Decorate With Inspirational Quotes

With maps and globes decorated around your room as a child and with passport and ticket in hand in the present, it is your world to explore. To travel is to ask for a complex mix of the new and the old, hellos and goodbyes, and sadness and happiness. Leave your shoes behind at home and to walk in the footsteps of others for a while.

Why must it be so hard For us to come to understand, That there are things we cannot change Hidden amongst the things we can? For we can rearrange our hearts, Dust out the corners of our minds, We can teach our eyes to see Only the things we wish to find. Yet once we decorate our walls And sweep our sorrows off the floor, Why do we look to someone else, To show us how we can be more? For here is where the line Between our can and can't gets tough, Just the point at which we all must learn That we are already enough, That since we cannot choose the home, Our only soul was born into, We should rearrange its rooms But learn to love its window's view.

Honor without power was a useless decoration and power without honor was the simple flexing of muscle

Someday she planned to paint he ceiling: Blue, with gold stars on it, whole constellations, and a section of the Milky Way.

Fans don’t mind him doing a little touch-up work, but Jesus wants complete renovation. Fans come to Jesus thinking tune-up, but Jesus is thinking overhaul. Fans think a little makeup is fine, but Jesus is thinking makeover. Fans think a little decorating is required, but Jesus wants a complete remodel. Fans want Jesus to inspire them, but Jesus wants to interfere with their lives.

People can destroy people; People can also decorate. The former are misleaders; the latter are leaders.

The Gingerbread House has four walls, a roof, a door, a window, and a chimney. It is decorated with many sweet culinary delights on the outside. But on the inside there is nothing—only the bare gingerbread walls. It is not a real house—not until you decide to add a Gingerbread Room. That’s when the stories can move in. They will stay in residence for as long as you abstain from taking the first gingerbread bite.

You want to write a book? Make a song? Direct a movie? Decorate pottery? Learn a dance? Explore a new land? You want to draw a penis on your wall? Do it. Who cares? It’s your birthright as a human being, so do it with a cheerful heart. (I mean, take it seriously, sure—but don’t take it seriously.) Let inspiration lead you wherever it wants to lead you.

Decorate your birthday with love and memories not with years.

If you’re alive, you’re a creative person. You and I and everyone you know are descended from tens of thousands of years of makers. Decorators, tinkerers, storytellers, dancers, explorers, fiddlers, drummers, builders, growers, problem-solvers, and embellishers—these are our common ancestors. The guardians of high culture will try to convince you that the arts belong only to a chosen few, but they are wrong and they are also annoying. We are all the chosen few. We are all makers by design. Even if you grew up watching cartoons in a sugar stupor from dawn to dusk, creativity still lurks within you. Your creativity is way older than you are, way older than any of us. Your very body and your very being are perfectly designed to live in collaboration with inspiration, and inspiration is still trying to find you—the same way it hunted down your ancestors.

Decorate yourself with the beauty of love.

A successful life is decorated with a flower called purpose.

It is now sixteen or seventeen years since I saw the queen of France, then the dauphiness, at Versailles; and surely never lighted on this orb, which she hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. I saw her just above the horizon, decorating and cheering the elevated sphere she just began to move in,—glittering like the morning-star, full of life, and splendor, and joy. Oh! what a revolution! and what a heart must I have, to contemplate without emotion that elevation and that fall! Little did I dream that, when she added titles of veneration to those of enthusiastic, distant, respectful love, that she should ever be obliged to carry the sharp antidote against disgrace concealed in that bosom; little did I dream that I should have lived to see such disasters fallen upon her in a nation of gallant men, in a nation of men of honour and of cavaliers. I thought ten thousand swords must have leaped from their scabbards to avenge even a look that threatened her with insult.—But the age of chivalry is gone.—That of sophisters, economists, and calculators, has succeeded; and the glory of Europe is extinguished forever. Never, never more shall we behold that generous loyalty to rank and sex, that proud submission, that dignified obedience, that subordination of the heart which kept alive, even in servitude itself, the spirit of an exalted freedom. The unbought grace of life, the cheap defence of nations, the nurse of manly sentiment and heroic enterprise, is gone! It is gone, that sensibility of principle, that chastity of honour which felt a stain like a wound, which inspired courage whilst it mitigated ferocity, which ennobled whatever it touched, and under which vice itself lost half its evil by losing all its grossness.

This was her body. She had learned to take pleasure in it, even if no man had ever done the same. It was curved and generous and womanly and strong, and it was formed to do more than decorate a drawing room, or transfer wealth from one gentleman to another. She was made to tempt, labor, inspire, create, sustain. Despite the way Rafe held her bound in his grasp, a sense of power moved through her. For once, she could revel in her femininity and feel it as something other than a disadvantage to be overcome. A quality to be respected, worshiped. Even feared.

My home is designed in silence & peace. What other decorations should I seek? In this journey of nowhere, but within Those will taste bliss who are meek. Beyond that where I do not exist I shall reach without me. The separated part will finally merge in the eventual embrace of Thee.

I pity you Juliet. You don't know what love is. You think it's Valentine's Day, and weekends in Italy. You think it's drinking champagne in some expensive restaurant and being bought stupid bloody underwear. But that's just the trimmings. The decoration. They're just gestures. Without trust, and respect, and kindness, they don't mean shit. I thought love was about caring about someone day in and day out, about being there when it's rucking amazing and still wanting to be there when it feels like crap, I thought it was about forever.

