Caves Inspirational Quotes

Inspiration is a word used by people who aren't really doing anything.

Be ruthless about protecting writing days, i.e., do not cave in to endless requests to have "essential" and "long overdue" meetings on those days. The funny thing is that, although writing has been my actual job for several years now, I still seem to have to fight for time in which to do it. Some people do not seem to grasp that I still have to sit down in peace and write the books, apparently believing that they pop up like mushrooms without my connivance. I must therefore guard the time allotted to writing as a Hungarian Horntail guards its firstborn egg.

Why are you still here?" she asked. "Shouldn't you be in a cave somewhere inspiring people?

It's a wonderful life if you can find it.

All right, I've been thinking, when life gives you lemons, don't make lemonade! Make life take the lemons back! Get mad! I don't want your damn lemons! What am I supposed to do with these? Demand to see life's manager! Make life rue the day it thought it could give Cave Johnson lemons! Do you know who I am? I'm the man whose gonna burn your house down - with the lemons!

Get out from your house, from your cave, from your car, from the place you feel safe, from the place that you are. Get out and go running, go funning, go wild, get out from your head and get growing, dear child.

The world is only as fair as you can make it. Takes a lot of fight. A lot of fight. But if you stay in here, in your little cave, that's one less fighter on the side of fair.

That was the real secret of the Tarahumara: they'd never forgotten what it felt like to love running. They remembered that running was mankind's first fine art, our original act of inspired creation. Way before we were scratching pictures on caves or beating rhythms on hollow trees, we were perfecting the art of combining our breath and mind and muscles into fluid self-propulsion over wild terrain. And when our ancestors finally did make their first cave paintings, what were the first designs? A downward slash, lightning bolts through the bottom and middle--behold, the Running Man. Distance running was revered because it was indispensable; it was the way we survived and thrived and spread across the planet. You ran to eat and to avoid being eaten; you ran to find a mate and impress her, and with her you ran off to start a new life together. You had to love running, or you wouldn't live to love anything else. And like everyhing else we ove--everything we sentimentally call our 'passions' and 'desires' it's really an encoded ancestral necessity. We were born to run; we were born because we run. We're all Running People, as the Tarahumara have always known.

All of our days are numbered; we cannot afford to be idle. To act on a bad idea is better than to not act at all because the worth of the idea never becomes apparent until you do it. Sometimes this idea can be the smallest thing in the world, a little flame that you hunch over and cup with your hand and pray will not be extinguished by all the storm that howls about it. If you can hold on to that flame great things can be constructed around it that are massive and powerful and world changing – all held up by the tinniest of ideas.

If the bombs go off the sun will still be shining, because I've heard it said that every mushroom cloud has a silver lining.

We are familiar with people who seek out solitude: penitents, failures, saints, or prophets. They retreat to deserts, preferably, where they live on locusts and honey. Others, however, live in caves or cells on remote islands; some-more spectacularly-squat in cages mounted high atop poles swaying in the breeze. They do this to be nearer God. Their solitude is a self-moritification by which they do penance. They act in the belief that they are living a life pleasing to God. Or they wait months, years, for their solitude to be broken by some divine message that they hope then speedily to broadcast among mankind. Grenouille's case was nothing of the sort. There was not the least notion of God in his head. He was not doing penance or wating for some supernatural inspiration. He had withdrawn solely for his own pleasure, only to be near to himself. No longer distracted by anything external, he basked in his own existence and found it splendid. He lay in his stony crypt like his own corpse, hardly breathing, his heart hardly beating-and yet lived as intensively and dissolutely as ever a rake lived in the wide world outside.

When the world caves in Still my hope will cling To Your promise Where my courage ends Let my heart find strength In Your presence

Patanjali, Buddha, Moses and Jesus did not go to workshops or seminars or even churches. They went directly to nature: sat under a Bodhi tree or on top of a mountain or in a cave. … It is time to return to the source of this inspiration – the earth itself.

Não tenhamos pressa, mas não percamos tempo.

We often hesitate to follow our intuition out of fear. Most usually, we are afraid of the changes in our own life that our actions will bring. Intuitive guidance, however, is all about change. It is energetic data ripe with the potential to influence the rest of the world. To fear change but to crave intuitive clarity is like fearing the cold, dark night while pouring water on the fire that lights your cave. An insight the size of a mustard seed is powerful enough to bring down a mountain-sized illusion that may be holding our lives together. Truth strikes without mercy. We fear our intuitions because we fear the transformational power within our revelations.

There is something you can't fix, can't heal, or can't escape, and all you can do it trust God. Finding ultimate refuge in God means you become so immersed in his presence, so convinced of his goodness, so devoted to his lordship that you find even the cave is a perfectly safe place to be because he is there with you.

Who knows their own story? Certainly it makes no sense when we are living in the midst of it. It's all just clamor and confusion. It only becomes a story when we tell it and retell it. Our small precious recollections that we speak again and again to ourselves and to others, first creating the narrative of our lives and then keeping the story from dissolving into darkness.

Imagine in vibrant detail your heart’s desire—a reality only you can envision, an adventure only you can direct. Then cradle your creation. Caress it. Mold it. Coddle it until it comes to life. And when your precious treasure grows so grand as to steal your breath away, set it free for all the world to experience. For that is how you live your dreams.

In its mythology, Mithra, the Persian god of light and wisdom, was born of a virgin in a cave on the 25th December and later, as an adult, undertook long voyages for the purposes of illuminating mankind. His disciples were twelve; he was betrayed, sentenced to death, and after his death, he was buried in a tomb from which he rose from the dead. The Mithrian religion also states that at the end of all time, Mithra will come again to judge the living and the dead. In this religious cult, Mithra was called the Saviour and he was sometimes illustrated as a lamb. Its doctrine included baptism, the sacramental meal (the Eucharist), and the belief in a saviour god that died and rose from the dead to be the mediator between God and mankind. The adherents of this religion believed in the resurrection of the body, universal judgement, and therefore in heaven and hell.

