Carving Initials In A Tree Quotes

What I said yesterday didn't mean anything! I love everyone in the flock! Plus, it was the Valium talking!" "Uh-huh. You just keep telling yourself that. You looove me." Max: (tries to punch him) "Pick a tree. I'll go carve our initials in it." Max: (screams and runs into bathroom)

Pick a tree. I'll carve our initials into it." -Fang

Byatt’s carved her initials over and over. BW. BW. BW. She does that everywhere. On the bunk, on her desk in every class we had, on the trees in the grove by the water. Marking Raxter as hers, and sometimes I think if she asked, I’d let her do the same to me.

An unbearable smug look came over his usually impassive face."Uh-huh. You just keep telling youself that. You looove me." I took a swing at him, but he jumped back nimbly, and all I did was jar my left arm, making it hurt. He laughed at me, then pointed at the woods ouside the window."Pick a tree. I'll go carve our initials in it.

I have an entire forest living inside of me and you have carved your initials into every tree.

Fang (sarcasticaly): Go pick out a tree and I'll carve our initials in it. Max: (screams and goes in the bathroom)

And there were carved hearts in the trunks of trees with the initials of couples who felt there was no more romantic thing they could do to celebrate their love than scar the local plant life

Whenever someone says some- thing about us, it gets written inside us, permanently. The good words, the ugly words, it’s all right here.” I placed a palm against my chest. “Sure, you can scribble out the words or try to paint over them, but beneath the layers of paint and ink, they’re still there, branded to our cores like initials carved in a tree.

Most trees invite you to climb up into their canopy. This one did not. Most trees make you want to carve your initials into the trunk. This one did not.

I believe there is an impulse in each of us to make our own personal and individual mark on the world around us. The little child coming upon a stretch of clean white snow gleefully rushes forward to imprint the shapes of his feet upon it. A woman passing through a strange room pauses briefly to move an object on a table, making a slight rearrangement that her eye finds more pleasing. A boy carves his initials upon a tree. We all write our names upon the sand. All of us hope that our choices and our actions will make a little sweeter those rooms we enter, those worlds we move through, those lives we touch, those people and those places we leave behind us. It is, in a way, our small gesture toward immortality, our little message to the universe. It says, "I was here", to the ages.

People did not pick up the sexual connotations that often make even the most innocent expression of affection seem sexual to our sensibilities today. Perfectly respectable nineteenth-century women wrote to each other in terms like these: “[T]he expectation once more to see your face again, makes me feel hot and feverish.” They carved their initials into trees, set flowers in front of one another’s portraits, danced together, kissed, held hands, and endured intense jealousies over rivals or small slights.24

stare up at the bottom of Reese’s bunk, to where Byatt’s carved her initials over and over. BW. BW. BW. She does that everywhere. On the bunk, on her desk in every class we had, on the trees in the grove by the water. Marking Raxter as hers, and sometimes I think if she asked, I’d let her do the same to me.

Love demands something unrevealed; it flourishes, therefore, only in mystery. No one ever wants to hear a singer hit her highest note, nor an orator “tear a passion to tatters,” for once mystery and the infinite are denied, life’s urge is stilled and its passion glutted. In a true marriage, there is an ever-enchanting romance. There are at least four distinct mysteries progressively revealed. First, there is the mystery of the other partner, which is body-mystery. When that mystery is solved and the first child is born, there begins a new mystery. The husband sees something in the wife he never before knew existed, namely, the beautiful mystery of motherhood. She sees a new mystery in him she never before knew existed, namely, the mystery of fatherhood. As other children come to revive their strength and beauty, the husband never seems older to the wife than the day they were married, and the wife never seems older than the day they first met and carved their initials in an oak tree. As the children reach the age of reason, a third mystery unfolds, that of fathercraft and mothercraft—the disciplining and training of young minds and hearts in the ways of God. As the children grow into maturity, the mystery continues to deepen, new areas of exploration open up, and the father and mother now see themselves as sculptors in the great quarry of humanity, carving living stones and fitting them together in the Temple of God, Whose Architect is Love. The fourth mystery is their contribution to the well-being of the nation. Here, too, is the root of democracy, for it is in the family that a person is valued not for what he is worth, nor for what he can do, but primarily for what he is.

I carved out our initials on a willow tree to say that we've been there.

Weeping Willow Weeping willow, how your elongated leaves dangle in the mist of the air, you bring such true comfort into the needful eye. How your leaves sway from left to right, providing your own intricate dance so divine. Weeping willow, you provide the most comforting shade upon your layer of leaves making me feel encircled with love and safety. Weeping willow, as I lay under your silvery leaves, I look up for a helping hand, I see strength within your structure, can you help me? Weeping willow, as I climb upon you will you make sure I won't fall, will you catch me if I do? Weeping willow, as I sit upon you looking to the sky through your rustling leaves, will you hear my pain? Can I overcome such things? The weeping willows long leafed branches sway back and forth providing the gentlest of winds across one's face. The eyes close so slowly, a sigh escapes one's mouth. As one sits on the branch they feel if there is someone watching over them, comfort arises as the branches nestle one's sorrows. A tear slowly slides down their cheek as if all emotion was escaping them. The wind starts to slowly blow, once again the elongated leaved branches sway back and forth against the song of the wind, creating one's smile to appear slowly but surely. The long silvery leaves brush against ones cheek, as if it was the hand of comfort, wiping the sadness away. Weeping willow, I will climb down now, I have heard what you have had to say... The one steps down and walks around to the back of the willow tree as it faces such gleaming waters. They look at the carving at the back of the tree, something that has been carved there for years upon the dark bark. Their body slumps to the ground as their back presses against the bark, fingers reaching up to trace the well known loved one. The carved initials of a beloved memory. The one whispers, "Thank you for hearing me, Dad.

And so I stand here in front of you, every day, seeing the love in your face and the look in your eyes, and there’s nothing in the world that I could deny you. You could carve your initials in me like a tree, cut me open and drink my blood; I wouldn’t dream of refusing, but I know that I can nourish you this way, by being exactly who I am in the world for you. By looking always for ways to make your life a little better, a little brighter, lighting your way a little more, giving you whatever you will accept from me for as long as you will accept it, which I hope will be a lifetime. Because without you, my butch life, my queer life, my strange and curved life has its hope, its triumphs, and its pleasures, but no home.

There comes a point in everyone’s life when they’ll find themselves getting chased by a pack of ferocious werewolves. While I didn’t think this was something that was going to happen to me until I was much older, say in seventh grade, I wasn’t surprised to find it happening to me right at that moment. My name is Chase Cooper, and I’m a sixth grade ninja… getting chased by werewolves. I sprinted through the dark forest as the tree branches slapped at my face as if they were against the idea of my escape. I’m not sure what I did to make the trees angry. Maybe it was because I carved my initials into one of their friends when I was younger – who knows? Reaching behind my head, I pulled my ninja mask from the hood of my sweatshirt, slipping it over my cheeks until it completely covered my face. With every step I took, I heard dry leaves crunch under my feet. I could also hear the same crunch from the pack of monsters