C Bloom Quotes

She would bloom where she was planted and let her roots close around the throats of her enemies.

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.

A flower blooms best in a happy pot.

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.

Love doesn’t suffocate. It makes the world bloom. She

This is not a romance. This is a love story. The characters are flawed to the point of being broken. The hero is beautiful, but ugly in ways that defy the ordinary imagination. The heroine isn’t trapped in a tower, but a dark and lonely room. There is no prince coming to save her. While love blooms and thrives, there is no happily ever after. Love does not always begin or end the way we wish it would

I'v planted my seeds for my upcoming events. but right now, Im just waiting for them to bloom

If my mother and I shared anything without having carefully considered it, it was this undying ember of a dream that we will someday, somehow find ourselves reaping the bounty of a blooming mother-daughter bond, the roots of which we both refuse to tend in the meantime.

You must prune to bloom. If the dead weight is not pruned and removed, it compromises the quality, performance, and output of the vine. When you prune what’s not working in your life, you make the space and place for renewal to happen and for new growth to spring forth.

look mother, look at me now, kingdoms blooming beneath my feet and a throne of shadows for me.

The erotic instinct is something questionable, and will always be so whatever a future set of laws may have to say on the matter. It belongs, on the one hand, to the original animal nature of man, which will exist as long as man has an animal body. On the other hand, it is connected with the highest forms of the spirit. But it blooms only when the spirit and instinct are in true harmony. If one or the other aspect is missing, then an injury occurs, or at least there is a one-sided lack of balance which easily slips into the pathological. Too much of the animal disfigures the civilized human being, too much culture makes a sick animal.

The speed of him was like the ostrich, and his size was an elephant's; his hair was like pure gold and the brightness of his eyes like gold that is liquid in the furnace. He was more terrible than the Flaming Mountain of Lagour, and in beauty he surpassed all that is in the world even as the rose in bloom surpasses the dust of the desert.

At that instant I became a blooming lotus flower. The water in which I flourished was a single teardrop from Nyx.

For a raven ever croaks, at my side, Keep watch and ward, keep watch and ward." ––ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON

There is a part of blooming which I did not understand, you see. You can be a flower all your life but still not understand it. Blooming is one thing; but blooming where you are planted is another. It's so easy to say, "I will bloom when I am there", but you need to be saying, "I will bloom right here, where I was planted." Because until I bloom "right here", I'm never going to actually bloom; because we cannot do it in concept, you see, we must bloom now. We must bloom here. The flower must trust.

Allan Bloom, in his book The Closing oftheAmerican Mind, chronicled the epidemic rise of moral relativism that reduces ethics to personal preferences rather than to objective norms for what is right and wrong.

He told her the story of the missionary's bride who wrote home describing her bungalow in an African forest clearing. "Outside my window as I write is a magnificent hibiscus with hundreds of blooms making a splendid splash of color against the jungle." A year later, she wrote again, and she said outside her window was that "damned hibiscus, still blooming.

Si tu aimes une fleur qui se trouve dans une étoile, c'esit doux, la nuit, de regarder le ciel. Toutes les étoiles sont fleuries. (If you love a flower that lives on a star, it is sweet to look at the sky at night. All the stars are a-bloom with flowers.)

Some of my friends in the other nations would argue that, on occasion, truth and beauty must be defended with ugliness. They would claim a gardener who nurtures a flower so others can enjoy it bloom for a few moments must spend much time with their hands buried in dirt.” Kyoshi would have chosen a less pleasant word than dirt. “What do you believe then?” Jinpa smiled sadly. “I believe I have to make peace with my own choices, just like everyone else.” The tint of pain in his expression reminded her too much of Kelsang for her to believe Jinpa was at complete peace with himself. Outsiders enviously and condescendingly assumed Airbenders lived in a state of innocent bliss, but that didn’t give the monks and nuns enough credit for their inner strength. From what Kyoshi knew, belonging to the wandering nation meant a constant struggle with your own morals against the world’s.

milk-froth bloom of wild carrots

Find your whole future by going deep inside of you. There is a blooming success that will only hasten when you discover the whole world inside of you. Tania Tome (C)

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 not bury your sorrows like seeds in a garden; instead, let them cascade onto the soil of the earth the way rain patters on rooftops, flows down bricks, alas to drench grass and flowers. Do not bury your anguish; let it drip like rainclouds; you will miss the sunlight but when blooms finally blossom, you'll understand that the sun cannot grow flowers without her rain.

