Butterfly Inspirational Quotes

We delight in the beauty of the butterfly, but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.

Happiness is like a butterfly which, when pursued, is always beyond our grasp, but, if you will sit down quietly, may alight upon you.

You're beautiful, but you're empty...One couldn't die for you. Of course, an ordinary passerby would think my rose looked just like you. But my rose, all on her own, is more important than all of you together, since she's the one I've watered. Since she's the one I put under glass, since she's the one I sheltered behind the screen. Since she's the one for whom I killed the caterpillars (except the two or three butterflies). Since she's the one I listened to when she complained, or when she boasted, or even sometimes when she said nothing at all. Since she's my rose.

If my mind can conceive it, and my heart can believe it - then I can achieve it.

I am a happy camper so I guess I’m doing something right. Happiness is like a butterfly; the more you chase it, the more it will elude you, but if you turn your attention to other things, it will come and sit softly on your shoulder.

The butterfly counts not months but moments, and has time enough.

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the master calls a butterfly.

Life is short. If you doubt me, ask a butterfly. Their average life span is a mere five to fourteen days.

How does one become a butterfly? They have to want to learn to fly so much that you are willing to give up being a caterpillar.

We are all butterflies. Earth is our chrysalis.

Butterflies can't see their wings. They can't see how truly beautiful they are, but everyone else can. People are like that as well.

For everything in this journey of life we are on, there is a right wing and a left wing: for the wing of love there is anger; for the wing of destiny there is fear; for the wing of pain there is healing; for the wing of hurt there is forgiveness; for the wing of pride there is humility; for the wing of giving there is taking; for the wing of tears there is joy; for the wing of rejection there is acceptance; for the wing of judgment there is grace; for the wing of honor there is shame; for the wing of letting go there is the wing of keeping. We can only fly with two wings and two wings can only stay in the air if there is a balance. Two beautiful wings is perfection. There is a generation of people who idealize perfection as the existence of only one of these wings every time. But I see that a bird with one wing is imperfect. An angel with one wing is imperfect. A butterfly with one wing is dead. So this generation of people strive to always cut off the other wing in the hopes of embodying their ideal of perfection, and in doing so, have created a crippled race.

... just because [butterflies'] lives were short didn't mean they were tragic... See, they have a beautiful life.

She liked being reminded of butterflies. She remembered being six or seven and crying over the fates of the butterflies in her yard after learning that they lived for only a few days. Her mother had comforted her and told her not to be sad for the butterflies, that just because their lives were short didn't mean they were tragic. Watching them flying in the warm sun among the daisies in their garden, her mother had said to her, see, they have a beautiful life. Alice liked remembering that.

Small shifts in your thinking, and small changes in your energy, can lead to massive alterations of your end result.

We can't be brave without fear.

All through my life, I have been tested. My will has been tested, my courage has been tested, my strength has been tested. Now my patience and endurance are being tested.

Meditation is the process of transformation and beautification of soul from a leaf-eating caterpillar to a nectar-sipping butterfly. It grows with the wings of love and compassion.

Me plus you. (Imma tell you one time) Me plus you. (Imma tell you one time) Me plus you. (Imma tell you one time) One time. When I met ya girl my heart when knock (knock knock) Now them butterflies in my stomach won't stop (stop stop) Even love is a struggle and it's all we got. So we gun keep keep climbing to the mountain top. 'Cause your world, is my world, and my breath is your breath, and my heart is yours...

Truly great people in history never wanted to be great for themselves. All they wanted was the chance to do good for others and be close to God.

Head Vs Heart: A crowded mind Leaves no space For a peaceful heart

Just when the caterpillar thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.

You have been created in order that you might make a difference. You have within you the power to change the world.

Don't be afraid. Change is such a beautiful thing", said the Butterfly.

life's kind of like a painting. A really bizarre, abstract painting. You could look at it and think that all it is, is a blur. And you could continue living your life thinking that all it is, is just a blur. But if you really look at it, really see it, focus on it, and use your imagination, life can become so much more. The painting could be of the sea, the sky, people,buildings, a butterfly on a flower, or anything except the blur you were once convinced it was.

Death is a butterfly in it's cocoon waiting to fly . . .

Sometimes to change a situation you are in requires you to take a giant leap. But, you won't be able to fly unless you are willing to transform.

‎"Tell me, sir, what is a butterfly?" "It's what you are meant to become. It flies with beautiful wings and joins the earth to heaven. It drinks only nectar from the flowers and carries the seeds of love from one flower to another. Without butterflies, the world would soon have few flowers.