If all the people who were called "crazy" started acting "normal", we'd probably still be living in caves.

I would still rather feel things and live life to the fullest rather than hide in a cave and attempt to protect myself from the uncertainties of the world.

That's the thing about rocks--they don't break easily. When I held them, I wanted to be like them-strong and steady, weathered but not broken.

Polygamy is a luxury of the cave-people, and monogamy is an existential responsibility of the civilized society.

Vulnerability is essential to spiritual and creative growth. Finding enormous strength through vulnerability. You're being open to whatever happens, including failure and shame. The two are connected, maybe - vulnerability and freedom.

Here they were. Two souls, buried alive beneath the earth beside the sea, in a place of nowhere - an empty cave that felt impossibly full as Juliette took flight where there was no sky.

When I think about the past and how blind I was in that life, I compare it to being a god and losing everything when being cast out. I had the unlimited power to destroy myself and everything around me. It’s like having been in a cave for years and I’m finally out of the cave. The sun burns my eyes and skin. I don’t recognize my surroundings. No one looks authentic, and now I’m on the hunt for people that have the pieces to my puzzle that will help me on my quest. I have no cave to hide in, and I’m just left with the sediment of a previous life and my own mortality.

You have to take risks. We will only understand the miracle of life fully when we allow the unexpected to happen. Every day, God gives us the sun - and also one moment when we have the ability to change everything that makes us unhappy. Every day, we try to pretend that we haven't perceived that moment, that it doesn't exist - that today is the same as yesterday and will be the same as tomorrow. But if people really pay attention to their everyday lives, they will discover that magic moment. It may arrive in the instant when we are doing something mundane, like putting our front-door key in the lock; it may lie hidden in the quiet that follows the lunch hour or in the thousand and one things that all seem the same to us. But that moment exists - a moment when all the power of the stars becomes a part of us and enables us to perform miracles. Joy is sometimes a blessing, but it is often a conquest. Our magic moment helps us to change and sends us off in search of our dreams. Yes, we are going to suffer, we will have difficult times, and we will experience many disappointments - but all of these are transitory; it leaves no permanent mark. And one day we will look back with pride and faith at the journey we have taken. Pitiful is the person who is afraid of taking risks. Perhaps, this person would never be disappointed or disillusioned; perhaps she won't suffer the way people do when they have a dream to follow. But when the person looks back - she will never hear her heart saying 'What have you done with the miracles that God planted in your days? What have you done with the talents God has bestowed upon you? You buried yourself in a cave because you were fearful of losing those talents. So this is your heritage, the certainty that you wasted your life.' Pitiful are the people who must realize this. Because when they are finally able to believe in miracles, their life's magic moments will have already passed them by.

Because those events are so real that they cast their shadow forward and backwards through all time, whenever men think of these matters at all. Even if they are mired in ignorace, they will see...fragments of the Truth, as men imprisoned in a cave see shadows cast by the sun. Likewise, all men derive their moral intuitions from God; how not? There is no other source, just as there is no other way to make a wheel than to make it round.

Only a small crack ... but cracks make caves collapse.

In a cave where everything is fragranced with water, she asks for a daughter instead of praying for a son.

For those living in a dark cave... sometimes all it takes is for someone to throw us a lifeline.

When we set goals that feel safe and achievable, we are caving in to our own preconceived notions of what we are capable of.

You need to accept your greatness, you need to rise up into your full stature, because if you don’t, you are going to continually bow down low to enter into the caves of those who would have you believing that you were born for caves; when in fact, those are their caves and they were born for them. You think that you’re not allowed to stand tall in your mind, heart and body— but you are! And when you do, you’ll see how little those caves and the people in them, really are. It’s difficult, because you want everyone to matter, but really, most of them just don’t. Only a few do. Most of them aren’t even worth being mad at.

You see, when we set goals that feel safer and achievable, we are caving in to our own preconceived notions of what we are capable of. We’re not pushing past our comfort zone; we’re just settling for status quo.

—¿Dios? ¿Dios? Te he oído hablar de muchos dioses. Si te refieres a Mitra... —Mitra, Apolo, Arturo, Cristo, llámalo como quieras —dije—. ¿Qué importa el nombre que le den los hombres? Es la misma luz, y los hombres deben vivir con esta luz o morir. Yo sólo sé que Dios es la fuente de toda la luz que ilumina la tierra y que su designio está en todo el mundo y pasa por cada hombre como un gran río que no podemos detener ni desviar; solo podemos beber de él mientras vivimos y encomendar nuestros cuerpos en él cuando morimos.

The theory of positivity teaches us to, "always look on the bright side" and to, "point out the bright side to others". However, any highly empathic individual will know, that this mindset alienates us from other people. What connects us with other people is the ability to identify with what they are feeling and thinking, regardless of whether or not we've actually been in their place before. If you want to point someone out to the light, first you need to get into their dark cave with them, light a candle, and say, "Hey, I'm here with you and look, remember what the light feels like?" That's the kind of positivity that actually bears real change in people, in the world.

My friend tells me that memory fails me in part because nature mercifully wishes to hide from us things which are painful. The spider-web of protective forgetfulness is woven over the mouth of the cave which conceals the raw head and bloody bones of our misfortunes. "But the greatest men," says King Lamus, "are those that refuse to be treated like squalling children, who insist on facing reality in every form, and tear off ruthlessly the bandages from their own wounds.