There’s a huge difference between the writers, the musicians, the composers, the chefs, the dance choreographers and to a certain extent the tradesmen and the rest of society in that no one understands us. It’s a wretched dream to hope that our creativity gets recognised while our family thinks we’re wasting our time when the lawn needs mowing, the deck needs painting and the bedroom needs decorating. It’s acceptable to go into the garage to tinker about with a motorbike, but it’s a waste of a good Sunday afternoon if you go into the garage and practice your guitar, or sit in your study attempting to capture words that have been floating around your brain forever. No one understands us

Decorate your inner dreams with love, light and laughter

Life is beautiful. It's even more beautiful if you can decorate it with beauty of love, magic of hope, and joy of dreams.

Life is beautiful. It's even more beautiful if you can decorate it with love, hope, and dreams.

Let us decorate the world with the flowers of peace, love, and laughter.

Love your home and it will love you back. This is good feng shui

Life is too short to say no to paper flowers

Let us decorate the world with the pearls of a smile, diamonds of hope, and the rubies of love.

Something about Christmas decorations inspired delinquency.

Always prefer to be like Gold, so ductile as willing to be pulled to the limits, so malleable as the more you get beaten the more you get decorative.

Whoever had designed the ship’s décor had a hard-on for Vegas-inspired neon and naked male angels; you couldn’t go anywhere without being blinded by an illuminated palm tree or leered at by a cherub.

You are the TEACHER. Some people are so stuck on what you did in the past, that they don't realize that you forgave yourself, matured, and graduated from what happened. Yet here they are stuck on that memory..wondering how you were able to move on. Time waits for no one and life keeps going. When haters try to remind you of your past, starve their attention with silence..Just realize that you don't have time to supervise adults. You got things to do and individuals to mentor. What was designed to crush you just strengthened your walk, put confidence in your talk, and encouraged you to be content with You. Their presence or opinion is only entertainment in the bleachers, tolerated decorations on the wall, and the uncelebrated clown at your events. Remember you are the teacher and they are the student...take charge of your classroom!!

The astonishing domes of Europe's churches, built and decorated over decades of inspired meticulous work by incomparable architects and artists like Filippo Brunelleschi and Michelangelo, were all financed with sound money by patrons with very low time preference. The only way to impress these patrons was to build artwork that would last long enough to immortalize their names as the owners of great collections and patrons of great artists.

Orlando, who had just dipped her pen in the ink, and was about to indite some reflection upon the eternity of all things, was much annoyed to be impeded by a blot, which spread and meandered round her pen. . . . She dipped it again. The blot increased. She tried to go on with what she was saying but no words came. Next she began to decorate the blot with wings and whiskers, till it became a round-headed monster, something between a bat and a wombat. But as for writing poetry with Basket and Bartholemew in the room, it was impossible. No sooner had she said 'impossible' than, to her astonishment and alarm, the pen began to curve and caracole with the smoothest possible fluency. Her page was written in the neatest sloping Italian hand with the most insipid verses she had ever read in her life: I am myself but a vile link Amid life's weary chain, But I have spoken hallowed words, Oh, do not say in vain! . . . . . She was so changed, the soft carnation cloud Once mantling o'er her cheek like that which eve Hangs o'er the sky, glowing with roseate hue, Had faded into paleness, broken by Bright burning blushes, torches of the tomb, but here, by an abrupt movement she spilt the ink over the page and blotted it from human sight she hoped for ever. She was all of a quiver, all of a stew. Nothing more repulsive could be imagined than to feel the ink flowing thus in cascades of involuntary inspiration.

The truth is, new furniture or a better house will never really satisfy - they will just set new, higher standards for what is acceptable to us for our comfort and contentment. When you take care of what you have and find joy right where you are, you set the right tone and expectations for contentment in all circumstances moving forward. Whether things get better or worse, our standard will be to love what we have and be grateful for it (even when we might not like it).

A Zentangle® Art Kit To make your own little art kit you will need: Zentangle squares cut from black and white paper A Micron 01 and 05 Pen A Sakura White Gel Pen A White Pencil A Soft Lead Pencil A Box to house all your treasures. All you have to do is gather your materials and put them in a box. You can decorate the box as you like. Maybe you would like to draw Zentangles all over it. I like to carry my kit in my purse and so a box is quite cumbersome. I use a small plastic pouch. It very easily houses all my Zentangle squares, pencils and pens.

I inhale slowly, soaking it all in. I step forward and backward, my neck twisting and turning, memorizing every corner. I feel an instant connection to this place. Something about being here grabs me and infatuates me. I begin taking mental pictures of the narrow alleys decorated with rows of artists and vendors. I start imagining myself dining at the sidewalk cafes, sitting there with Chad during the summer, spring, winter, and fall. I get this strong desire to take off my shoes and walk barefooted on the cobblestones as if I have found my new home.