He was comparing you to the butterflies that you both adore and cherish, and he said you were special for the same reasons: you were rare, exotic and entirely you. He said you're beautiful exactly the way are now.

For our people, butterflies are a symbol of hope. It's said that if you capture one in your hands and whisper your dreams to it, it will carry them up to the heavens so that the wish can be granted.

Similar to a butterfly, I've gone through a metamorphosis, been released from my dark cocoon, embraced my wings, and soared!

We spend more time learning how to make a living than we do learning to make a life.

Other letters simply relate the small events that punctuate the passage of time: roses picked at dusk, the laziness of a rainy Sunday, a child crying himself to sleep. Capturing the moment, these small slices of life, these small gusts of happiness, move me more deeply than all the rest. A couple of lines or eight pages, a Middle Eastern stamp or a suburban postmark . . . I hoard all these letters like treasure. One day I hope to fasten them end to end in a half-mile streamer, to float in the wind like a banner raised to the glory of friendship. It will keep the vultures at bay.

Hold on to your heart and life will give you wings.

Even when I knew people were cheating me, what was important was how I behaved, because I have to answer to God. I can't be responsible for other people's actions: They will have to answer to God themselves

Reality is, Hope and Despair lie in the same places. And they're just a matter of perspective. What changed my perspective, was her.

Given that we all have a finite time on earth, we need to make our metaphoric transition from caterpillar to butterfly sooner rather than later.

I think humans might be like butterflies; people die every day without many other people knowing about them, seeing their colors, hearing their stories... and when humans are broken, they're like broken butterfly wings; suddenly there are so many beauties that are seen in different ways, so many thoughts and visions and possibilities that form, which couldn't form when the person wasn't broken! So it is not a very sad thing to be broken, after all! It's during the times of being broken, that you have all the opportunities to become things unforgettable! Just like the broken butterfly wing that I found, which has given me so many thoughts, in so many ways, has shown me so many words, and imaginations! But butterflies need to know, that it doesn't matter at all if the whole world saw their colors or not! But what matters is that they flew, they glided, they hovered, they saw, they felt, and they knew! And they loved the ones whom they flew with! And that is an existence worthwhile!

Sometimes we choose the road we follow. And sometimes the road chooses us.

This flesh in which we live is nothing more than a cocoon, and only when we step out of it do we truly begin to live.

When the world told the caterpillar its life was over, the butterfly objected, “My life has just begun.

I am a believer of butterfly effect. A small positive vibration can change the entire cosmos.

Throughout my life, I never sought retribution against those who hurt me because I believe in forgiveness. I have practiced forgiving, just as I want to be forgiven. Only God knows what's in a person's heart, his true intentions. He sees and hears all things.

Go, and be as the butterfly

It is well known that lust brings madness and desperation and ruin. But upon my oath, I never meant any harm. All I wanted was to be happy, to love and to be loved in return, and for my life to count for something. That is not madness, is it?

Nothingness It is only in nothing... A damp, dull, nothingness Those cold, sharp, empty spaces In our times of scarcity and loss That we understand the true meaning of everything And the indelible value of what was cost

Transformation isn't a butterfly. It's the thing before you get to be a pretty bug flying away. It's huddling in the dark cocoon and then pushing your way out. It's the messy work of making sense of your fortunes and misfortunes, desires and doubts, hang-ups and sorrows, actions and accidents, mistakes and successes, so you can go on and become the person you must next become.

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.

Just when the butterfly thought the world was over, it became a butterfly.

Hold love like a butterfly, with gentle preservation. Hold life like the reigns of a wild stallion, with fierce assertion. Encompass that, and you find the nectar of the immortal spirit.

We can fly! “We can become butterflies! “There’s nothing at the top and it doesn’t matter!” As he heard his own message he realized how he had misread the instinct to get high. To get to the “top” he must fly, not climb.

Every lifelong couple has their own variants of the butterfly dream!

Faith doesn't rely on odds or statistical data. God only requires that we have faith; the rest is up to him.

A caterpillar must endure a season of isolation before it turns into a butterfly. Embrace the time you have alone, it will only make you stronger.

A butterfly is a caterpillar who never gave up on his dream to fly.

Once you are a butterfly, you can really love – the kind of love that makes a new life. It’s better than all the hugging caterpillars can do.

