit, And a heart beat unknown sank into me with it, Then she started beating in my every heart beat, And how I loved my heart beat, and repeat and repeat, With every heartbeat, “I love you too.” And then the distance in our eyes vanished suddenly, As I held her in my arms and said, “I was born to love you!” And then our two hearts, beat as one and forever happily.

Never forgotten Never forgotten, not even for a while, That laughter, that holding hands and that sudden smile, Out to face the reality of a Sunny day, With you it just seemed a lovely and a beautiful day, As the day advanced and we walked unto a far away land, Away from the town, away from every occupying bustle, feeling the touch of your hand, I looked at you and then at our shadows, Frolicking and walking past the happy meadows, Then at the top of a hill as we rested, I realised with you life’s every moment is so well spent and nothing is wasted, As we watched the Sun set behind those ebbing and rising sequences of peaks, We stood silent as we heard the voice of our hearts and we understood how love speaks, Just like the Sun, silently perishing behind those mountains and hills, It was then I realised Irma that your presence like this Sun, my landscape of life fills, With brightness, with joys, with your beautiful memories, Today, I remember the last kiss and I tell my still beating heart our love stories, You holding my hand, the sky, the mountains, the hills and the Sun, I still go the top of the hill, the sun still sets, the meadows look the same, but beside me there is no hand to hold. None, And the horizon turns blood red seeing me there thinking of you, Your hand, your smile, your kiss, everything else and you, Then when the horizon turns dark and night falls, I get up, take a long look at the once red sky and I ignore my heart’s calls, I walk away, back to the town, to the bustle, to the place that was familiar but now appears unknown, And I wait for the night to pass, so that I return again to the hill, to the meadow, to the setting sun, and once again feel the sensation of the only place that seems known, To the old echoes of our heart beats, to the hand, to the surroundings, to everything, It is this feeling of love, your memories, that for now is my world, my everything, And whenever I am here Irma I feel certain you shall hold my hand someday, And I hope the Sun, the mountains, the hills and the meadows last till that day!

In an enchanting encounter with the myriad books that I met in a cosy book shop today, I couldn't help but get bedazzled with the cornucopia of stories and poetry that lay snuggled in the plethora of shelves at display. You wouldn't believe it dear readers that I heard a real symphony in my ears at that very moment of this august encounter that happened in November. There was no rain today but the bright and sunny spirit of the day was as magical as any rainy day might have made me feel. I do not know about the other people in the book shop, but to me that very moment felt as if I was on cloud nine. Proverbially it felt as if I was listening with a mellifluous ecstasy to the magic of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. At that exact moment when I lay my hands or rather I would say I grabbed my hands on the two books that I have been yearning to read since a long time, I guess the entire Universe paused. Now without having an iota of energy within me to any other further delay in experiencing the magic and in experiencing the mad euphoria that has serenaded my entire being, I take your leave my dearest readers to indulge myself with and in the most pleasurable way possible with Franz Kafka & Fyodor Dostoevsky.

In an enchanting encounter with the myriad books that I met in a cosy book shop today, I couldn't help but get bedazzled with the cornucopia of stories and poetry that lay snuggled in the plethora of shelves at display. You wouldn't believe it dear readers that I heard a real symphony in my ears at that very moment of this august encounter that happened in November. There was no rain today but the bright and sunny spirit of the day was as magical as any rainy day might have made me feel. I do not know about the other people in the book shop, but to me that very moment felt as if I was on cloud nine. Proverbially it felt as if I was listening with a mellifluous ecstasy to the magic of Tchaikovsky's Swan Lake. At that exact moment when I lay my hands or rather I would say I grabbed my hands on the two books that I have been yearning to read since a long time, I guess the entire Universe paused. Now without having an iota of energy within me to any other further delay in experiencing the magic and in experiencing the mad euphoria that has serenaded my entire being, I take your leave my dearest readers to indulge myself and in the most pleasurable way possible with the words of Franz Kafka and Fyodor Dostoevsky.

If you have the art of keeping your spirits up under all circumstances, you can consider raining rose petals on your head the same as raining stones! If a gloomy rainy day and a bright sunny day are the same for you, you are blessed with wonderful positivity!

He was sunny days and sunshine and rainbows, and I was the rain. Rainy days and cloudy skies and lightning. He was the sun; beaming and substantially bright, and warmth, as we knew, encompassed him. And I was the rain; my anger could be defined as stormy, and I was a walking rain cloud, full of gloom. My mind was always cloudy, and I found myself always crying and teary-eyed, which was, in my life, symbolizing the rain free-falling from the sky and into my heart. My heart was frozen, and it was so, so cold; as cold as the chilly air. Oh, God. I was the rain.