Roads go ever ever on, Over rock and under tree, By caves where never sun has shone, By streams that never find the sea; Over snow by winter sown, And through merry flowers of June, Over grass and under stone, And under mountains in the moon. Roads go ever ever on Under cloud and under star Yet feet that wandering have gone Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen And horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green And trees and hills they long have known.

Here is our rapin' cave. It's not much of a cave... and we haven't done much rapin'... but man, we've had some good times.

Be brave. Don't just live in your cave till your grave.-RVM

You can Live in your Cave or Dance to your Grave.-RVM

Creative problem solving is not necessarily tantamount to cheating.

A man who has lived his entire life in a cave does not mourn the sun until he sees it, and once he has, he can never go back underground

If you travel beyond the cave door, you may just discover things that help solve your cave problems.

Sometimes the fact that you can't sense God isn't an indication that He is not there. It is just an indication that you are hanging out in the wrong place.The cave is not a physical location, it is a state of mind.

But, in a way, that sense of death being present, and all those wild, traumatized feelings that went with it, ultimately gave us this weird, urgent energy. Not at first, but in time. It was an energy that allowed us to do anything we wanted to do. Ultimately, it opened up all kinds of possibilities and a strange reckless power came out of it. It was as if the worst had happened and nothing could hurt us, and all our ordinary concerns were little more than indulgences. There was a freedom in that.

Dogs could die, and bears and deer and other people. That was acceptable, because it was remote. His father could not die. The earth might cave in under him in one vast sink-hole and he could accept it. But without Penny, there was no earth. Without him there was nothing.

He tapped another rhythm against the table, and the pins shifted, making new landmarks emerge among all the others: Gildingham, the goblins’ golden capital, which seemed to be tucked among the Andes Mountains—and probably inspired the human myths of El Dorado. Ravagog, the ogre stronghold on the Eventide River, which was apparently hidden in the lushest part of central Asia. Loamnore, a city Sophie assumed was the dwarven capital, since the enormous metropolis was under the Gobi desert rather than above it. And Marintrylla, an island near New Zealand that was probably the trollish capital and seemed to be an intricate network of caves and bridges.

The Psalms are pure praise inspired by the breath of God. Praise is a matter of life and breath. As long as we have breath, we are told to praise the Lord. The Psalms release an anointing of praise that will lift heaviness off the human heart. The Psalms are meant to do to you what they did to David; they will bring you from your cave of despair into the glad presence of the King who likes you just the way you are.

I followed all the advice my mind could compute and digested it to the best of my ability. I’d run, work out, eat healthy, and then swallow a fifth of whiskey. The man cave below my home began to look like a recycling center for Crown Royal and Jack Daniels distilleries. I discovered that empty whiskey bottles made an eerily satisfying thud when stacked up like cordwood. The sturdy glass was much thicker and stronger than my own skin, and I admired their resilience to outside forces.

In certain ancient civilizations and indigenous cultures there was often a process of initiation that young people would go through before they became adults. In some Native American traditions, for example, the initiate would be put out into the wilderness without any food or any other provisions for survival. He would have to rely on the Universe and his own soul. During the experience, the initiate would fast. He would experience himself confronting the Universe alone. He would be out there for a number of days. This would open up the initiate to a direct experience of something beyond the usual egoic mind and all of its concerns. The initiate would be thrust into an experience that would take him beyond his small, limited self. Such a process existed in our own Tradition going back to the Prophet Muhammad, peace be upon him. What was Muhammad doing in a cave when the first revelations of the Qur‘an began if not going through what Native Americans would call a „Vision Quest“? He received direct revelation and inspiration through this practice. (p. 12)

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap, forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathèd horn! While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:— Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life’s unresting sea!

The supposedly eyewitness authority of the Pseudo-Turpin finds a parallel in another genre in which vernacular prose was pioneered: that of the historical memoir. There were twelfth-century verse histories narrated by authors who had personally participated in the events they describe, such as the Third Crusade. But the Fourth Crusade of 1202-4 saw a switch to prose. This shameful fiasco, in which the crusaders were induced to turn aside from the Holy Land and attack instead the Christian city of Constantinople, inspired two contrasting accounts. Robert de Clari--ignorant of higher-level strategy, but all agog at the splendours of Constantinople--gives a worm's eye view. Geoffroi de Villehardouin, by contrast, has a top diplomat's suave authority and a leader's eye for the aesthetics of war--the splendid sight of a fleet, or the noble heroism of a ruler. For both authors the medium of prose seems to convey the purported authenticity and transparency of lived experience.

The thunder howled and the rain splashed, the leaves played with the breeze and the lightning flashed, and the tigress growled at last. She looked here and she looked there, she hadn't seen so much rain anywhere, a desire suddenly came in her heart, a mad longing that had to start, she felt deep love in the rain, looking at her cubs all over again But two years ago she had been wounded, By cowardly men who wanted her grounded, They were afraid of her power, they wanted to capture her and to enslave her in their tower They laid traps and they waited in the trees, The jungle was full of birds and the bees, The tigress was out hunting for meat, her cubs awaiting in the cave for their treat There was something missing in the air, the fragrance of jasmine was not there, The tigress looked up into the trees and saw the men's faces painted in grease, She challenged them looking into their eyes, And saw fear, fright , and faces full of lies! She roared with all her might, This was her land, She had all the right! The cowardly men crouching behind the trees, Fired their guns in twos and threes, The brave Tigress looked them in the eye, She was the fire and she was the sky, Indomitable force, invincible power, She was the Tigress, The Queen in her Empire None of the bullets could break her Spirit, Only one could graze her right leg a bit, She roared with all her heart's might, For she was the Queen for all to sight! The guns emptied and no more bullets to shoot, The cowardly men jumped from the trees and ran away in two hoots! The Tigress laughed and loudly roared, For she was the power and her Spirit soared She is the Tigress inside every Woman, She has the Power to defeat any Man, Love her and she would love you back, Respect her and she would respect you back, Dare to harm her and she would defeat you till the Last!