Uncertainty is a temptress. We may try our best to avoid her. But what is certain is that at some point of time, she will find us. The only question that remains is whether like Medusa, she will paralyze you, or whether like one of the nine muses of ancient Greece, she will drive you to greater things.

There are moments in every relationship that define when two people start to fall in love. A first glance A first smile A first kiss A first fall… (I remove the Darth Vader house shoes from my satchel and look down at them.) You were wearing these during one of those moments. One of the moments I first started to fall in love with you. The way you gave me butterflies that morning Had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else, and everything to do with you. I was falling in love with you that morning because of you. (I take the next item out of the satchel. When I pull it out and look up, she brings her hands to her mouth in shock.) This ugly little gnome With his smug little grin… He's the reason I had an excuse to invite you into my house. Into my life. You took a lot of aggression out on him over those next few months. I would watch from my window as you would kick him over every time you walked by him. Poor little guy. You were so tenacious. That feisty, aggressive, strong-willed side of you…. The side of you that refused to take crap from this concrete gnome? The side of you that refused to take crap from me? I fell in love with that side of you because of you. (I set the gnome down on the stage and grab the CD) This is your favorite CD ‘Layken’s shit.’ Although now I know you intended for shit to be possessive, rather than descriptive. The banjo started playing through the speakers of your car and I immediately recognized my favorite band. Then when I realized it was your favorite band, too? The fact that these same lyrics inspired both of us? I fell in love with that about you. That had absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. I fell in love with that about you because of you. (I take a slip of paper out of the satchel and hold it up. When I look at her, I see Eddie slide her a napkin. I can’t tell from up here, but that can only mean she’s crying.) This is a receipt I kept. Only because the item I purchased that night was on the verge of ridiculous. Chocolate milk on the rocks? Who orders that? You were different, and you didn’t care. You were being you. A piece of me fell in love with you at that moment, because of you. This? (I hold up another sheet of paper.) This I didn’t really like so much. It’s the poem you wrote about me. The one you titled 'mean?' I don’t think I ever told you… but you made a zero. And then I kept it to remind myself of all the things I never want to be to you. (I pull her shirt from my bag. When I hold it into the light, I sigh into the microphone.) This is that ugly shirt you wear. It doesn’t really have anything to do with why I fell in love with you. I just saw it at your house and thought I’d steal it.

A butterfly does not return to a caterpillar after it is mature. We must learn to grow and evolve into a stronger, wiser and better version of ourselves. Life occurs in stages and taking a step at a time is key to learning and growing.

Snuggle down in my cocoon, be a butterfly soon.

The uglier the caterpillar the lovelier the butterfly.

Peace is a butterfly Flying flower to flower With a song in her heart But a great love for the beauty With a great purpose and duty.

Wine had to be grapes first. Diamonds had to be rocks first. Butterflies had to be caterpillars first. Rainbows had to be storms first.

Isn't it funny how the moments that define our lives the most are almost always the smallest? A scattering of almost inconsequential seconds that steer our course; the proverbial butterfly wings which produce the hurricane of our lives. Single sentences, concepts, and choices-especially choices-which make or break who you are, and who you will become.

Faith makes the impossible possible.

Be a butterfly and always look for kindness, softness and beauties.

Every dream is a butterfly flying in the garden we call life in search of flowers of success and happiness.

Butterflies are like women— we may look pretty and delicate, but baby, we can fly through a hurricane.

The idea is as paper-thin and fragile as the wings of a butterfly, and as it flutters gently awake I hardly dare to hold it still in my mind.

Chase a butterfly and you will discover the joys of wandering into uncharted trails.

Dream is like a butterfly. You have to chase it to discover worlds you never knew existed.

And she felt the beauty in the music now, drank it in with tears streaming down her face. Never had she been so naked in worship before her Creator, allowing the adoration to bleed out her very fingertips onto the strings, playing her heart's cry for every single lost soul, for the loss of innocence every generation to come would possess as a result of what happened at the killing fields of Auschwitz.

Life is full of joy and beauty. Look around and notice it. Notice the little butterfly, a little baby with a smile, and the white rose in the garden. Notice a drop of dew on a green leaf in the morning sun. Touch the wind, smell the rain, and feel the joy. Live your life with beauty and joy.