If the word "clear" is imprecise, it is mercifully so. And not necessarily to the detriment of meaning. "It is clear that..." carries with it a bit of transparent glass, the bright ring of a bell, a sunny day, a candid conversation, an uncluttered table.

The day after two feet of snow paralyzed the eastern part of the United States, the sun shone brightly from clear blue skies and it was as if nothing had ever happened – except for the deep snow that still covered the ground. Peggy Toney Horton wrote: “This beautiful sunny afternoon reminds me of a child who misbehaved and then looked at his mother with wide eyes and declared, ‘I didn't do it!

He cupped my cheeks in his hands. I stared into his dark eyes as his aura flowed over me. It was beautiful—bright and pure, like a sunny day. He was so strong. So kind. Being with him was like being surrounded by sunlight. I never wanted the touch to end.

Life is all about the moments that make up the big picture. Sometimes those moments can be as big and vast as a clear blue sky on a bright, sunny day. And sometimes those moments can be so tiny and unremarkable that they slip through your fingers before you realize they will come to mean something to you greater than you ever imagined.

1 The Boy Who Died Death lived up to Jacob’s expectations. The day he died was sunny, as it was most days on the island of Oahu where he lived. Only a few miles away, bikini-clad tourists stretched out on the sand of Waikiki beach. While they toasted themselves golden brown, Jacob lay on a steel surgical table, broken and bleeding. He’d heard that when a person died they saw a tunnel that ended in a bright light. If the person moved toward the light, God or some already deceased loved one like a great-grandmother would meet them on the other side. Jacob didn’t believe it. He’d accepted that everything would end in black nothingness and, for him, it did. What

One bright sunny day at a successful Literary Agency… Literary Agent: “So, Tina – we asked you to try and write a children’s story…” Tina: “Uh-huh.

Some people are like clouds. When they disappear, it's a bright sunny day!" :")

The ship of my life may or may not be sailing on calm and amiable seas. The challenging days of my existence may or may not be bright and promising. Stormy or sunny days, glorious or lonely nights, I maintain an attitude of gratitude. If I insist on being pessimistic, there is always tomorrow. Today I am blessed.

While I was walking down the beach one bright and sunny day, I saw a great big wooden box a-floatin’ in the bay. I pulled it in and opened it up and much to my surprise, Oh, I discovered a   *     *   right before my eyes, Oh, I discovered a   *     *    right before my eyes. I picked it up and ran to town as happy as a king, I took it to a guy I know who’d buy most anything But this is what he hollered at me as I walked in his shop: Oh, get out of here with that   *     *   before I call a cop… I turned around and got right out, a-runnin’ for my life, And then I took it home with me to give it to my wife, But this is what she hollered at me as I walked in the door: Oh, get out of here with that   *     *   and don’t come back no more… I wandered all around the town until I chanced to meet A hobo who was looking for a handout on the street.

As long as the earth endures, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night will never cease.” —Genesis 8:22 (NIV) As I walked to my mom’s house next door, I looked at the silhouettes of birds in the trees with the sun setting behind them. The road was still warm beneath my bare feet, and my leg muscles were tired from hours spent doing yard work and clearing the garden for winter (or “putting it to bed” as my husband calls it). Blackbirds rested on the stark branches, watching me until I was just beneath them, and then they flew away in a rush of energy. Today was warm. The sun bright. Most of our trees have lost their leaves, but our maple by the barn was holding on, wearing its marvelous colors like an ornate cloak. “Sabra, put shoes on!” the neighbor shouted from her doorway. “It’s nearly winter, don’t you know?” This is our joke. Every season she notices my feet and my tendency to be barefoot as long as possible. In March she calls out, “It must be spring! You don’t have shoes on!” And then when the snow falls, she yells, “Oh no, look at those boots! We must be in for a long winter.” With each step, I feel the warm tarry road beneath my feet. In a week or two, I’ll be wearing big thick socks and warm shoes. For now, I take in the beauty of a sunny path and hold it as a gift to help me through the long winter ahead. Dear Lord, may I always be mindful of the beauty in every season You have placed beneath my feet. —Sabra Ciancanelli Digging Deeper: Ps 19:1; Eccl 3:1–4

Outside it was a bright fall day. The kind that tricks you into thinking it’s warmer out than it is because it’s so sunny.