The gnarled pine, I would have said, touch it. This is China. Horticulturalists around the world have come to study it. Yet no one has ever been able to explain why it grows like a corkscrew, just as no one can adequately explain China. But like that tree, there it is, old, resilient, and oddly magnificent. Within that tree are the elements in nature that have inspired Chinese artists for centuries: gesture over geometry, subtlety over symmetry, constant flow over static form. And the temples, walk and touch them. This is China. Don't merely stare at these murals and statues. Fly up to the crossbeams, get down on your hands and knees, and press your head to the floor tiles. Hide behind that pillar and come eye to eye with its flecks of paint. Imagine that you are the interior decorator who is a thousand years in age. Start with a bit of Tibetan Buddhism, plus a dash each of animism and Taoism. A hodgepodge, you say? No, what is in those temples is an amalgam that is pure Chinese, a lovely shabby elegance, a glorious new motley that makes China infinitely intriguing. Nothing is ever completely thrown away and replaced. If one period of influence falls out of favor, it is patched over. The old views still exist, one chipped layer beneath, ready to pop through with the slightest abrasion. That is the Chinese aesthetic and also its spirit. Those are the traces that have affected all who have traveled along China's roads.

Walt Disney's orchestration of his animation studio was often likened to that of a Renaissance artist's workshop: 'Of all the things I've done,' he stated, 'the most vital is coordinating the talents of those who work for us and pointing them at a certain goal.' Disney understood the amorphous nature of his role as repeatedly relayed in what may be an apocryphal anecdote: 'You know,' Disney said, 'I was stumped one day when a little boy asked, 'Do you draw Mickey Mouse?' I had to admit I do not draw any more. 'Then you think up all the jokes and ideas?' 'No,' I said, 'I don't do that.' Finally, he looked at me and said, 'Mr. Disney, just what do you do?' 'Well,' I said, 'Sometimes I think of myself as a little bee. I go from one area of the studio to another and gather pollen and sort of stimulate everybody.' I guess that's the job I do.

By posing climate change as a battle between capitalism and the planet, I am not saying anything that we don't already know. the battle is already under way, but right now capitalism is winning hands down. it wins every time the need for economic growth is used as the excuse for putting off climate action yet again, of for breaking emission reduction commitments already made. it wins when Greeks are told that their only path out of economic crises is to open up their beautiful seas to high-risk oil and gas drilling. it wins when Canadians are told our only hope of not ending unlike Greece is to allow our boreal forests to be flayed so we can access the semisolid bitumen from the Alberta tar sands . it wins when a park in Istanbul is slotted for demolition to make way for yet another shopping mall. it wins when parents in Beijing are told that sending their wheezing kids to school in pollution masks decorated to look like cute cartoon characters is an acceptable price for economic progress. it wins every time we accept that we have only bad choices available to us: austerity or extraction, poisoning or poverty.

Alice's Cutie Code TM Version 2.1 - Colour Expansion Pack (aka Because this stuff won’t stop being confusing and my friends are mean edition) From Red to Green, with all the colours in between (wait, okay, that rhymes, but green to red makes more sense. Dang.) From Green to Red, with all the colours in between Friend Sampling Group: Fennie, Casey, Logan, Aisha and Jocelyn Green  Friends’ Reaction: Induces a minimum amount of warm and fuzzies. If you don’t say “aw”, you’re “dead inside”  My Reaction: Sort of agree with friends minus the “dead inside” but because that’s a really awful thing to say. Puppies are a good example. So is Walter Bishop. Green-Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: A noticeable step up from Green warm and fuzzies. Transitioning from cute to slightly attractive. Acceptable crush material. “Kissing.”  My Reaction: A good dance song. Inspirational nature photos. Stuff that makes me laugh. Pairing: Madison and Allen from splash Yellow  Friends’ Reaction: Something that makes you super happy but you don’t know why. “Really pretty, but not too pretty.” Acceptable dating material. People you’d want to “bang on sight.”  My Reaction: Love songs for sure! Cookies for some reason or a really good meal. Makes me feel like it’s possible to hold sunshine, I think. Character: Maxon from the selection series. Music: Carly Rae Jepsen Yellow-Orange  Friends’ Reaction: (When asked for non-sexual examples, no one had an answer. From an objective perspective, *pushes up glasses* this is the breaking point. Answers definitely skew toward romantic or sexual after this.)  My Reaction: Something that really gets me in my feels. Also art – oil paintings of landscapes in particular. (What is with me and scenery? Maybe I should take an art class) Character: Dean Winchester. Model: Liu Wren. Orange  Friends’ Reaction: “So pretty it makes you jealous. Or gay.”  “Definitely agree about the gay part. No homo, though. There’s just some really hot dudes out there.”(Feenie’s side-eye was so intense while the others were answering this part LOLOLOLOLOL.) A really good first date with someone you’d want to see again.  My Reaction: People I would consider very beautiful. A near-perfect season finale. I’ve also cried at this level, which was interesting. o Possible tie-in to romantic feels? Not sure yet. Orange-Red  Friends’ Reaction: “When lust and love collide.” “That Japanese saying ‘koi no yokan.’ It’s kind of like love at first sight but not really. You meet someone and you know you two have a future, like someday you’ll fall in love. Just not right now.” (<-- I like this answer best, yes.) “If I really, really like a girl and I’m interested in her as a person, guess. I’d be cool if she liked the same games as me so we could play together.”  My Reaction: Something that gives me chills or has that time-stopping factor. Lots of staring. An extremely well-decorated room. Singers who have really good voices and can hit and hold superb high notes, like Whitney Houston. Model: Jasmine Tooke. Paring: Abbie and Ichabod from Sleepy Hollow o Romantic thoughts? Someday my prince (or princess, because who am I kidding?) will come? Red (aka the most controversial code)  Friends’ Reaction: “Panty-dropping levels” (<-- wtf Casey???).  “Naked girls.” ”Ryan. And ripped dudes who like to cook topless.”  “K-pop and anime girls.” (<-- Dear. God. The whole table went silent after he said that. Jocelyn was SO UNCOMFORTABLE but tried to hide it OMG it was bad. Fennie literally tried to slap some sense into him.)  My Reaction: Uncontrollable staring. Urge to touch is strong, which I must fight because not everyone is cool with that. There may even be slack-jawed drooling involved. I think that’s what would happen. I’ve never seen or experienced anything that I would give Red to.