The Enchanted Broccoli Forest. Oh, what a pleasure that was! Mollie Katzen's handwritten and illustrated recipes that recalled some glorious time in upstate New York when a girl with an appetite could work at a funky vegetarian restaurant and jot down some tasty favorites between shifts. That one had the Pumpkin Tureen soup that Margo had made so many times when she first got the book. She loved the cheesy onion soup served from a pumpkin with a hot dash of horseradish and rye croutons. And the Cardamom Coffee Cake, full of butter, real vanilla, and rich brown sugar, said to be a favorite at the restaurant, where Margo loved to imagine the patrons picking up extras to take back to their green, grassy, shady farmhouses dotted along winding country roads. Linda's Kitchen by Linda McCartney, Paul's first wife, the vegetarian cookbook that had initially spurred her yearlong attempt at vegetarianism (with cheese and eggs, thank you very much) right after college. Margo used to have to drag Calvin into such phases and had finally lured him in by saying that surely anything Paul would eat was good enough for them. Because of Linda's Kitchen, Margo had dived into the world of textured vegetable protein instead of meat, and tons of soups, including a very good watercress, which she never would have tried without Linda's inspiration. It had also inspired her to get a gorgeous, long marble-topped island for prep work. Sometimes she only cooked for the aesthetic pleasure of the gleaming marble topped with rustic pottery containing bright fresh veggies, chopped to perfection. Then Bistro Cooking by Patricia Wells caught her eye, and she took it down. Some pages were stuck together from previous cooking nights, but the one she turned to, the most splattered of all, was the one for Onion Soup au Gratin, the recipe that had taught her the importance of cheese quality. No mozzarella or broken string cheeses with- maybe- a little lacy Swiss thrown on. And definitely none of the "fat-free" cheese that she'd tried in order to give Calvin a rich dish without the cholesterol. No, for this to be great, you needed a good, aged, nutty Gruyère from what you couldn't help but imagine as the green grassy Alps of Switzerland, where the cows grazed lazily under a cheerful children's-book blue sky with puffy white clouds. Good Gruyère was blocked into rind-covered rounds and aged in caves before being shipped fresh to the USA with a whisper of fairy-tale clouds still lingering over it. There was a cheese shop downtown that sold the best she'd ever had. She'd tried it one afternoon when she was avoiding returning home. A spunky girl in a visor and an apron had perked up as she walked by the counter, saying, "Cheese can change your life!" The charm of her youthful innocence would have been enough to be cheered by, but the sample she handed out really did it. The taste was beyond delicious. It was good alone, but it cried out for ham or turkey or a rich beefy broth with deep caramelized onions for soup.

Worry is like an endless dark cave which leads nowhere - instead, seize the light of day through some form of self improvement and stay out of the cave.

Life is just like crawling out of a cave, in the cave you will learn something new

A large metal plaque affixed to the rock said: GRANDMA GATEWOOD MEMORIAL TRAIL THIS SIX-MILE TRAIL IS DEDICATED TO THE MEMORY OF GRANDMA GATEWOOD, A VIBRANT WOMAN, SEASONED HIKER, AND LONG-TIME HOCKING HILLS ENTHUSIAST. THE PATH BEGINS HERE, VISITS CEDAR FALLS, AND TERMINATES AT ASH CAVE. JANUARY 17, 1981

I love a mysterious underground and have exploited this in many of my books: the ice tunnels of Greenland, the volcanic tubes of Iceland, the mysterious passageways beneath an ancient African hillside or a Buddhist monastery in central China. And of course, London's famous tube system, setting for my book LONDON UNDERGROUND. It's a funny sort of fixation, especially given my mother's claustrophobia, which I saw her deal with on many occasions. We once lined up to take a tour into the Lascaux Caverns in France to see the ancient cave paintings. My mother didn't make it past the first quirky turn into the depths, and she sent me on by myself. Given her interest in history and archaeology, which she used as the basis for a series of mysteries she published and which inspired my own writing, it always surprised me she still loved to write about places she could never visit.

You can Live in your Cave OR Dance to your Grave.

God's voice will be heard in the cave but only His visions will be revealed to you on the mountain. (A bit deep). God will always love you and will always speak to you but when you lose your perspective, you won't see his plan.

Ladies ....a man does not want peace at home; he needs it. Home is supposed to be a refuge for a man; a hiding place, a cave to hide in, a place he can be away from the world that worked hard on him. You need to go home and study your home and see if it is a place someone can come into. How does it look physically? How does it look psychologically? How does it look emotionally? Study your home. Is it a place a man would love to stay and hide from the world?

We have no idea that there is a larger world of truth outside these confines, and we mistake these phantom images for reality. We laugh, cry, love and fight in a phantom world. The task of the philosopher is to break those chains, exit the cave, and see the deeper causes of things—to gaze, however tenuously, at the sun that casts light on this whole farce and, by doing so, inspire others to follow suit. When we mistake the shadows for truth, we take the changing appearances of the senses to be the whole of reality.

Christianity, Origen sometimes implies, is nothing less than Platonism for the masses.37 However, the figure at the center of his sermons and his pastoral work was Jesus. Origen devoted more of his attention to Jesus as a person than any previous Christian thinker. He saw him not only as the son of God and the Messiah (the principal theme of Saint Paul’s epistles), but as a role model and inspiration for the individual Christian. Jesus served as a walking, talking example of how anyone could live in conformity with the highest moral principles: in short, as the consummate Socratic philosopher.