Does a caterpillar sit on the same leaf when it's a butterfly? No! It goes for a little fly and sees something of the world. Does the tadpole stay in the same pond once it's a frog? No! It stretches its legs, goes for a jump, explores other waters. Did Cinderella go back cleaning hearths once she married the prince? ... Transformation means moving forward. If a butterfly stays on the same leaf and a frog stays in the same pond, then they may as well have stayed a caterpillar or a tadpole. There was no point in metamorphosing.

The question is not “Can you make a difference?” You already do make a difference. It’s just a matter of what kind of a difference you want to make, during your life on this planet. (Taken from Black and Buddhist, thinking critically and teaching differently in the primary grades by Mary Cowhey)

Sometimes grief is like a wave, and healing is like a butterfly.

It is not because things die, That they are beautiful. Things are beautiful Because somehow, A part of them lives on And never dies…

In order to butterfly kiss, does it require caterpillar lips?

Fireflies, to me, are nighttime butterflies, Dazzling the night with magical flashes of light. When I see these teeny tiny sparks dart in the night, I am overcome with a sense of comfort and calm, Same as when a butterfly flutters around me during the day. I’m drawn to the dance of both astonishing critters. They remind me of life. They remind me of hope.

I won't be bringing flowers, They cannot reach you where you are. Ashes would return into ashes, But the ashes won't bring you home. I won't be bringing flowers, They'd wither away and die. I'd bring instead some butterflies, To help you reach the skies.

Then, she began to breathe, and live, and every moment took her to a place where goodbyes were hard to come by. She was in love, but not in love with someone or something; she was in love with her life. And for the first time, in a long time, everything was inspiring.

She could have wept. It was bad, it was bad, it was infinitely bad! She could have done it differently of course; the colour could have been thinned and faded; the shapes etherealised; that was how Paunceforte would have seen it. But then she did not see it like that. She saw the colour burning on a framework of steel; the light of a butterfly’s wing lying upon the arches of a cathedral. Of all that only a few random marks scrawled upon the canvas remained. And it would never be seen; never be hung even, and there was Mr Tansley whispering in her ear, “Women can’t paint, women can’t write ...” She now remembered what she had been going to say about Mrs Ramsay. She did not know how she would have put it; but it would have been something critical. She had been annoyed the other night by some highhandedness. Looking along the level of Mr Bankes’s glance at her, she thought that no woman could worship another woman in the way he worshipped; they could only seek shelter under the shade which Mr Bankes extended over them both. Looking along his beam she added to it her different ray, thinking that she was unquestionably the loveliest of people (bowed over her book); the best perhaps; but also, different too from the perfect shape which one saw there. But why different, and how different? she asked herself, scraping her palette of all those mounds of blue and green which seemed to her like clods with no life in them now, yet she vowed, she would inspire them, force them to move, flow, do her bidding tomorrow. How did she differ? What was the spirit in her, the essential thing, by which, had you found a crumpled glove in the corner of a sofa, you would have known it, from its twisted finger, hers indisputably? She was like a bird for speed, an arrow for directness. She was willful; she was commanding (of course, Lily reminded herself, I am thinking of her relations with women, and I am much younger, an insignificant person, living off the Brompton Road). She opened bedroom windows. She shut doors. (So she tried to start the tune of Mrs Ramsay in her head.) Arriving late at night, with a light tap on one’s bedroom door, wrapped in an old fur coat (for the setting of her beauty was always that—hasty, but apt), she would enact again whatever it might be—Charles Tansley losing his umbrella; Mr Carmichael snuffling and sniffing; Mr Bankes saying, “The vegetable salts are lost.” All this she would adroitly shape; even maliciously twist; and, moving over to the window, in pretence that she must go,—it was dawn, she could see the sun rising,—half turn back, more intimately, but still always laughing, insist that she must, Minta must, they all must marry, since in the whole world whatever laurels might be tossed to her (but Mrs Ramsay cared not a fig for her painting), or triumphs won by her (probably Mrs Ramsay had had her share of those), and here she saddened, darkened, and came back to her chair, there could be no disputing this: an unmarried woman (she lightly took her hand for a moment), an unmarried woman has missed the best of life. The house seemed full of children sleeping and Mrs Ramsay listening; shaded lights and regular breathing.