It is a painful irony that silent movies were driven out of existence just as they were reaching a kind of glorious summit of creativity and imagination, so that some of the best silent movies were also some of the last ones. Of no film was that more true than Wings, which opened on August 12 at the Criterion Theatre in New York, with a dedication to Charles Lindbergh. The film was the conception of John Monk Saunders, a bright young man from Minnesota who was also a Rhodes scholar, a gifted writer, a handsome philanderer, and a drinker, not necessarily in that order. In the early 1920s, Saunders met and became friends with the film producer Jesse Lasky and Lasky’s wife, Bessie. Saunders was an uncommonly charming fellow, and he persuaded Lasky to buy a half-finished novel he had written about aerial combat in the First World War. Fired with excitement, Lasky gave Saunders a record $39,000 for the idea and put him to work on a script. Had Lasky known that Saunders was sleeping with his wife, he might not have been quite so generous. Lasky’s choice for director was unexpected but inspired. William Wellman was thirty years old and had no experience of making big movies—and at $2 million Wings was the biggest movie Paramount had ever undertaken. At a time when top-rank directors like Ernst Lubitsch were paid $175,000 a picture, Wellman was given a salary of $250 a week. But he had one advantage over every other director in Hollywood: he was a World War I flying ace and intimately understood the beauty and enchantment of flight as well as the fearful mayhem of aerial combat. No other filmmaker has ever used technical proficiency to better advantage. Wellman had had a busy life already. Born into a well-to-do family in Brookline, Massachusetts, he had been a high school dropout, a professional ice hockey player, a volunteer in the French Foreign Legion, and a member of the celebrated Lafayette Escadrille flying squad. Both France and the United States had decorated him for gallantry. After the war he became friends with Douglas Fairbanks, who got him a job at the Goldwyn studios as an actor. Wellman hated acting and switched to directing. He became what was known as a contract director, churning out low-budget westerns and other B movies. Always temperamental, he was frequently fired from jobs, once for slapping an actress. He was a startling choice to be put in charge of such a challenging epic. To the astonishment of everyone, he now made one of the most intelligent, moving, and thrilling pictures ever made. Nothing was faked. Whatever the pilot saw in real life the audiences saw on the screen. When clouds or exploding dirigibles were seen outside airplane windows they were real objects filmed in real time. Wellman mounted cameras inside the cockpits looking out, so that the audiences had the sensation of sitting at the pilots’ shoulders, and outside the cockpit looking in, allowing close-up views of the pilots’ reactions. Richard Arlen and Buddy Rogers, the two male stars of the picture, had to be their own cameramen, activating cameras with a remote-control button.

Never underestimate what God can do with what you've been through!

as the specific room we stay in; our StrengthsFinder® results (based on Gallup University’s list of thirty-four talent themes, a weighted list of innate strengths that carry potential to increase a person’s performance success) as the way we decorate our room; but our Enneagram type as the kind of home we build (maybe some of us live in a hip urban condo, others prefer a gable-roofed Thai-inspired house, while others are happy to call home a one-story ranch). Our Enneagram type is the home we are likely born in and will most definitely die in. But let’s not get too fatalistic about the Enneagram. It’s not static like most popular profile systems; rather, it’s dynamic and constantly in motion, just like our personal patterns of progress and regress.

I like to think of the various results of the profile tools and tests we appeal to in an effort to learn about ourselves as the egoic spaces we inhabit. One way to illustrate this is to view our temperament (often categorized as one of sixteen combinations of basic preferences that can be determined through the MBTI® inventory—a typology developed by Isabel Briggs Myers and her mother Katharine Briggs based on Carl Jung’s typology theory) as the specific room we stay in; our StrengthsFinder® results (based on Gallup University’s list of thirty-four talent themes, a weighted list of innate strengths that carry potential to increase a person’s performance success) as the way we decorate our room; but our Enneagram type as the kind of home we build (maybe some of us live in a hip urban condo, others prefer a gable-roofed Thai-inspired house, while others are happy to call home a one-story ranch). Our Enneagram type is the home we are likely born in and will most definitely die in.

When I am having a bad day or a difficult moment, in my mind's eye I often return to the soothing images of the sea. I recall the roar of the surf as it explodes over ancient volcanic rock formations that decorate the majestic Oregon coastline. Gorgeous waves roll in endlessly and disperse impressively over the the sandal-covered beach front. I invite you to go to your secret place and allow your spirit to dance with the magical visions of inspiration you perceive.

Treat your home the way you treat your best friend

Adorn ritual; decorate shrines of love, hope, tranquility. Be significant. Arrive deliberate. . .