Good evening, Mirabelle. How was the day?’ Mirabelle sniffed. ‘Bright and sunny.’ Enoch shook his head. ‘Not my cup of tea.

It was a sunny day when Farooq-Lane, Ronan and Hennessy approached the house. A workday. It was quiet. All around, people were puttering about on their ordinary city business, business that relied on the principle that today would become tomorrow. Even if they had been one of the many who’d seen the bomb’s apocalyptic vision, none of them could have guessed that the sunny day they’d seen then was very likely the sunny day they were living now. Farooq-Lane was mired in the paradox of premonition: The vision had said she and the Zeds would be there at the end of the world, and so they were here now, kicking off the end of the world. Would the apocalypse still go on if they simply never showed up at this building? Or would the vision have reflected that, too? Cause and effect felt murky as the day was bright.

Forever Grateful For a loving Mother From cradle to the grave You have been so brave With many children to raise You did well, with no haste You took away our pain And turned the rain Into bright sunny days in many special ways You made us find reasons to celebrate always You shared wise words Your wisdom carried us to new heights Lifted off our shoulders the heavy weight Made life so great Our lives, you changed Each one of us, you embraced The school of parenthood, you aced Your Motherhood distinction cannot be erased You ran your race with grace For us, you created a safe space To us, you have a special place That no one can ever take Mother, we are forever grateful

God’s desperation There it was in the mirror, Her reflection that did not appear newer, Because it was from the past, On the mirror of present so well and eloquently cast, I walked forward to take a closer look, As I allowed myself to get caught in this hook, And when I looked at the mirror’s surface, There appeared her beautiful face, The mirror had turned into a visual spectacle like none other, Bearing all her past reflections intact and beautifully together, I gazed at it and then at her too, And the mirror reflected just her form, there was neither I nor any of you, Because it reflected what I had felt or known already, And it reflected these experiences in forms wonderfully steady, And in my past I always thought about her and only imagined about her, In the present too when I still perpetually think of her, The mirror creates many images, but eventually all of them converge into one, Just her, and always her, nobody else, and not someone, Whom my past had not known, That reflection in this mirror has never grown, So, the mirror that belongs to the present may just portray the past, But how does that matter, because even in the present you are my first thought and my wish last, Let the past end wherever it may please to end, Because my present will always find a way to bend, And create your reflection in every mirror, Because my past is mine alone, so wherever the mirror maybe, for me you will always be there, In the mirror, growing as a reflection of my every feeling, And now it seems that the present as well as the mirror are willing, To let my past be transposed over present and reflect you everywhere, Of this even the Heaven is aware, But what can it do, because for me the sky is the mirror now, And in it I just see you and I only feel our love, And for someone as insignificant as me, The Gods cannot destroy everything and recreate a new sky, so they let it be, Your reflections in all my mirrors, that travel from the past to recreate my present, And now my love Irma, we have the protection of God’s consent, A reluctant approval from the Gods to let us have it our way, To feel the beauty of night when it is a bright sunny day, For they have their own mirrors and reflections to deal with, So, they let me romance your image, that I love to be with, And I see the Gods desperately seeking reflections in mirrors of their own creation, Where they appear to seek some unknown vision of beauty, a feeling, a deep sensation, That I have discovered in my mirrors through your reflection, This is my joy and for the desperate Gods it is their only predilection!

With her and that someday He entered the quietness of his own mind, Where he could not be by anyone found, Neither by the rays of the bright sun, Nor by the deeds that seek him for acts still undone, But he lies in the silence of his mind, quiet and silent, Here he deals with million feelings, many permanent and a few transient, He thinks of her and her beautiful ways, In the darkness of nights and brightness of sunny days, Seeking something that would lead him to her, And then rest there, in that sacred space of his mind, forever with her, Time calls him but he appears to be heedless to its every call, The day invites him, but all its invitations collide against a robust wall, The wall of his mind that surrounds him permanently, Because there he likes to be with her virtual entity, Maybe he wants to escape from this state of morbid stillness, But in this stillness, a state of nothingness, he experiences a feeling of fullness, For imagination is the darling muse of every beautiful mind, And maybe there he lies with her, beyond the evil fangs of reality, in the imagination of his mind, Undisturbed by the evil intended men and women, Who always want to act in other’s lives as specialist foremen, Without realising winter can never know the feelings of the summer, And without having loved and lost, how can others think they are better, So they force him to digress and retire to his mind, and the quiet space there, A place that actually is nothing and nowhere, but for him for now, it is his only somewhere, Where love finds him because he always finds it, In her memories, in her imaginations, and in the strange devices of his own wit, So he has become anonymous for the world, but a sort of forced anonymity with a hidden intent, Because whenever I see him, I feel he did not go there, there he was forcefully sent, Maybe he is long dead now, and it is his ghost that visits this mind, Because he is obsessed with knowing the undefined, For most of us have to muster courage, But a few of us are born with it way above the normal average! And perhaps a typhoon of thoughts is on its way, Who knows when, because they murdered him a long ago, but his ghost is still seeking to resurrect him one day, that anonymous someday!