(Excerpt from) Everlasting: You can't touch hope But you can feel her Through the breath of angels And in the faces of those with hope etched in their eyes The ones that give you something to believe in once more Remember to cherish hope’s rays and her warmth As she rises through the fire As a phoenix reborn For hope springs eternal Like the shape of the rising sun And the pools of cascading gold From heavens-high As a new dawn wakes to come

Nature's wisdom teaches us that where life is in motion, it's healthy; where it's stagnant, it's dying. But people have to interpret that journey in a way that's authentic for them . . . whatever helps you. We call it "finding your own true north"-- like on a compass. In production-drive societies, we're tricked into believing that true north is outside of us. So we're constantly looking outside ourselves to figure out if this is the right job, the right house, the right relationship, the right subject to be studying. But our true north is invariably inside us . . . if we do what we love to do, what we're inspired to do, what we believe in, it creates an entirely different response.

Love Request: Isn't this all we request from love? A brave, vulnerable and sincere exposure, To be candidly seen in all our faults Blemishes, quirks and flaws Yet still be so implicitly loved Cherished, accepted And most of all, Wanted

The Dream I Dream For You, My Child ... I hope you search for four-leaf clovers, grin back at Cheshire moons, breathe in the springtime breezes, and dance with summer loons. I hope you gaze in wide-eyed wonder at the buzzing firefly and rest beneath the sunlit trees as butterflies fly by. I hope you gather simple treasures of pebbles, twigs, and leaves and marvel at the fragile web the tiny spider weaves. I hope you read poetry and fairy tales and sing silly, made-up songs, and pretend to be a superhero righting this world's wrongs. I hope your days are filled with magic and your nights with happy dreams, and you grow up knowing that happiness is found in simple things. The dream I dream for you, my child, as you discover, learn, and grow, is that you find these simple joys wherever in life you go.

Be a flower. Be a seed. Let your growth arouse curiosity. Let it fascinate and amaze. Let it inspire the artist and the scientist. Let it shock the doubters. Let it grant hope to the hopeless. Let it begin in silence, and end with a loud bang. Don’t be an open book - be mysterious. Be extraordinary, be undefinable, be a ball of fiery fire, and above all, grow in silence, and let your success do the talking.

Caterpillar sheds it's skin to find a butterfly within.

Butterfly Kisses Aged imperfections stitched upon my face years and years of wisdom earned by His holy grace. Quiet solitude in a humble home all the family scattered now like nomads do they roam. Then a gift sent from above a memory pure and tangible wrapped in innocence and unquestioning love. A butterfly kiss lands gently upon my cheek from an unseen child a kiss most sweet. Heaven grants grace and tears follow as youth revisits this empty hollow.

Once upon a time there was a small-town girl who lived in a small world. She was perfectly happy, or at least she told herself she was. Like many girls, she loved to try different looks, to be someone she wasn't. But, like too many girls, life had chipped away at her until, instead of finding what truly suited her, she camouflaged herself, hid the bits that made her different. For a while she let the world bruise her until she decided it was safer not to be herself at all. There are so many versions of ourselves we can choose to be. Once, my life was destined to be measured out in the most ordinary of steps. I learnt differently from a man who refused to accept the version of himself he'd been left with, and an old lady who saw, conversely, that she could transform herself, right up to a point when many people would have said there was nothing left to be done. I had a choice. I was Louisa Clark from New York, or Stortfold. Or there might be a whole other Louisa I hadn't met yet. The key was making sure that anyone you allowed to walk beside you didn't get to decide which you were, and pin you down like a butterfly in a case. The key was to know that you could always somehow find a way to reinvent yourself again.

God plants the talent and it grows, sustained by a spirit-given strength to endure, even in the midst of darkness. It thrives in the valleys of life and ignores the peaks. It blooms like a flower when cradled by the warmth of the sun. It remains in a hidden stairwell in a concentration camp. It grows, fed in secret, in the heart of every artist.

Do I have a code name? II'm pretty sure I get a code name. I'd like to choose it." His fingers fall from my elbow. A pity. "Yes," he says. "As a matter of fact, you do have a code name." "I knew it!" My twirl is the glee-filled kind. "What is it? Sidewinder or Lightning or maybe Pegasus?" "We were calling you Butterfly." Huh. "That's nice, I guess." A little soft, but okay. "Then, the tabloids gave you the moniker. The Lost Butterfly, so we had to change it." I perk up. "I suggested it," he baits. "What did you suggest?" I look up at Akio with stars in my eyes. The possibilities are endless---Sunshine, Moonflower, Cherry Blossom. My thoughts are a runaway train. Maybe he likes me. Maybe he's not as mean as he seems. Maybe I've terribly misjudged him and this is just a rocky start to a friendship that turns to love that will last the ages. Our affair will inspire folksy campfire ballads. It's the first time I see Akio smile. It's part evil, part satisfied, as if he's just won a bet with himself. "Radish.