A blank canvas provides the artist in you with the perfect opportunity to express yourself! There is absolutely no limit to what you can create. To execute an artful tableau all you need is a willingness to experiment with paper flower crafts.

If you look for love and beauty, you will find it. You will find it because in doing so, you will realize that it is something that has always existed in you. Those who look for happiness or love outside of themselves will always be dissatisfied. It is like decorating your house with paintings and expecting to become a skilled painter yourself. To make a beautiful painting, you must pain. Similarly, to fill your life with love, you must first love. You cannot rely upon other people and expect them to complete you. It is something one must cultivate in oneself.

With the help of Dutch traders, by 1750 the cigar eventually made its way to Holland and then to Russia. There, Empress Catherine II had her cigars decorated with delicate silk bands so that her royal fingers would not become stained while she smoked. This simple yet ingenious device would subsequently inspire the cigar bands that we know today.

Writing down what you’re grateful for is a scientifically proven way (who knew?) to feel amazing about all that you’re blessed with in your life. So snag a cute notebook from the dollar store or decorate a plain old one with a collage of words that inspire you. Keep it on your nightstand, and every couple of nights before you go to bed pen three things that you were grateful for that day. It’s tempting to do it nightly, but the uplifting effect actually wears off if you go overboard. On Sunday evening, look back at everything you wrote down in the previous week and feel the good vibes wash over you.

Thaddeus knew the Bible talked about grandeur after a Believer died, but to see it in person was truly an experience. Heaven was infinite in size with gold, diamonds, gems and other extravagant jewels one could possibly imagine decorating the hallways, rooftops and roadways.

I had the feeling that all the “still lifes,” the ikebanas, the “installations”—even the simple window decoration of a cheap Ikea vase housing an inspired two-guilder Xeno “shipwreck”—bore witness to the inhabitants’ subconscious fear of evanescence.

Something vast suddenly crossed my field of vision. By the time I had reacted and adjusted the magnification, it had passed out of sight into the works shed. I had a brief memory of bright, almost gaudy metal and a shimmering, flowing robe. ‘What the hell was that?’ I hissed. Midas looked at me, lowering his scope, actual fear on his face. Fischig also looked disturbed. ‘A giant, a horned giant in jewelled metal,’ Midas said. ‘He came striding out of the modular hab to the left and went straight into the shed. God-Emperor, but it was huge!’ Fischig agreed with a nod. ‘A monster,’ he said. The cones above roared again, and a rain of withering ash fluttered down across the settlement. We shrank back into the thorn-trees. Guard activity seemed to increase. ‘Rosethorn,’ my vox piped. ‘Now is not a good time,’ I hissed. It was Maxilla. He sent one final word and cut off. ‘Sanctum.’ ‘Sanctum’ was a Glossia codeword that I had given Maxilla before we had left the Essene. I wanted him in close orbit, providing us with extraction cover and overhead sensor advantages, but knew that he would have to melt away the moment any other traffic entered the system. ‘Sanctum’ meant that he had detected a ship or ships emerging from the immaterium into realspace, and was withdrawing to a concealment orbit behind the local star. Which meant that all of us on the planet were on our own. Midas caught my sleeve and pointed down at the settlement. The giant had reappeared and stood in plain view at the mouth of the shed. He was well over two metres tall, wrapped in a cloak that seemed to be made of smoke and silk, and his ornately decorated armour and horned helmet were a shocking mixture of chased gold, acidic yellow, glossy purple, and the red of fresh, oxygenated blood. In his ancient armour, the monster looked like he had stood immobile in that spot for a thousand years. Just a glance at him inspired terror and revulsion, involuntary feelings of dread that I could barely repress. A Space Marine, from the corrupted and damned Adeptus Astartes. A Chaos Marine.

In the center of Climentoro, a town in Huehuetenango, a dozen large white houses rose above the village’s traditional wooden huts like giant monuments. The structures were made of concrete and fashioned with archways, colonnaded porches, and elaborate moldings; some even boasted facades decorated with paintings of American flags. Their owners, who lived in the US, had sent money home to build American-inspired houses for when they returned, but few did. One three-story house with a faux-brick chimney was empty. The family of twelve had migrated a few years ago, leaving the vacant construction behind. Vecinos fantasmas, Feliciano Pérez, a local farmer, called them—ghost neighbors.

We started in the basement, and the first thing I noticed was the strange lack of personal items on employees’ desks. At Pixar, people’s work areas are virtual shrines to individuality—decorated, adorned, modified in ways that express the quirks and passions of the person who occupies that space. But

Is it not beautiful to discover a new path to your destiny and decorate it with the beauty of your imagination?

You are God’s design to decorate this world. You are a repertoire of wisdom and an encyclopedia of God’s knowledge.