Vacant yet hopeful The windows are closed, The room is lit with sunshine and many wishes proposed and unproposed, There in the vacant room where no one lives, You can feel something that mind denies and only the heart believes, Something unseen that sweeps across the walls, Walls from where the sunlight night’s shadows uninstalls, Shadows that do not leave the room and occupy dark corners of this vacant room, Almost like the dark irony of the shadow cast by the most beautiful flower in bloom, And as the sun is forced to retire by the advancing darkness, The shadows rise and hang on the walls with a defiant steadiness, Then they begin to crawl to and fro, here and there, until they are everywhere, And the vacant room is now occupied by its resident darkness that springs from somewhere, Maybe it is just an imagination, because nights are dark and days are either bright or sunny, There could be reasons many, and explanations as many, So, I decide to occupy the vacant room and challenge its shadows, There in the shadows, I found trapped moments of time, that the room from somewhere borrows, From past, from moments that long ago ceased to exist, So, I opened the windows and the shadows fell, and they no longer did about anything insist, Because the touch of sunlight had allowed the hope to enter, And now, the once dark room, the room of sorrows, is the hope’s main center, Where I often enter to think of her, and my past, And now instead of dark shadows, her beautiful reflection on all walls I have cast, So, if you happen to visit the room, and you see her staring at you from every wall, It is a fused reflection of our love, all our feelings; and an open display of our romantic ball.

Sitting at loose ends beside the little wicker table in his bright, sunny room, looking out over the poplars of the Vienne, he fell back into one of his favourite daydreams about the Roof. Nothing in this war was like any of the others; it was a soft degeneration, a dying twilight of peace indefinitely prolonged—so prolonged that one could dream in spite of oneself, after this strange half-season, this plunge into sleepless nights, each new day attaching itself to the old without any break in continuity.

Sitting at loose ends beside the little wicker table in his bright, sunny room, looking out over the poplars of the Vienne, he fell back into one of his favourite daydreams about the Roof. Nothing in this war was like any of the others; it was a soft degeneration, a dying twilight of peace indefinitely prolonged—so prolonged that one could dream in spite of oneself, after this strange half-season, this plunge into sleepless nights, each new day attaching itself to the old without any break in continuity.

I’ll give you a few days to… adjust. I want an answer by the time I return. Either lose everything by choosing him or be with me, and I’ll give you everything you ever wanted.” I might be the man to paint her sunny disposition into the color gray, but if she let me, I could also make it bright again.

She certainly does.” We headed towards the café and came to a smooth landing outside. We entered the brightly lit building and my spirits immediately lifted. The interior of the café had been painted in soft shades of blues and yellows. Flowers and trees had been painted on the walls which gave the impression of you being outside on a beautiful sunny day. Gilda, the owner of the café, glided towards us smoothly.

Ms. Rogers sighed softly. "Just keep a weather eye," she said. Grant looked out the window. "But it's a bright sunny day." Papa laughed. "She means keep our eyes open for anything or anyone unusual or suspicious," he explained.

Guide for your ISO settings • 50-200 ISO For very bright sunny days or when you want the ultimate in smooth, sharp images. • 400 ISO A good all-round setting, suitable for overcast skies or when you need a fast shutter speed. • 800 ISO For interiors, low-light outdoor subjects or action photography when you don’t want to use flash. • 1600 ISO For night shooting or indoor low available light, or with very long lenses. Grain/noise may be a problem. Try using your noise reduction setting. • 3200 ISO Much the same as 1600 but with more grain/noise. The grainy effect of fast film can look great with black and white subjects.

gripping feeling, and no, there has been nothing like it. It’s got to be dangerous, all this heart overload. No wonder Soapie tried to protect her from it. No wonder Greta wouldn’t ever let her pick up the newborn Sandrine. She sits and strokes the little shell-like ear, the soft cheek, the little button of a nose. It’s as though she’s been born again herself, some new raw part of her emerging from the wreckage of her grief and her longing. It makes her want to cry, how close she came to missing out on this. She and Jonathan move through the first few days, sleep-deprived and stunned. He is excellent at keeping people away. He won’t let Andres and Judith Schultz drop by with their baby gift, and he avoids the nice condo dwellers who smile at him in the bright sunny passageways and politely inquire about the new baby. Greta says this is a good thing and is exactly what he should be doing: using his handy Y chromosome to protect