Thoughts are just thoughts, and they can’t hurt you. My thoughts land in my mind like a butterfly; they stay for a while, then flutter away. The butterfly isn’t me. I can step away from it, and watch it, learn from it, enjoy it, without needing to absorb it into my identity.

Using time, pressure and patience, the universe gradually changes caterpillars into butterflies, sand into pearls, and coal into diamonds. You’re being worked on too, so hang in there. Just because something isn’t apparent right now, doesn’t mean it isn’t happening. It’s not until the end do you realize, sometimes your biggest blessings were disguised by pain and suffering. They were not placed there to break you, but to make you.

And I learned a valuable lesson: success is not something you pursue. Success is something you attract because of the person you become. What you pursue usually eludes you like the butterfly you can’t quite catch. But if you want to be successful, you must attract success by developing the skills and the appropriate mind-set. What you learn about the marketplace and its goods and services… that’s what’s valuable. The key to getting paid very well in the marketplace is to develop very valuable skills.

One Day: One day, you will heal One day, you will be grateful for the deepest cuts of pain One day, you will glance at yourself And see a stronger person through your reflection One day, you will kiss away your hurt... gently, and with grace Until then, use it all to propel you forward Like a white-hot pyre through your star-spangled eyes A fire to regenerate every shadowy cell And open your heart to every experience Knowing that one day You will search your heart And understand that love is the only thing to ever hold onto

It is currently said that hope goes with youth, and lends to youth its wings of a butterfly; but I fancy that hope is the last gift given to man, and the only gift not given to youth. Youth is pre-eminently the period in which a man can be lyric, fanatical, poetic; but youth is the period in which a man can be hopeless. The end of every episode is the end of the world. But the power of hoping through everything, the knowledge that the soul survives its adventures, that great inspiration comes to the middle-aged; God has kept that good wine until not. It is from the backs of the elderly gentlemen that the wings of the butterfly should burst.

What the caterpillar calls the end of the world, the Master calls a butterfly.” —Richard David Bach The caterpillar believes it is dying because it's being sealed in a tomb. The Master knows that the caterpillar is not dying, and is simply transitioning (to something more). This points out that things are never over, that change is carrying us, (so often kicking and screaming), to higher states of being. I find it interesting that the caterpillar spends it's caterpillar existence crawling, (on a lone weed in the midst of an endless beautiful forest), surviving on bitter, poisonous leaves. Yet resists the changes to come. After the caterpillars "death"... And upon the butterflie's rebirth... The butterfly lives out it's butterfly existence experiencing all of the forest's wonders, being carried by the wind, landing on beauty, and drinking sweet nectar, all the while, being shielded from harm by the caterpillar's bitter and poisonous experiences of eating the weeds. Without the struggles of the caterpillar, the butterfly could never be. It is Truly wonderful how something as simple as caterpillars and butterflies can be such amazing reminders sent to us by a Loving Eternal Creator.

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.

Lollipops and raindrops Sunflowers and sun-kissed daisies Rolling surf and raging sea Sailing ships and submarines Old Glory and “purple mountain’s majesty” Screaming guitar and lilting rhyme Flight of fancy and high-steppin’ dances Set free my mind to wander… Imagine the ant’s marching journeys. Fly, in my mind’s eye, on butterfly wings. Roam the distant depths of space. Unfurl tall sails and cross the ocean. Pictures made just to enthrall Creating images from my truth Painting hopes and dreams on my canvas Capturing, through my lens, the ephemeral Let me ruminate ‘pon sensual darkness… Tremble o’er Hollywood’s fluttering Gothics… Ride the edge of my seat with the hero… Weep with the heroine’s desperation. Yet… more than all these things… Give me words spun out masterfully… Terms set out in meter and rhyme… Phrases bent to rattle the soul… Prose that always miraculously inspires me! The trill runs up my spine, as I recall… A touch… a caress…a whispered kiss… Ebony eyes embracing my soul… Two souls united in beat of hearts. A butterfly flutter in my womb My lover’s wonder o’er my swelling The testament of our love given life Newly laid in my lover’s arms Luminous, sweet ebony eyes Just so much like his father’s A gaze of wonder and contentment From my babe at mother’s breast Words of the Divine set down for me Faith, Hope, Love, and Charity Grace, Mercy, and undeserved Salvation “My Shepherd will supply my need” These are the things that inspire me.