PEETA’S BUTTERCREAM FROSTING Peeta is quite skilled when it comes to frosting and decorating his family’s bakery cakes. This buttercream frosting can be used for cakes, cupcakes, or any dessert concoction, and is likely used by Peeta for many of the desserts that Prim and Katniss admired in the bakery window. (The Hunger Games, Chapter 7) Yields about 8 cups 11⁄2 cups shortening 1⁄2 cup (1 stick) butter 8 cups confectioners’ sugar 1 teaspoon salt 3 teaspoons clear imitation vanilla extract 3⁄4 cup heavy cream Tips from Your Sponsor The flavor of clear imitation vanilla extract pales in comparison to natural vanilla extract. However, for a white frosting, clear imitation vanilla extract is a must, as real vanilla extract is a light brown color. Using an electric mixer, cream shortening and

Tree was lonesome, and the adjustment to campus life was not proving to be an easy one for her. She missed the intimacy of her neighborhood back in Columbia, where she knew everyone she passed on the street. She had the typical freshman sensation of being overwhelmed. The lectures were hard to follow, a lot of the terms and subjects were new to her, and she struggled to take notes at the collegiate pace. She tried to keep up as best she could, but it seemed like she was always behind. She studied for two weeks for her first biology test. She was afraid of failing. Semeka Randall, in the next bed, heard Tree weeping. Semeka slid out of bed and padded back to Tamika and Ace’s room—she was about to cry herself. She said, “Tree’s crying and it’s her birthday. We have to do something.” The three of them spent all afternoon planning a surprise. They bought a vanilla cake with white icing; they blew up eighteen balloons and decorated the back bedroom with them; they strung crepe paper, and ordered pizzas. Word got back to me that Tree was having a hard day. In the afternoon, I called the freshmen suite. I sang “Happy Birthday” to Tree, in my voice that was hoarse from yelling at her. That cheered her up some. That evening, Ace, Semeka, and Tamika acted like it was just another night in their dorm room. They talked about going out, and decided against it. Semeka said, “Let’s just eat pizzas.” Tree thought, “There goes my birthday.” When the pizza arrived, Tamika told Tree to stay in the front room. After a minute, they called Tree into the back. She walked into a room darkened except for a flaming birthday cake. It was the final icebreaker. Tree beamed. The three freshmen circled Tree, and began to sing. Semeka started first. But she didn’t sing “Happy Birthday.” She sang their favorite song from the film Waiting to Exhale. As Semeka sang a verse, the others joined in. “Count on Me,” they sang. Tree, touched, started crying again.

The animators who work here are free to—no, encouraged to—decorate their work spaces in whatever style they wish. They spend their days inside pink dollhouses whose ceilings are hung with miniature chandeliers, tiki huts made of real bamboo, and castles whose meticulously painted, fifteen-foot-high styrofoam turrets appear to be carved from stone.

Funerals often inspired me to consider the lives and the deaths of people who were close to me. And, in the repose of contemplation, my heart grew still. The more distant my connection with the deceased, the more I felt moved to go to the cemetery, accompanied by my own memories, to burn incense and press my palms together in devotion to those memories. So it was that as a youth, my decorous behavior at the funerals of strangers was never feigned; rather, it was a manifestation of the capacity of sadness I had within myself." -from "The Master of Funerals

A water-bearer in India had two large pots hanging at the ends of a pole that he carried across his neck. One of the pots was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master’s house. The other pot had a crack in it, and by the time it reached its destination, it was only half full. Every day for two years the water-bearer delivered only one and one-half pots of water to the master’s house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments—perfect to the end for which it was made. The poor little cracked pot was ashamed of its imperfections and miserable that it could accomplish only half of what it had been designed to do. After two years of what the imperfect pot perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water-bearer and said, “I am ashamed of myself and I want to apologize to you.” “Why?” asked the water-bearer. “What are you ashamed of?” “Well, for these past two years, I have been able to deliver only half a load of water each day because this crack in my side allows water to leak out the whole way back to the master’s house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all this work without getting the full value of your efforts,” the pot said. The water-bearer felt sorry for the old cracked pot, and in his compassion he said, “As we return to the master’s house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path.” Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot noticed the beautiful wildflowers on the side of the path. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because half of its load had leaked out once again. Then the water-bearer said to the pot, “Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path and not on the other pot’s side? That’s because I’ve always known about your flaw and took advantage of it by planting flower seeds on your side of the path. Every day as we walked back from the stream, you watered those seeds, and for two years I have picked these beautiful flowers to decorate my master’s table. Without you being just what you are, he would not have had this beauty to grace his house.”1 Like that cracked pot, you too can accomplish wonderful things. It doesn’t matter that you have flaws and limitations. Don’t let what you perceive to be a weakness keep you from taking bold steps inspired by hope. 2 Corinthians 12:10 says: “… When I am weak [in human strength], then am I [truly] strong (able, powerful in divine strength).” Isn’t that comforting to know? Even when you’re weak, you’re strong because God is with you. He is using every part of your life—even the cracks—to create something beautiful. Get Your Hopes Up!

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As a child, I ate up the image Carl strived to portray: An inspirational rags-to-riches tale of a go-getter emerging the hell of his sulfur-scented, Podunk Texas upbringing. With a community college dropout education, Carl managed to reach six figures as a mobile home lot manager when the trailer park industry boomed in the early nineties. He decorated his accomplishments with a large house, yachts, and weekly morale shindigs for his salesmen bursting with open bars and filet mignon. However, my mother was by far his prettiest accessory.