The Star That Doesn't Shine by Maisie Aletha Smikle The cycle of woe Must have no place to grow No place to feed No place to breed No place to multiply Its dysfunctional traits Creating disillusional traitors And occupational deceivers A cycle of woe Creates envious foe This cycle ends when everyone Becomes everyone's foe You were hammered low Now you are the one hammering others low You lived in cave holes projects ghettos and slums Now you want to cave others in holes and cages You want them to behave like slum graduates With slum degrees Ghetto diplomas And cave hole certifications You survived years of lack and hunger Now you are frustrated if others prosper and never lack You had emotional pain and hardship Now you don't rest unless your boat is full of similar survivalists You were inflicted with bitter terror Now you inflict others with unbearable terror You are the lone non-illuminating star of the series A Bitter Cycle of Woe Unwilling to shed your bitter traits of hate You infiltrate bribe and duplicate The gloom of woe Creating foe where ever you go

Soon Alexandria’s Museum was a busy hive of intellectual labor, even as Strato and his Peripatetic colleagues provided the impetus for another act of Ptolemaic patronage, the Great Library. It was probably inspired by Aristotle’s library at the Lyceum and embodied a key Aristotelian principle: that the starting point of all true knowledge is not (contrary to Plato) abstract reasoning, but the collection and comparison of individual specimens, whether they be plants and shellfish or books and manuscripts.

The End of What Begun by Maisie Aletha Smikle All that begun Have spun Time has come Thread is always broken at the end Teeth clatter Fowls flutter All that matter Went clitter clatter Mountains shuddered and fled To roaring river beds Valleys climbed up instead Rocks flew topsy turvy hitting everybody's head Trees took refuge in caves Sparrows flew by and waved Bringing news of a tidal wave Into caves splashed the waves Caves caved in And there was no inn The inns caved in And waves dived in Grasping tree trunks Carried by the waves Floating on the ebb of the tide Animals and all glide and took a ride A ride to hide from an end Which has come For what had begun Has spun reaching it's broken end

I want to snatch away your broken heart somewhere far away Away In a cave so peaceful, I would sing for you a song In sweetest voice possible that fill up your wounds as the storm passes away....... Keep you hidden from the world, keep you safe from the torment In any possible way...... I want to collect so many....Just like you In one place Dun look at me, what I do, who I am.....I am just.... Jusss someone who's unconditionally In love with hearts that have experienced so much pain Let me take you away, I wanna put a smile on your face.

One goes, if, into a cave of a lion, then he may get pearls obtained from the elephant’s head; but if he goes into a hole of a jackal, then all he may find is a tail of a calf or a piece of a donkey’s skin.

Together with Aristotle, he created a civic tradition founded on the heroic image of the orator, who inspires his countrymen by a combination of eloquence, rational argument, and moral vision, and by doing so rallies his nation in a time of crisis. From Washington’s farewell speech to Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address and Kennedy’s inaugural, Cicero and Aristotle would inspire a vital part of American political culture.

Life is like a big cave with numerous doors. Only there's mist around our eyes, and we can't see them. When one door closes, the other opens, and when the second one closes, third opens and so on and so forth. So never give up....

The unholy gang of torturers fed the long furies from the blood of the innocent and was not satisfied. Now that the Fatherland is safe the cave of death is broken and where terrible death was now life and health appear

We do things we don’t want to do in order to avoid doing the things we actually want to do.

Leave the cave of darkness, move into God's light, and begin blessed birth!

And all that time I couldn’t work. So much of a novelist’s writing, as I have said, takes place in the unconscious: in those depths the last word is written before the first word appears on the paper. We remember details of our story, we do not invent them. War didn’t trouble those deep sea-caves, but not there was something of infinitely greater importance to me than war, than my novel – the end of love. That was being worked out not, like a story: the pointed word that sent her crying, that seemed to have come so spontaneously to the lips, had been sharpened in those underwater caverns. My novel lagged, but my love hurried like inspiration to the end.

Nature Thou Art Beautiful Tiny waterfalls tumbling down elegant slopes of smoothly eroded treacherous rocks..... Trees magnificently and beautifully displayed. Their branches sheltering little springs that sprout from beneath. Soft clouds beckon from above. Like wool blankets, hovering over trees, mountains, hills, cliffs, caves and plains. Moistening hilltops, freshly fallen leaves, trees, grass, valleys and meadows with their heavenly dew. Wind hearkens it's ears, to the voice of the One who speaks the language of the winds. The winds obey and swaying breeze gently rock nature sweetly, to slumber..... The stars shine, the moon is bright and it's a starry night. O slumber thou art indeed sweet. O nature's lullabies have rocked me to sleep... Zzzz... and the night is spent.... "Hello!" greets the Sun. "I'm here to start all over again!