Consider the blue rose: if she were to say, "I will only bloom when I am blue", then she would never bloom at all. Blue roses do not exist. But the blue rose is a rose that bloomed white, then somebody's hands came to paint her blue later on. Someone saw her, and painted blue on her. There would be no blue roses at all if white ones didn't bloom where they are planted. Things change. Bloom now.

In The Shadow Of The Night All the clouds are gray, and the sky is dark as night. Soft words are spoken, and there's a twinkle, of a flicker of light. The presence of a Man walks by, and Mighty and Powerful is He. Kneeling down to pray, He says a prayer for me. The sky becomes brighter, and the leaves of the trees turn green. The flowers begin to bloom, and there's a warm gentle breeze. Thank you Lord for setting me free...

Observe this lotus flower blooming before us in the pond. If you study it hard, really look, you will see that below this surface picture, it is the mud and rot of a stagnant pond that is actually producing the lotus flower’s pretty bloom.

There is a part of blooming which I did not understand, you see. You can be a flower all your life but still not understand it. Blooming is one thing; but blooming where you are planted is another. It's so easy to say, "I will bloom when I am there", but you need to be saying, "I will bloom right here, where I was planted." Because until I bloom "right here", I'm never going to actually bloom; because we cannot bloom in concept, you see, we must to bloom now. We must bloom here.

I was peculiarly moved by the angelic life growing on the ground. I have no idea what sorts of flowers grow there in profusion -- I don’t know their names. But I was so moved that I sat down, trying to flatten as few grasses and plants as possible with my clumsy backside... This brought my head quite close to the silent, joyful, exuberant, celestial children of heaven. They are so humble, so quiet, and they do not mind if you observe them, if you think they are beautiful... Nor do they mind if you don’t look at all -- they just stand there together all by themselves in the huge stretch of woods and grow and bloom just the same, peacefully, joyfully, and silently. I am absolutely sure that they know nothing of the swinish and filthy behaviour of people in their dirty stinking houses -- they know only about heaven.

I realised one day not so long ago, that I believe in many things, but that I do not trust any of them. I have, for the longest time, not trusted anything that I believe in. And so it dawned upon me: that belief and trust are two entirely different things. One may believe wholeheartedly without trusting for a minute. I have been like a seed in the ground: believing that the Sun is shining somewhere up there; believing that rain falls and that it probably feels really good too; believing that there is Winter and Summer, Spring and Fall... but never trusting anything that I believe in enough to break through the soil and reach my branches up towards the sky! The French have a saying from the 15'th Century: "Fleuris là où tu es plantée", which means, "Bloom where you are planted". Blooming has everything to do with trust, I have discovered, and very little to do with belief. To become anything at all, the seed must trust. And so shall I.

In The Shadow Of The Night All the clouds are gray, and the sky is dark as night. Soft words are spoken, and there's a twinkle, of a flicker of light. The presence of a Man walks by, and Mighty and Powerful is He. Kneeling down to pray, He says a prayer for me. The sky becomes brighter, and the leaves of the trees turn green. The flowers begin to bloom, and there's a warm gentle breeze. Thank you Lord for setting me free...

Administrative man recognizes that the world he perceives is a drastically simplified model of the buzzing, blooming confusion that constitutes the real world. He is content with the gross simplification because he believes that the real world is mostly empty—that most of the facts of the real world have no great relevance to any particular situation he is facing and that most significant chains of causes and consequences are short and simple. —Herbert Simon

Zen is the Japanese word for the Indian dhyana which means enlightenment; they have another word satori, and also sambodhi, which mean the same-illumination. A Chinese statesman, a follower of Confucius, came to the master and asked to be initiated into the mysteries of Zen, and the master consented, and added, "You know, your master Confucius once said to his disciples: 'I have told you everything, I have kept nothing back.' " And the statesman said that was true. A few days later the master and the statesman took a walk together in the hills at the time when the wild laurel was in bloom and the air was full of its perfume. Then the master said to his initiant: "Do you smell it?" And the initiant replied that he did. Then the master said: "There, I have told you everything, I have kept nothing back." And the statesman was enlightened. He realized. It broke through into consciousness. Understand that if you can! Jung, C. G.. Nietzsche's Zarathustra: Notes of the Seminar given in 1934-1939. Two Volumes: 1-2, unabridged (Jung Seminars) (p. 1290)