Our philosophy is that home decor shouldn’t be taken too seriously, because we want our homes to reflect who we are, no one else. We want things to be fun and interesting, but we want things we can really live with and around. We want a place where you can use Play-Doh or prop up crusty old cowboy boots on the coffee table. We’re not afraid of candle drippings or drink rings. We believe all these things help our homes tell a tale of love and family. A tale of history and future. A tale of the American experience. Our homes spin the story we want to live in every day. We firmly believe your home should be your sanctuary, where you surround yourself with every sensible and nonsensible thing you love, a place that speaks of where you’ve been and where you’re going. Make no mistake: Our homes are far from perfect! Just beyond the frame of every camera angle is a pile of dirty clothes, three half-unpacked suitcases, and a room still waiting to be decorated. Because that, my friends, is real. C’mon in anyway and stay awhile. Our hope is that you’ll find an idea—a project, a picture, a spark of divine fire—that will inspire you. Because just like the wild woods or the glorious road, like fingerprints or feathers, your home is unique—and it should be uniquely you.

Inspired by the works of Homer—and armed with a vase decoration technique that allowed the clay’s natural color to shine through to represent the tanned bodies of gods and warriors in more realistic colors—Euphronios and his cohorts established history’s earliest known “school” of art. They worked together in a part of Athens called the Kerameikos—a name taken from the word keramos, or clay, from which our “ceramic” is derived. Euphronios and his coterie of painters are known today as the Pioneers for the mark they made by popularizing the red-figure style.

Decorate your life and home to represent the vivid hues of your radiant soul. Share your brilliance.

Laughing with blood relatives amidst memorable melodies in the background, styrofoam plate in hand, topped with foods that restaurants can’t duplicate, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Staring at an unbelievable sunrise from a balcony villa in Tanzania, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Recognized and awarded for notable news journalism, a few semesters away from achieving a prestigious degree decorated with promised opportunities, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Hoping quietly for the best, to “win my husband over” with traditional submission, more frequent sex, and minimized speech, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Walking down a dusty Egyptian street filled with the welcoming laughter of carefree children, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Sitting in a church pew notating another good message, clapping to some of my favorite songs, and then exiting to talk with familiar faces, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Communing with those who know who the “real chosen” are, beholding their unknown names unmasked, and secret knowledges revealed to ponder incessantly, it hit me: I don’t belong here. Placed underneath the wanting body of a rare man who showed me unprecedented love, it hit me: I don’t belong here. My soul. My mind. My body. Each malnourished. My community. My life purpose. Both misplaced. All starving for home. So, I moved. Not to what looks and feels good for them, but to what

Looking around the fancily decorated exhibition hall, I could see how obsessed humanity had been with living forever and how this obsession had continued from the dawn of history to today, which was awe-inspiring on one hand and, I don’t know, pitiable on the other, a complicated combination of emotions.

Which vice can be worse than greed? What can be more sinful than slander? For a truthful person, wherein is the need for austerity? For a person with a pure heart, wherein is the need for a pilgrimage? For a person who gives and gets respect from others, wherein is the need for acquiring other virtue? For a man decorated with fame, of what value is other ornamentation? For a man having true knowledge, wherein is the need for wealth? For a man dishonoured, what could be worse in death?

Gabby fell in love with the Christmassy decorations in New York City. She had always loved the winter and the snow but celebrating this season in the big city provided her with endless reasons for joy. She had never seen so many elegant decorations on every public or private building before. Gabby likes all the wreaths on the front doors; and she enjoys observing the colorfully decorated Christmas trees set up in the front windows of houses and apartments. Emma and Gabby attended the famous ceremony, the lighting of the huge Christmas tree at Rockefeller Center. The atmosphere was exhilarating." Part IV, Chapter 4, Holidays

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Thousands of years ago, dragons made human sacrifices to the Divine. In these enlightened days the sacrifice is symbolic: ten figures cut out from rag paper, decorated and burned. Tishrel, watching from behind the temple’s carved columns, considers his own internal fires, his consciousness of the Divine. Even if he stays in human form for the rest of his life, those flames within him are banked, not quenched. Even after years of incarceration and torture, something inside him is still burning.

I also take great courage in reading the scriptures these days, and I’ve also found great delight in learning about David. If there was one person who knew brokenness, it was him. In his youth, he was a brave young man who slew the giant Philistine, Goliath, with a slingshot—and a dose of God’s help. He became a decorated war hero and then eventually king of his country. Having committed adultery, murdered, lied, and covered it up, he then got his punishment from the Lord—he was broken down before God. Yet his testimony reminds us that when we are penitent before the Lord, in an honest and broken way, he will certainly renew a right spirit in us. (Ps. 51:10)

Girls have always been told that their value is tied to their appearance; their accomplishments are always magnified if they're pretty and diminished if they're not. Even worse, some girls get the message that they can get through life relying on just their looks, and then they never develop their minds. I wanted to keep Tamera away from that sort of influence. Being pretty is fundamentally a passive quality; even when you work at it, you're working at being passive. I wanted Tamera to value herself in terms of what she could do, both with her mind and with her body, not in terms of how decorative she was. I didn't want her to be passive, and I'm pleased to say that she hasn't turned out that way.