The following, then, were the daughters of Nereus:{157} Ploto, “the swimmer”; Eukrante, “the bringer of fulfilment”; Sao, “the rescuer”; Amphitrite (who, as I shall later tell, became the wife of Poseidon); Eudora, “she of good gifts”; Thetis (of whom I have spoken and shall speak again); Galene, “calm weather”; Glauke, “the sea-green”; Kymothoe, “the wave-swift”; Speio, “the dweller in caves”; Thoe, “the nimble”; Halia, “the dweller in the sea”; Pasithea; Erato, “the awakener of desire” (which is the name also of one of the Muses); Eunike, “she of happy victory”; Melite; Eulimene, “she of good haven”; Agaue, “the noble”; Doto, “the giver”; Proto, “the first”; Pherousa, “the bringer”; Dynamene; Nesaia, “the dweller on islands”; Aktaia, “the dweller on coasts”; Protomedeia, “the first ruleress”; Doris (who, like Eudora, whose name has the same meaning, is also one of the Okeaninai); Panopeia; Galateia (that Aphrodite-like sea-goddess who was wooed by the Kyklops Polyphemos—the enemy, later on, of Odysseus—and was loved by the beautiful Akis); Hippothoe, “swift as a mare”; Hipponoe, “unruly as a mare”; Kymodoke, “the wave-gatherer”; Kymatolege, “the wave-stiller”; Kymo, “the wave-goddess”; Eione, “the snore-goddess”; Halimede, “the sea-goddess of good counsel”; Glaukonome, “the dweller in the green sea”; Pontopereia, “the seafarer”; Leiagora and Euagora, “the eloquent”; Laomedeia, “ruleress of the people”; Polynoe, “giver of reason”; Autonoe, “giver of inspiration”; Lysianassa, “the redeeming mistress”; Euarne; Psamathe, “the sand-goddess”; Menippe, “the courageous mare”; Neso, “the island-goddess”; Eupompe, “she of good escort”; Themisto (a sort of double of the great goddess Themis); Pronoe, “the provident”; and Nemertes, “the truthful”, who in knowing and telling the truth resembles her immortal father.

The Tide by Maisie Aletha Smikle Gushing to shore I must have more I aim to reach a beach That's beyond my reach Be still whispers the wave You may just land in a cave I can't be still my name is Tide I shall not hide I'll take your foam You need not groan I'll take to shore what weighs you down And fossils that you refuse to own Soon I will land On the soft sand Then turn around for a trip again Doing my part to keep the ocean clean I go up and I go down I rise and I fall I ebb and I flow Just to make the ocean glow I bring you measures Of timeless treasures I bring you archaeological fossils I shall n’t be still For soon I will turn around To return again With gifts from the ocean And endless fun

The Tide Gushing to the shore I must have more I aim to reach a beach That's beyond my reach Be still whispers the wave You may just land in a cave I can't be still my name is Tide I shall not hide I'll take your foam You need not groan I'll take to shore what weighs you down And fossils that you refuse to own Soon I will land On the soft sand Then turn around for a trip again Doing my part to keep the ocean clean I go up and I go down I rise and I fall I ebb and I flow Just to make the ocean glow I bring you measures Of timeless treasures I bring you archaeological fossils I shall n’t be still For soon I will turn around To return again With gifts from the ocean And endless fun beneath the sun

In 1144, the finished choir at Saint Denis was consecrated in an elaborate ceremony. The king of France was there and his queen Eleanor of Aquitaine. So was Bernard of Clairvaux. All around them was evidence of a new Neoplatonic spirit arising in the Catholic Church, inspiring a fresh appreciation of the physical world. It was the result of a synthesis of Saint Augustine’s belief in the power of love and faith and Neoplatonism’s belief in the power of visible order to bring the human soul closer to God.

In reality the Spirit of Guidance may be pictured as one thread; and all the great masters of humanity are like the beads on that thread. One spirit and many individualities; one soul and many personalities; one wisdom and many teachers who have expounded wisdom according to their own personality. But at the same time, wisdom always being one, they cannot be compared with different scientists. For scientists, when they have discovered something new, say they have made a new discovery; but the prophets have never said that they had made a new discovery. They have always said, “What those who came before me perceived I perceive, and those who come after thousands of years will perceive the same.” Yet in spite of that it is always new, for every moment has its new joy. As Hafiz says, “Sing, my soul, a new song that every new moment inspires in you.” Once the soul awakens, it begins to see that truth is always new and renews the soul, giving it perpetual youth. When one finds differences between the teachers of humanity, these are only in the lives they lived. But no matter what their life was, whether they were kings or faqirs, whether they walked or rode on an elephant’s back, whether they were on a throne or in mountain caves or in deserts, they all had the same experience: realization. They might appear to be comfortable and rejoicing, but they heard the same note which others heard in tortures. Those who were kings such as Solomon and David, and those who were sages such as Krishna and Buddha, all these different souls had the same realization, the same philosophy. There could never be an argument if they were all to meet. But they are not meant to meet because they are all one. It was the Spirit of Guidance which manifested through all these different names and forms.

My father was a man of iron will. He had a red beard and eyes like caves. He married my mother sensibly for the triple joy of her widowhood, the three estates, but he was concerned - as an English country gentleman and an epitome of the chivalric virtues - with the making of a son. Having heard well of the giant's child-inspiring powers, my father takes my mother by the hand and leads her up to him the night before their wedding. It had been a hot day, the hottest day that any man could remember, the skylarks swooning in the sticky air, milk turning sour in the cows' udders. At the end of that hottest day now it is suddenly Midsummer Eve and the giant stands out bold and wonderful and monstrous on his long green Dorset hill, the moon at the full above his knobbled club. My father lays my mother down on the giant's thistle, in the modest shade of Mr Wiclif's burgeoning fig tree. 'Dear hart,' he says, taking off his spurs and his liripipe hat, 'I shall require an heir.' If ever widow woman blushed then my mother blushed hot when she saw my father unbuttoned above her in the moonlight. 'My womb,' she says, 'is empty.' My father engages the key in the lock. It is well-oiled. He turns and enters and makes himself at home. 'I have been told,' he says, 'that any true woman,' he says, 'childless,' he adds, 'who lies,' he says, 'on the Cerne giant, - my father takes a shuddering juddering breath - 'conceives without fail,' he explains. My father goes on, without need of saying. It is sixty yards if it is an inch from the top to the toe of the giant of Cerne Abbas. The creature's club alone must be every bit of forty yards. 'O Gog,' says my mother eventually. 'O Gog, O Gog, O Gog.' 'I do believe,' says my father, 'Magog.' Now, in the moment of my conception, as a star falls into my mother's left eye, as the wind catches its breath, as the little hills skip for joy, and the moon hides her face behind a cloud - a bit of local history. When St Augustine came calling in those parts the people of Cerne tied a tail to his coat and whipped him out of their valley. The saint was furious. He got down on his knees and prayed to God to give tails to all the children that were born in Dorset. 'Right,' said the Omnipotence. This went on, tails, tails, tails, tails, until the folk regretted their pagan manners. When they expressed their regret, St Austin came back and founded the abbey, calling it Cernal because he was soon seeing his visions there - from the Latin, 'cerno', I see, and the Hebrew, 'El, God. That's enough history. I prefer mystery.