she would write poignantly in her last book, The Life of the Mind, published after her death in 1978: In this world which we enter, appearing from a nowhere, and from which we disappear into a nowhere, Being and Appearing coincide. . . . Seen from the viewpoint of the spectators to whom [a human life] appears and from whose view it finally disappears, each individual life, its growth and decline, is a developmental process in which an entity unfolds itself in an upward movement until all its properties are fully exposed; this phase is followed by a period of standstill — its bloom or epiphany, as it were — which in turn is succeeded by the downward movement of disintegration that is terminated by complete disappearance.7

February gave way to March, with its bursting colors of a too-early spring. Such warm weather was a welcome contrast to the near freezes of the previous year, as if this newborn century was impatient to exhibit its glory and all the unforeseen changes it would bring. Alice’s heart expanded at the sight of white snowdrops in lieu of absent snow; the vivid purples of wild petunias, pincushion flowers, and irises laced with the varying hues of tulips; and the glorious flowering shrubs---azaleas and camellias---lighting up the shade, covered entirely in blossoms as if they nurtured blooms but no leaves. She had seen the prairie carpeted in wildflowers, but this display was unlike that wild one of nature, somehow singularly intimate and welcoming, whereas the prairie engulfed and dwarfed her. There is not one thing that humankind has done on earth that is equal to one square inch of this, she thought.

The King who owned this island,” said Caspian slowly, and his face flushed as he spoke, “would soon be the richest of all Kings of the world. I claim this land forever as a Narnian possession. It shall be called Goldwater Island. And I bind all of you to secrecy. No one must know of this. Not even Drinian--on pain of death, do you hear?” “Who are you talking to?” said Edmund. “I’m no subject of yours. If anything it’s the other way round. I am one of the four ancient sovereigns of Narnia and you are under allegiance to the High King my brother.” “So it has come to that, King Edmund, has it?” said Caspian, laying his hand on his sword-hilt. “Oh, stop it, both of you,” said Lucy. “That’s the worst of doing anything with boys. You’re all such swaggering, bullying idiots--oooh!--” Her voice died away into a gasp. And everyone else saw what she had seen. Across the gray hillside above them--gray, for the heather was not yet in bloom--without noise, and without looking at them, and shining as if he were in bright sunlight though the sun had in fact gone in, passed with slow pace the hugest lion that human eyes have ever seen. In describing the scene Lucy said afterward, “He was the size of an elephant,” though at another time she only said, “The size of a cart-horse.” But it was not the size that mattered. Nobody dared to ask what it was. They knew it was Aslan. And nobody ever saw how or where he went. They looked at one another like people waking from sleep. “What were we talking about?” said Caspian. “Have I been making rather an ass of myself?” “Sire,” said Reepicheep, “this is a place with a curse on it. Let us get back on board at once. And if I might have the honor of naming this island, I should call it Deathwater.” “That strikes me as a very good name, Reep,” said Caspian, “though now that I come to think of it, I don’t know why. But the weather seems to be settling and I dare say Drinian would like to be off. What a lot we shall have to tell him.” But in fact they had not much to tell for the memory of the last hour had all become confused.

Bloom filter Bloom filter is a sample subset of the primary index with very fast nondeterministic algorithms to check whether an element is a member of a set. It is used to boost the performance.

Remember: From mud and murk, the red flower blooms, overcoming all to stretch toward the moon.

Try not to laugh. To the girl with golden hair and beauty with no compare. Wait for me at midnight. Sit at your window, in your lovely pink chair and wait, my sweet. I’ll find you there. C

When the women turned and looked, they saw a plant growing so fast it almost covered the trail behind them as they watched. In a little while, far less time than it should have taken, the plants started blooming. Beautiful white roses, each with five petals and with a golden center that the Creator said represented the white man’s greed. The stems had seven green leaves, one for each of the Cherokee clans, and were covered with sharp thorns to protect the beautiful flower and keep anyone from trying to pull it up or move it.