My Seclusion Just like, I remember the- Fireflies at night, they all carry their- own light in flight. They fly higher and higher until they are out of sight. They are never in fear of the darkness because they carry their light. They constantly have hope, and it shines brightly. The firefly flies by, unlike me there are never shy. I am lying outside on the grounds a few feet from my home, yet I am still feeling all alone, listening to all the sounds of the night as they moan. I look at the full moon, knowing that I will be back in hell soon, seeing all the faces at lunch at noon. Wondering what is going to happen on my vacation in the upcoming summer in the months like in June. I lie on the cold hard ground outside looking up with the stars in the sky, remembering all the days flashing that have gone by, seeing all the faces that never even say hi, remembering the terror from the wandering eyes. (Right now) My head is pounding just like the thunder and lightning, the evil faces streaks crossed my face, with every bolt of lightning. This takes me back to when I was a little girl; I hope that the pink suspended feathers sweep them away in the white webs. So, I can have a sunny day on all these rainy days that seem to never end, I just do not have much to say. I am not safe anywhere… the voices haunt me as they do. However, I just have an overwhelming urge to cry, all night and watch movies by myself. Like, I have done, these last two years of my high school life. Is anything going to change? Why must I live like this? Why do I keep living? Why can I not just pass on? I look out my window, and sometimes it takes me back to when I was young. Some days I look out the window and the skies are scarlet, and that reminds me that I should be out doing things with people of my age. The summer has come and gone, and the school days have started with no one to see me, or even ask if I was alive. No one cares! Is the plan going to work? I have no idea at this point, yet I keep trying!

Backward, turn backward, O Time, in your flight, Make me a child again just for tonight! Mother, come back from the echoless shore, Take me again to your heart as of yore; Kiss from my forehead the furrows of care, Smooth the few silver threads out of my hair; Over my slumbers your loving watch keep;— Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep! Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years! I am so weary of toil and of tears,— Toil without recompense, tears all in vain,— Take them, and give me my childhood again! I have grown weary of dust and decay,— Weary of flinging my soul-wealth away; Weary of sowing for others to reap;— Rock me to sleep, mother – rock me to sleep! Tired of the hollow, the base, the untrue, Mother, O mother, my heart calls for you! Many a summer the grass has grown green, Blossomed and faded, our faces between: Yet, with strong yearning and passionate pain, Long I tonight for your presence again. Come from the silence so long and so deep;— Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep! Over my heart, in the days that are flown, No love like mother-love ever has shone; No other worship abides and endures,— Faithful, unselfish, and patient like yours: None like a mother can charm away pain From the sick soul and the world-weary brain. Slumber’s soft calms o’er my heavy lids creep;— Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep! Come, let your brown hair, just lighted with gold, Fall on your shoulders again as of old; Let it drop over my forehead tonight, Shading my faint eyes away from the light; For with its sunny-edged shadows once more Haply will throng the sweet visions of yore; Lovingly, softly, its bright billows sweep;— Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep! Mother, dear mother, the years have been long Since I last listened your lullaby song: Sing, then, and unto my soul it shall seem Womanhood’s years have been only a dream. Clasped to your heart in a loving embrace, With your light lashes just sweeping my face, Never hereafter to wake or to weep;— Rock me to sleep, mother, – rock me to sleep!

Vera Lynn was telling me it would be a lovely day tomorrow as my new Packard wended its way along the winding shore road. The cool sea mist blowing in my face felt wonderful, a refreshing reminder that I was alive and life was good. It was a bright sunny morning, and the War would soon be over according to nearly everyone.

Coming out of that Easter service, I felt hopeful and very happy. My heart felt at peace. It was inexplicable. What Vanya was felt about faith was the same thing I felt on that day. Whatever he was trying to describe, I could sense that finally. Out of my newfound faith, I had hope for what the future lay ahead. All the negative memories of my life went away, like mud washed down the river. I only felt positive about the future, looking forward to the days to come. It was the bright early morning of a new sunny day. Outside, the sky was beautiful. “Christ is Risen!” I confessed out loud, finally. “Christ is Risen, Indeed,” echoed a silent voice within. Epilogue: I like to think that the few lines above are the epilogue of the book to this days Faith as what makes “my heart go on” no matter the depressive moments that I now can feel, Faith gives me the courage to endure all kind of difficulties. One should always remember this small poem of mine. “God is for everybody” God is for everybody For the Russian For the French For all the others Even if they don’t wanted it. God is for everybody Not, only, for the Muslims Not, only, for the Christians Not, only, for the Buddhists Not — Even — only, for the Jews Not for one particular religion God is for everybody Especially for the one that do not want it.