Parts of her that had been separated for transit were still in limbo, unwrapping, trying to find their way home to her body. Wolf, D.C.. q-cave (p. 7). D. C. Wolf. Kindle Edition.

In all my twenty years of wandering over the restless waters of the globe I can only remember one Christmas Day celebrated by a present given and received. It was, in my view, a proper live-sea transaction, no offering of Dead Sea fruit; and in its unexpectedness perhaps worth recording. Let me tell you first that it happened in the year 1879, long before there was any thought of wireless message, and when an inspired person trying to prophesy broadcasting would have been regarded as a particularly offensive nuisance and probably sent to a rest-cure home. We used to call them madhouses then, in our rude, cave-man way.

Truth does not sit in a cave and hide like a lie. It wanders around proudly and roars loudly like a lion

When you cave, you crumble.

When you just can’t bear all the selfishness, lies and spite, When it feels like the weight of the world is on your shoulders, When you’re tired of with fortune, putting up a fight, When you think you’re stuck in a dark cave with no light between the boulders- Just remember, that after the darkest hour only, comes the dawn, And many doors will open up, if you just learn to carry on!

Gildingham, the goblins’ golden capital, which seemed to be tucked among the Andes Mountains—and probably inspired the human myths of El Dorado. Ravagog, the ogre stronghold on the Eventide River, which was apparently hidden in the lushest part of central Asia. Loamnore, a city Sophie assumed was the dwarven capital, since the enormous metropolis was under the Gobi desert rather than above it. And Marintrylla, an island near New Zealand that was probably the trollish capital and seemed to be an intricate network of caves and bridges.

The breath is a small daily reminder of the cyclic nature of life. We are constantly inhaling and exhaling in our lives. We take in information and let it go. We rise like the breath and we also fall. Sometimes we feel full and sometimes we are empty.

Consider how you can use visual pattern to define a space for its purpose and activity... - In the bathroom, you might want to use rippled or soft undulating patterns to remind yourself of the calmness of water, think water surface, sand, or shell patterns. - In the living room, leafy patterns and forest-inspired shapes and patterns can be relaxing and restorative. - Retreats or quiet spaces such as bedrooms or home offices might benefit from images of sheltered or secluded natural spaces, for example cave-like patterns. - By contrast, lively spaces may suit patterns of more dynamic natural systems, such as waterfalls and rivers. Remember that there is a balance to strive for here. Subtlety is key, so the patterns don't dominate the space and overwhelm you. Also keep in mind that there are no straight lines in nature, so hard edges can appear harsh.

Aristotle thought earthquakes were caused by winds trapped in subterranean caves. We’re more scientific now, we know it’s just five guys fracking the fuck out of the world while it’s still legal.

How do you make anyone actually want to do any of this stuff? How do you flip the internal switch that changes us all back into the Natural Born Runners we once were? Not just in history, but in our own lifetimes. Remember? Back when you were a kid and you had to be yelled at to slow down? Every game you played, you played at top speed, sprinting like crazy as you kicked cans, freed all, and attacked jungle outposts in your neighbors’ backyards. Half the fun of doing anything was doing it at record pace, making it probably the last time in your life you’d ever be hassled for going too fast. That was the real secret of the Tarahumara: they’d never forgotten what it felt like to love running. They remembered that running was mankind’s first fine art, our original act of inspired creation. Way before we were scratching pictures on caves or beating rhythms on hollow trees, we were perfecting the art of combining our breath and mind and muscles into fluid self-propulsion over wild terrain. And when our ancestors finally did make their first cave paintings, what were the first designs? A downward slash, lightning bolts through the bottom and middle—behold, the Running Man.

What if you have a pen and you can sketch a dream of another's? Sounds beautiful, right? It is even more wonderfully beautiful when you actually do it, for dreams are connected like all of our souls. Dreams are like little stars of our soul, and when you paint one with the stardust of your soul, be it yours or another's, the sky of your soul would always sparkle with the light of a tranquil smile. There is nothing more valuable than holding a hand and telling that person that you believe in that soul and that nothing is truly impossible, after all each and every soul is a reflection of this infinite Universe. There is no treasure richer than a smile of a heart, and when you sprinkle your goodness around and embrace all with the bliss of your own soul, with the love of your heart and the light of your mind, your door of happiness would always be unlocked where you can walk in anytime, and no matter how dark this cave of reality might be, the sky inside that door is always the brightest with a thousand sunshine of an infinite halo of dreams. I know and I have seen that when you are good while most of the people around would embrace you, get inspired and try to walk with you, there would also be a few who would doubt you and even try to pull you down by demotivating or derogatory words but do not let them win over your stardust, rather shine so bright that even their darkness is eaten up by your light. Let your good heart be your strength and walk with courage that God is the ultimate witness and the judge of all. Don't even halt for a second to think if you would help another, no matter how distant that person might be, in fact even if that person hasn't been good to you, or scarred you, you stay true to your path and treat everyone with compassion and love and know that in the book of Life every chapter finds a beginning and an ending, you paint that ending with a smile on the heart of every person you meet, knowing that smiles are the brightest sunshine of this Universe. The world might try to distract you and your mind might try to tell you that it doesn't matter, but then stay focused on this journey of Love and listen to your heart who knows that everything matters at the end of the day, after all nothing goes in waste ever. Help everyone even if that costs you something, because your help might just bring the most needed smile in a heart and every smile shines with a thousand radiance. Go an extra mile, and stay connected with every soul you have met in this voyage of Life because everyone you have come across has shaped your soul and your destination bit by bit. Value friends and family and say thank you and sorry often, not as a formality but as a reminder that every action or thought counts, knowing that relationships bloom like a watered plant. Resonate love and light and stay kind, no matter what falls on your path, because eventually all it takes is an iota of love to declutter a cloud of darkness. Let the goodness of your heart be your guide and keep holding that pen to sketch a dream of another's, because every dream is a painting of a soul in the Infinite canvas of this beautiful Universe. So, I decide to hold the pen and sketch a dream of another's. Do you?