The most important outcome of Lewis’s time at Cherbourg was that he won a scholarship to Malvern College. Yet Lewis recalls a number of developments in his inner life to which his schooling at Cherbourg was essentially a backdrop, rather than a cause or stimulus. One of the most important was his discovery of what he termed “Northernness,” which took place “fairly early” during his time at Cherbourg. Lewis regarded this discovery as utterly and gloriously transformative, comparable to a silent and barren Arctic icescape turning into “a landscape of grass and primroses and orchards in bloom, deafened with bird songs and astir with running water.

He is the picture of grace, a flower in full bloom to the sun, open and glorious and beautiful in his vulnerability.

ENCOURAGE SOMEONE TODAY AND YOU MIGHT GET TO WATCH THEM BLOOM TOMORROW.

What will YOU do with the truth?

I did what I did because I loved you, C,” he murmured. “I still do. I’ve... always loved you. It’s only ever been you.

I repeated the word "sunrise," and the sound opened like a spring bloom on the tip of my tongue. There are few words worthy of the wonders they describe, but sunrise sounds like it feels. A 'u' sunken to the bottom of one's throat, and an 'i' pointing upward and onward to a warm beyond.

a lot of evolution has gone over the dam since 3.5 billion B.C. What, if anything, has happened to the global brain since then? The story is a strange one. Paleontological dogma has it that virtually nothing of significance occurred again until the Cambrian explosion roughly 535 million years ago.

True to Dr. Sauer’s words, 1.4 billion years33 after the new eukaryotic refinements had begun, the first really exotic multicellular beings made their debut beneath the sun.34 One recently discovered fossil clam dates to over 720 million B.C.

A gardener who nurtures a flower so others can enjoy it bloom for a few moments must spend much time with their hands buried in dirt.

[The curve of your eyes] La courbe de tes yeux fait le tour de mon coeur, Un rond de danse et de douceur, Auréole du temps, berceau nocturne et sûr, Et si je ne sais plus tout ce que j’ai vécu C’est que tes yeux ne m’ont pas toujours vu. Feuilles de jour et mousse de rosée, Roseaux du vent, sourires parfumés, Ailes couvrant le monde de lumière, Bateaux chargés du ciel et de la mer, Chasseurs des bruits et sources des couleurs, Parfums éclos d’une couvée d’aurores Qui gît toujours sur la paille des astres, Comme le jour dépend de l’innocence Le monde entier dépend de tes yeux purs Et tout mon sang coule dans leurs regards. *** The curve of your eyes goes around my heart, A round of dance and sweetness, Halo of time, nocturnal and safe cradle, And if I don’t know any more all that I’ve lived through It’s because I haven’t always been seen by you. Leaves of day and scum of dew, Reeds of the wind, perfumed smiles, Wings covering the world with light, Ships filled with the sky and the sea, Hunters of noises and sources of colours, Perfumes bloomed from a brood of dawns That always lies on the straw of the stars, As the day depends on innocence The whole world depends on your pure eyes And all my blood flows in their looks. Paul Éluard , L’Amour la poésie (1929) Translated by Anne-Charlotte Husson

Numbers from Heaven" by Kurtis C. R. Palmer & Ramona Palmer is the first picture book in the Womb to BLOOM to Classroom series. It has vividly beautiful 3D illustrations that almost leap out of the book's pages, quickly capturing the interest of young ones. From the very first pages, they'd want to follow Zoey, the Zebra and P.B., the Panda Bear, learning and even enhancing the power of their imagination. This book opens to children a whole new world that's not only educational but also fun and worth their time. Parents and their kids can spend precious bonding moments while learning to count and even recognize some colors. The story itself takes the child to simple exercises in counting, allowing the young one to master the number being taught. Zoey's story also contains some mystery that kids can look forward to. As she discovers the treasure chest left by her Grandpa, who knows what wonders await her and her friend as they try to unlock the secret behind each key that they possess! Being the first book in a whole series that promises to teach various subjects, parents and children can definitely look forward to new adventures with Zoey and her friends. I was so happy when the book even presented a bonus animated reading of the story for those who subscribe to their Newsletter. I watched it right away and I couldn't wait to watch for more. I'm certain my nephews would enjoy both the book and the animation as they get to know Zoey and her set of friends. Two thumbs up and five stars for this educational and fun-filled book!

Who in the name of Oma’s bastard children were the Autumn Bloom?

Grab me by the pussy, you’ll take your dick home in a bag.