Lying jammed in a crack between two stones a third of the way down the slope, half buried beneath Kalansii corpses, and feeling the blood draining from the deep, mortal wounds in his chest, he (character name removed to avoid spoiler) heard that laughter. And in his mind he went back. Childhood. The battles they fought, the towering redoubts they defended, the sunny days of dust and sticks for swords and running this way and that, where time was nothing but a world without horizons - and the days never closed, and every stone felt perfect in the palm of the hand, and when a bruise arrived, or a cut opened red, why he need only run to his ma or da, and they would take his shock and indignation and make it all seem less important - and then that disturbance would be gone, drifting into the time before, and ahead there was only the sun and the brightness of never growing up. To the stones and the sweat and the blood here in his last resting place, he smiled, and then he whispered to them in his mind, 'You should have seen our last stands. They were something. They were something' Darkness, and then brightness - brightness like a summer day without end. He went there, without a single look back

A club of sunshine whacked me right between the eyes. Like to laid me out. Gah! An ill omen for sure. These bright days are never kind. Everybody I ran into would be just like the weather: warm and sunny. Argh! I was in the mood for low overcast and light drizzle, maybe with a frigid south wind. I peeled layers of fried skin off my eyeballs, took another look. Where there is life there is hope.

It was in Switzerland, during his first year, in the early part of it, in fact. Then he was almost like an idiot; he could not even speak properly - and sometimes could not understand what was wanted of him. He once went up into the mountain-side, on a bright, sunny day, and walked a long time, his mind possessed with an agonising but unformulated idea. Before him was the brilliant sky, below, the lake, and all around an horizon, bright and boundless which seemed to have no ending. He gazed a long time in distress. He remembered now how he had stretched out his hand to that bright, infinite blue, and had shed tears. What tortured him was that he was utterly outside all this. What was this festival? what was this grand, everlasting pageant to which there was no end, to which he had always, from his earliest childhood, been drawn and in which he could never take part? Every morning the same bright sun rises, every morning the same rainbow in the waterfall, every evening that highest snow mountain glows, with a flush of purple against the distant sky, every 'little fly that buzzes about him in the hot sunshine has its part in the chorus; knows its place, loves it and is happy'. Every blade of grass grows and is happy! Everything has its path, and everything knows its path, and with a song goes forth, and with a song returns. Only he knows nothing, and understands nothing, neither men nor sounds; he is outside it all, and an outcast.

Love's Prayer If Heaven would hear my prayer,   My dearest wish would be, Thy sorrows not to share   But take them all on me; If Heaven would hear my prayer. I'd beg with prayers and sighs   That never a tear might flow From out thy lovely eyes,   If Heaven might grant it so; Mine be the tears and sighs. No cloud thy brow should cover,   But smiles each other chase From lips to eyes all over   Thy sweet and sunny face; The clouds my heart should cover. That all thy path be light   Let darkness fall on me; If all thy days be bright,   Mine black as night could be; My love would light my night. For thou art more than life,   And if our fate should set Life and my love at strife,   How could I then forget I love thee more than life?

The classroom was still. It was hard to imagine that all day long, the sounds of children’s happy voices filled the dry, dusty space. She wiped the board, closed the damper on the pot-bellied stove – there was a slight chill in the air, though the day was sunny and bright – and mopped up an ink spill on Mikey’s desk.

Sometimes you have to look at the sunny side of the problem. Though, you might ask, is there always a sunny side? Maybe not. Or maybe it just reveals itself a little further down the road when our perspective broadens enough to see the whole picture.

It was a hot, sunny, bright day. People don't realize it, but that is when loneliness is the sharpest, it cuts the deepest - when the sun shines, and everything else is bright and warm.

It was completely annoying that it had been sunny and bright on the day of Patrick’s funeral. Not one single cloud in the sky as a sea of men in uniform, their badges all covered with a black horizontal stripe to mark the loss of one of their own, milled around a cemetery. Their expressions were solemn, and many of them were visibly sweating from wearing heavy uniforms in the Southern California heat.