These mechs—rays—stim—have been used always as the forbidden fruit of life, the last treasure in the temple of secrecy which has consumed the ancient science. The orgies which the uses of such stimulants inspire have been going on secretly since the earliest times—beneath the temples and in the secret pleasure palaces of the world. (Shaver here seems to be talking of our modern world, not of ancient Mu. —Ed.) These orgies still go on, and are more deadly than before—more filled with de accumulated in the apparatus, the stim itself concealing the deadly rays whose effect is explained as the sad results of overindulgence; which is untrue—the stim is a beneficial of great virtue and leaves one stronger and wiser after use. “The legend of the sirens is an example of ancient mechs which no one could resist—in the hands of evil degenerates it became a deadly attraction—drawing shiploads of men to death and the ships to looting. “The course of history, the battles, the decisions of tyrants and kings—was almost invariably decided by interfering control from the caverns and their hidden apparatus. This interference, this use of the apparatus in a prankish, evil, destructive way, is the source of god worship, the thrill of divinity, the sensing of the invisible, the prostration of the will before the stronger will of the ray gen (hidden and unknown as it was). “The remarkable part of it all is that it still goes on today. Emotional and mental stim—unsuspected by such as you and the average citizen—used in mad prankishness, all come from the ancient apparatus. If you will remember your stage fright in the school play, the many other times when your emotions seem to have gone awry without sufficient reason—were these natural? “The dero of the caves are the greatest menace to our happiness and progress; the cause of many mad things that happen to us, even so far as murder. Many people know something of it, but they say they do not. They are lying. They fear to be called mad, or to be held up to ridicule. Examine your own memory carefully. You will find many evidences of outside stim, some good, some evil—but mostly evil.

For Plato, of course, there existed beyond the realm of ordinary sense-experience the world of Forms, for which outward, earthly appearances—including symbols such as language itself—were mere and meager representations. Words were simply incapable of accurately describing or illustrating this divine realm. The logic and reason of the Aristotelians occupied its true home only in the sphere of sense-experience—in what Pletho had nonchalantly dismissed as the world of oysters and embryos. The Aristotelian philosophy on which western Christianity depended therefore offered a misguided point of departure in any quest for inexpressible truths and eternal verities. The clumsy wordings of dogmas, liturgies, creeds: such things were mere shadow puppets on the wall of the Platonic cave; debates framed by Aristotelian philosophy could never hope to approach or capture their proper forms. On the other hand, Plato’s philosophy, with its belief in a unity embracing scattered differences, offered a more promising chance to find a concord between the Greeks and the Latins. Bessarion and Traversari duly worked out a compromise on the fraught question of the Procession of the Holy Spirit. They came up with the argument that since the saints in both the East and West had been inspired by the same Holy Spirit, it scarcely mattered whether this Holy Spirit proceeded from both the Father and the Son or simply from the Father. It was, after all, merely a matter of semantics—of whether one believed that “from” (εκ) and “through” (διά) meant the same thing. As Bessarion put it in the context of another dispute, the two parties “agreed in substance and differed only in words.

True blindness occurs when a person disregards the sole source of light within the cave.

... autour de cette place banale, avec son PMU, sa boulangerie, son agence immobilière, et non loin de l'église toujours vide, un monde jouissait pleinement de son sursis. Et en ce beau dimanche de mai qui tirait vers le soir, le temps était si bon, la vie si patiente qu'il était presque impossible de deviner l'immense accumulation de gaz qui ronflait dans les caves de cet univers inquiet de sa fin.

The West has been compassionate, visionary, and creative during certain periods of history, yet dynamic, hardheaded, and imperialistic in others—even at the same time. Its technologies have saved millions and killed hundreds of thousands of others at a single press of a button. Its theologies have inspired some of the greatest works in human history, and also burned helpless victims at the stake. Its ideologies have created the freest and most dynamic societies in the world, and also the most brutal tyrannies in the history of man. Why? Much, if not all, the answer lies in the perpetual struggle between Plato and Aristotle.

The commencement of the Divine Inspiration to Allah's Messenger was in the form of good dreams which came true like bright day light, and then the love of seclusion was bestowed upon him. He used to go into seclusion in the cave of Hira where he used to worship (Allah alone) continuously for many days before his desire to see his family.

Downstairs I left a candle burning In its light I'll read a few lines when I return By the time I returned the candle had burned out Those few lines had faded like innocence You walk with me The way moon walks along with a child sitting in a train window I stood in the balcony one day Waved a handkerchief toward the sky Those who have gone without saying their goodbyes Will recognize it even from far In my handkerchief they have left behind their tears The way early humans left behind their etchings on cave walls Lyotard said, every sentence is a now No. Actually it's a memory of now Every memory is a poem In our books, the count of the unwritten poems is so much more - Geet Chaturvedi Translated by Anita Gopalan