Breath!’ A voice, wild with anxiety, ordered, and I felt a cruel stab of pain where I recognized the voice because it wasn't Marcel’s. I could not obey. The waterfall pouring from my mouth didn't stop long enough for me to catch a breath. The black, icy water filled my chest, burning. The rock smacked into my back again, right between my shoulder blades, and another volley of water choked its way out of my lungs. ‘Breathe, Bell! C'mon!’ Marcel begged. Black spots bloomed across my vision, getting wider and wider, blocking out the light. The rock struck me again. The rock wasn't cold like the water; it was hot on my skin. I realized it was Marcel’s hand, trying to beat the water from my lungs. The iron bar that had dragged me from the sea was also… warm… My head whirled; the black spots covered everything… Was I dying again, then? I didn't like it. This wasn't as good as the last time. It was only dark now, nothing worth looking at here. The sound of the crashing waves faded into the black and became a quiet, even whoosh that sounded like it was coming from the inside of my ears… ‘Bell?’ Marcel asked, his voice still tense, but not as wild as before. ‘Bells, honey, can you hear me?’ The contents of my head swished and rolled sickeningly like they'd joined the rough water… ‘How long has she been unconscious?’ someone else asked. The voice that was not Marcel’s shocked me, jarred me into a more focused awareness. I realized that I was still. There was no tug of the current on me-the heaving was inside my head. The surface under me was flat and motionless. It felt grainy against my bear arms. ‘I don't know,’ Marcel reported, still frantic. His voice was very close. Hands-so warm they had to be his- I brushed wet hair from my cheeks. ‘A few minutes? It didn't take long to tow her to the beach.’ The quiet whooshing inside my ears was not the waves-it was the air moving in and out of my lungs again. Each breath burned-the passageways were as raw as if I'd scrubbed them out with steel wool. But I was breathing. And I was freezing. A thousand sharp, icy beads were striking my face and arms, making the cold worse. ‘She's breathing. She'll come around. We should get her out of the cold, though. I don't like the color she's turning…’ I recognized Sam's voice this time. ‘You think it's okay to move her?’ ‘She didn't hurt her back or anything when she fell?’ ‘I don't know.’ They hesitated.

What’s your favorite part of the trip?” “I don’t have one.” “C’mon, there must’ve been something.” “I took a weekend trip to Caño Cristales. I liked seeing the different colors of the river. It was like a liquid rainbow.” Many of the students had spent their time traveling around Colombia on the weekends. No one had a car, but we could hop on a plane for fairly cheap and fly into different areas such as Bogotá, the country’s official capital city, or Cali, the salsa-dancing capital of the world. Amanda had even convinced me to fly with her to the seductive, sizzling city of Cartagena. We climbed the fortified walls that had once protected the city from pirate attacks and watched the sunset. The entire city had a Miami-style skyline and, after the sun went down, infatuation seemed to bloom into fever and take hold of the city. At night we could hear the clink of rum bottles and mojito glasses in cafés on almost every street as moonlight picked out the silhouettes of softly swaying couples. We walked for hours along the coastal city streets. Candle flames beckoned from the dimness of nearby baroque churches.

placed her hand upon a silver, globe-shaped apparatus. “Begonia’s Big Book of Botanical Blooms,” she whispered, causing a glowing white line to radiate out from the base of the ornate index in the direction of the shelf containing that particular book. As the line zigged and zagged between enormous stacks, Evalina always found it exciting to try to outrun it, even though she never won. Only once the spine of the book she had been looking for began to glow was the index’s task finally complete, and just as soon as Evalina retrieved the illustrated tome from its shelf, the line swiftly receded to its source.

the sideline of any of their playfields.  The late-blooming "ethnic" kid in the WASP neighborhood.  Newly arrived after yet another surprise relocation for the sake of his father's insatiable desire to move up to neighborhoods that were supposed to confer ever-higher status. The undersized, underdeveloped outsider and oddball.  Forgotten, marginalized, and left on the sideline to ponder his inadequacy.

Hornblower looked out over the lush green of the park; beyond it rose the massive curves of the Down, and to one side the tower of Smallbridge church rose above the trees. On that side, too, an orchard was in full bloom, exquisitely lovely. Park and orchard and church were all his; he was the squire, a landed gentleman, owner of many acres, being welcomed by his tenantry. Behind him was his house, full of his servants; on his breast the ribbon and star of an order of chivalry; and in London Coutts & Company had in their vaults a store of golden guineas which were his as well. This was the climax of a man's ambition. Fame, wealth, security, love, a child- he had all that the heart could desire. Hornblower, standing at the head of the steps while the parson droned on, was puzzled to find that he was still not happy. He was irritated with himself in consequence. He out to be running over with pride and joy and happiness, and yet here he was contemplating the future with faint dismay p11

She was standing at Ulrika’s garden gate, gazing at the flowerbeds packed with blooms

Perhaps it was ever my fate to dwell alone in the myth of my own life, to bear witness to the legend that has sprung around me like some venomous bloom. I have been called murderess and opportunist, savior and victim.

This world of shadows and violence is no place for love to bloom. And yet, amidst the gunpowder and blood, the thought of Damien brings a whisper of solace. It's his name that rings as a silent prayer on my lips.

Dragons are not specifically disallowed in the airspace over Washington, D.C., but it must be said that Orm the Beautiful’s presenece there was heartily discouraged. Nevertheless, he persevered, holding his flame and the lash of his wings, and succeeded in landing in the National Mall without destroying any of the attacking aircraft.

Yesterday’s croissant is like an old girlfriend, not much to look at and worse to spend time with. The bloom is both fragile and brief. The schedule of our mornings, therefore, is governed by the time at which the day's fresh croissants can be gotten warm from the baker's oven. It may be that all Paris organizes itself around that moment, for hardly anyone goes to work before 9:30.

We walked through the brief moments granted between midnights, holding fast to the glimmers of elation and joy to ground us when anguish crashed in downpour. We were suspended in the tension between birth and death, chasing purpose and fulfillment. And in this moment—in this place—I felt mine begin to bloom.

The respect I have for her has bloomed into this monster that's taken up residence inside of me, made me fall hard for a girl I'll never get.

Indeed, the manufacture of iron had come into common use in Britain as early as the eighth century BC. It was discovered that heating iron-bearing ore to a high temperature with the use of charcoal, fanned by a draught of air, creates a solid lump of metal (a 'bloom'). When re-heated, the metal can be hammered into a shape. This is 'wrought iron'. If additional carbon is added to the ore, the melting temperature is reduced, which allows liquid iron ore to be poured into a mould. This is 'cast iron'. In the course of the fifteenth century, a furnace was developed which used blasts of heated and compressed air to drive up the temperature. This is a 'blast furnace'. The molten iron is run off into moulds consisting of a main channel connected to a number of shorter channels at right angles. As this resembles a sow suckling her pigs, the cast iron which results is known as 'pig iron'.

While iron oxide makes up over 6% of the Earth’s crust, it took a long time for mankind to figure out how to convert dirt into something as useful as steel. The first smelting of iron from ore was probably accidental when some iron-bearing ore was mixed in with the copper ore during the smelting of copper. Iron ore is composed mostly of various iron oxides which need to be reduced – have oxygen removed – to form metallic iron. The iron ore was mixed with charcoal, which is mostly carbon, and fired. The carbon dioxide produced by burning charcoal combines with the hot carbon in the charcoal, forming carbon monoxide. The hot carbon monoxide turns again to carbon dioxide by stealing oxygen from – reducing – the iron oxides, leaving metallic iron behind. But the heat needed for melting copper isn’t nearly sufficient to melt the iron that may be present in the copper ore. The reaction from ore to iron occurs while in a solid state when the iron forms into a solid, ugly mass of spongy metal called a bloom. The bloom’s cavities were full of slag (molten impurities from the smelting) that needed to be removed. Someone must have recognized the spongy mass as a metallic substance, probably by using appropriate scientific methodology such as hitting it with a rock. Eventually, the bloom was processed by heating it to the slag’s melting point and hammering on it until all of the slag had squirted out. This would be hard, dangerous and resource-intensive work as the iron was reheated and beaten over and over to produce wrought iron. This process was the way iron was made from late B.C. to early A.D.

Of course, different people focus on different aspects of the private. For example, in America, conservatives often try to keep the government’s hand out of citizens’ pockets, while at the same time – in the case of moral conservatives – wanting it to get into people’s bedrooms; whereas liberals, on the other hand, strive to keep the government’s hand out of people’s bedrooms, while urging it to dip into people’s pockets. In spite of their different foci, both the Republic and many modern Western thinkers concentrate almost exclusively on conflicting aspects between the private and the public. Early Confucians also saw these, but they understood that the division between the two realms is not sharp, and that aspects of the private can be constructive in relation to the public interest. In particular, the family belongs to the private realm if we compare it to the community, but it belongs to the public realm when held against the mere self. Thus, to cultivate familial relations does not necessarily lead to the dominance of private interests over public. With this fundamental insight, the early Confucians’ solution to the conflict between the private and the public was not to suppress the private completely, but to cultivate its constructive aspects so as to overcome the ones in conflict with the public. The remedy for familialism is not abolition of the family, as the Republic appears to suggest, but cultivation of familial care, thereby extending the familial boundary and turning familial care into fully fledged compassion. It is interesting to note that the apparent ideal in the Republic is to make the whole city-state a big family by, paradoxically, abolishing the traditional family; in this big family, everyone is ‘a brother, or a sister, or a father, or a mother, or a son, or a daughter or their descendants or ancestors’ (Republic 463c; Bloom 1991: 143). But it is in China that this ideal has been realized. A sense of community and the perception of the state as a big family are deep in the Chinese psyche, due in large part to Confucian thought.

A bubble of clarity bloomed in my mind. It was those words she used. I hated those words. Tramp. Whore. The friends and women I’d known over the past century or so had been called the same names—the streetwalkers and the actresses and the mistresses, the dancers and the abandoned wives. They’d all endured the words forged into blades, weapons to cut them down.

I don’t know… is it being stubborn, or is it being cautious?” “Why be either, when you could be happy? And I don’t mean temporary happiness. Not the kind where you know it’s not good for you, but you keep indulging anyway. I’m talking about deep happiness, where you’re blooming and blossoming and comfortable in your skin. And if there’s a certain someone who adds to that, instead of taking away, well, what the hell is wrong with that?

Four years to the day after Fairchild's 1908 gift of the trees to Washington's schools, on March 27, 1912, Mrs. Taft broke dirt during the private ceremony in West Potomac Park near the banks of the Potomac River. The wife of the Japanese ambassador was invited to plant the second tree. Eliza Scidmore and David Fairchild took shovels not long after. The 3,020 trees were more than could fit around the tidal basin. Gardeners planted extras on the White House grounds, in Rock Creek Park, and near the corner of Seventeenth and B streets close to the new headquarters of the American Red Cross. It took only two springs for the trees to become universally adored, at least enough for the American government to feel the itch to reciprocate. No American tree could rival the delicate glamour of the sakura, but officials decided to offer Japan the next best thing, a shipment of flowering dogwoods, native to the United States, with bright white blooms. Meanwhile, the cherry blossoms in Washington would endure over one hundred years, each tree replaced by clones and cuttings every quarter century to keep them spry. As the trees grew, so did a cottage industry around them: an elite group of gardeners, a team to manage their public relations, and weather-monitoring officials to forecast "peak bloom"---an occasion around which tourists would be encouraged to plan their visits. Eventually, cuttings from the original Washington, D.C, trees would also make their way to other American cities with hospitable climates. Denver, Colorado; Birmingham, Alabama; Saint Paul, Minnesota.

Nobody would answer their doors,” Bloom said. “You know how it is. Fear has a good way of keeping people quiet.

The truth be told, that shadow over the porte-cochere is probably nothing more than swamp fire, those mysterious lights that flash over a body of water. 

He closed his eyes, and in moments sleep overtook him, the night pulsing out darkness on the legs of summer crickets.

For instance, most everyone agrees that a just society promotes equality among its citizens, but blood is spilled over what sort of equality is morally preferable: equality of opportunity or equality of outcome. Is it fair for the most productive people to possess more than everyone else, so long as they had equal opportunities to start with? Is it fair for a government to take money from the rich to give to the poor—and does the answer change if the goal of such redistribution is not to help the poor in a tangible sense but just to make people more equal, as in Louis C.K.’s story of breaking his other daughter’s toy? The psychologist William Damon, in a

What will emerge from this paused emptiness? What emotions will spark? Which hopes ignite And burst like fire weaves from nothingness A fierce blooming in the desperate night. Quick bursting light, souls reaching in the dark Where love can take form, unfurl wings, be born And burn like the stars, silver, spare and stark Or fail to fly, crash, lie bloody and torn Lie broken, forlorn, or take wing, fly free Explode in to life, with Tairen roar Rending the air. Rending her. Rending me. To leave us gasping, stunned, searching for more Forged, anvilled, hammered, tempered, together, True mated. Loved. Forever. Forever. Shei’tanitsa Sonnet, by Ellysetta Feyreisa

That child would forever play in the gardens and dance with the rain. The child who would bury her face into lilacs and roses and blooms of hyacinth, and breathe in their sweet perfumes. She could ride on the wind and bathe in the stars. She who danced beneath the moon hearing music of her own as she ran through the shadows of the forest. The same child who scaled barefoot the cliffs of her glen and stripped her clothes off to stand naked in the rain while she gazed out over the waterfalls. (c)

lose your mother is to be partially unanchored to the Earth. Like there had always been these ropes fixing me in place – Mum and Dad. When Mum went, one of the ropes snapped.

I looked down at her – my daughter – her tiny hands pushed up to her chin – fingers splayed like her face was the centre of a flower. This little girl who had grown inside me, against my will, forcing me to feel things I didn’t want to, didn’t think I could. She was part of me. Built of my skin, my bones, my hairs, my nails. She was wound up so tightly within me, I couldn’t untie her now if I wanted to.

In 2017 scientists from the Woods Hole Oceanographic Institute tried to measure the methane seeping up from Norway’s Arctic coast, where the oceans are warmer than they used to be. They discovered that the warming that was pushing up the methane was also pumping nutrients from the seafloor to the surface. The nutrients were feeding huge blooms of phytoplankton. To the scientists’ astonishment, the plankton took in so much carbon dioxide via photosynthesis that they more than canceled out the effects of the methane. This is a small example of a general problem: our continuing ignorance about the impacts of life.

O’er the earth there comes a bloom; Sunny light for sullen gloom; Warm perfume for vapor cold— I smell the rose above the mold! —Thomas Hood

Life is very much like a garden, Olivia. And people are like tiny seeds, nurtured by love and friendship and caring. And if enough time and care are spent, they bloom into gorgeous flowers. And sometimes, even an old, neglected plant left in a yard gone to seed will unexpectedly burst into blossom. These are the most precious, the most cherished blossoms of all. You will be that sort of flower, Olivia. It may take time, but your flowering will come.

it bloomed with scintillating, yellow poppies; its roots had spread hundreds of feet over the centuries.

yellow, traced with black, and moored in spongy-looking gums. “That’s better, you little bastard. Old Alice got ye. Alice got you fine. You can be fresh or you can be dead, doesn’t matter to me. The kids’ll mind a bit, but not for long, I wager. Not for long. Then I can get back to me flowers on the roof. Heeee! The flowers are in bloom up there. You should see em. But you can’t. Youcan’tyoucan’tyou can’t, HEEE!” While she babbled, the scalpel drifted upwards, where she punctuated each can’t by jabbing the surgical tool at his right eye. Terrified, Gus squeezed his eyelid shut and expected any moment to have two inches of blade lick his cornea. “That’s it, that’s it, shhhhh shhhhhh,” Alice coddled him. “You be fine. You be quiet. It won’t

I was, however, determined to bloom where I was planted

The odour of the sweet pea is so offensive to flies that it will drive them out of a sick-room, though not in the slightest degree disagreeable to the patient.’ – A TIP FROM The 1899 Old Farmer’s Almanac

Marriages fall apart every day," she told her reflection. "Other women live through it. So will you." But how? Claire moved closer to the mirror and stared into her eyes, eyes that Kirk claimed were the color of the irises that bloomed every spring under their front window. Who was this woman staring back at her? A wife. A mother. Who else? What did other people see? What did they think?

You’re like a pretty wilting flower, trying so hard to bloom beneath the midnight sun.” His grip tightened in my hair, his gaze narrowing. “Death suits you, darling. Perhaps you should embrace it.

The bloom will happen When we are fully tended ready

I guess we could do that. I hadn’t really planned on staying. I was just here to drop off your hat.” I huff a laugh. “How someone could be so beautiful and so full of shit at the same time is astounding to me.” Her smile blooms. I motion towards my open door. “C’mon, Doc.”