You can use crystals to decorate your home office and add some oomph to its energy

This book was inspired by these words.” “The young man was a blacksmith in the village, a magnificent white charger horse was brought to him, and he was ordered to put iron shoes onto the horse's hooves. After doing this he took the horse for a ride in the open field, and thereby a Brook he met a fair maiden. He fell madly in love with her instantly, he claimed that he was a decorated knight, but she could see he was poor, and was a blacksmith. His black working hands betrayed him, but she never mentioned this to the young man. After talking, for about fifteen minutes, in perfect harmony and calm, their meeting was broken up when two ladies that were approached the maiden.” “The maiden took out her handkerchief and gave it to him, he took it without taking his eyes off of her. The maiden dashed off running towards the two women, assuring them that she was alright. That evening a guard came from the castle, took the white charger with the new horseshoes and left. The dashing young man got to work instantly. Making himself a beautiful sword like no other. He then made himself a silver shining armour, beautiful as any knight.” “The young man made wooden replicas of men in battle, and he would practice for hours, finding new ways of defeating the enemy. All of this because of a chance meeting in a field, and the handkerchief he kept pressed against his chest. The danger was looming and there was talk of an invasion, from another country. To preserve the dignity and the honour of the village and the castle that employed all the villagers. “ “The king asked for volunteers for the impending battle. The blacksmith went to the castle as one of the volunteers. He showed up on an old brown horse, that would not be able to stand the first charge in battle. Proudly he was dressed in his silver knight's armour, holding his handmade sword. One of the guards came and took away his horse, the young man looked on sadly as others around the courtyard mocked him. Another guard approached him with the white charger that he nailed the shoes to his hooves; “this will be your steed, the guard said and he helped him onto the horse. There was silence around the forecourt, he turned and rode with the knights out to meet the enemy.” “After five hours of battle, they had secured a brave victory. The young man performed above and beyond the call of duty. He was chosen to be knighted. As he entered the great hall in the castle, there were people on both sides of the hall as he walked up to the spot where he was to be knighted. Waiting patiently, to perform the ceremony of knighthood, was none other than the king himself, and next to him, his young daughter, a princess he met by chance in a field, after the ceremony of knighthood, the princess stepped forward and said, thank you for bringing my horse back to me, a young woman who overlooked his poverty, have him her white horse, and encouraged him with giving him her handkerchief, by speaking to him in a field with kindness, her father the king was rewarded with a knight of chivalry and virtue. All because of accidental meeting and events, that encouraged someone ready in life, to step forth, and take control of his dreams, as impossible, as they seemed at the time.

In this hard times, a friend is like money, hard to get, so, if you find one, keep him or her carefully.. A good friend like a decoration to your future.

Kindness is not a concept we throw around ourselves to decorate ourselves with, like robes we wear and then take off when we come home. But kindness is a presence, a phantom in our lives, a ghost, that we must choose to invite into our very present moments.

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A Poet wrote this poem for me in 2017. Whenever I read this, I feel happy that I could touch someone deeply! "It has not been long since he came to my life He came like a soft wind He made me feel like a king He showed me who i am He made me believe i can No not just a simple man A man who is so deep Emotions feelings are in a heap His mighty head high to keep Though strong and hard His heart is made of gold Love kindness are decorated in folds He holds the capacity of changing others Making all the sisters and brothers Feel that they are worthy His words are so simple yet strong Commanding yet soft High pitched yet so serene He smiles and makes the world smile He feels the unfelt He touches the untouched He sees the unseen He takes care of all without showing He shows without pretending His eyes sparkel with light He is fearless no fright He lightens up the room when he enters And when he speaks is like a melodious symphony That touch you deep down He will inspire you He will teach you He will lend u a hand And make u stand He will be the eye for you to see Thorough ur own heart He never hopes bad for others Neither does he bothers About the negetivies He is the positive man The mighty happy soul And if i talk about his soul It the most beautiful soul How can anyone feel so much? And he has the capability of being himself No matter what He takes good care of others And makes sure he is fit too He wants smile in evryones faces And he will make you smile You meet him once And here you go! You have a changed life Do you kno who the magic man is ? He is the passionate writer

There was no sugar! That was better for our health; no need to taste such a boring thing. Sugar is one of these decorative ingredients; those ingredients that deceive you by changing the bitterness of reality into some dazzling bites of sweetness.

The meal begins the way all kaiseki meals begin, with hassun, a mixed plate of small bites- fish and vegetables, usually- used to set the tone for the feast to come. In a bowl of pine needles and fallen leaves he hides smoky slices of bonito topped with slow-cooked seaweed, gingko nuts grilled until just tender, a summer roll packed with foraged herbs, and juicy wedges of persimmon dressed with ground sesame and sansho flowers. Autumn resonates in every bite. While the rice simmers away, the meal marches forward: sashimi decorated with a thicket of mountain vegetables and wildflowers; a thick slab of Kyoto-style mackerel sushi, fermented for a year, with the big, heady funk of a washed cheese; mountain fruit blanketed in white miso and speckled with black sesame and bee larvae.

How will I forget the memory that happened on the 29th of September 2017? Bunso woke up early that day and asked me if we could paint. Of course, I said yes! I guided his hand in doing soft strokes in creating his requested "fireworks". Then I had to turn off the stove because I was cooking breakfast. When I came back, he was giggling and showed me what he did. He wrote the words 'I LOVE YOU' all by himself and he told me that he wanted to decorate his masterpiece with hearts and stars. I could not control my tears. Tears of joy perhaps because for the very first time, he tried his best to show his love and affection for me through art which he could not express through words. A moment like that has shown me how much God loves me. I may be experiencing struggles, doing more sacrifice, and adjusting to the needs of Bunso like other moms who have kids with special needs. At the end of the day, I know that there is a reason why God has given me Bunso. Perhaps He knows that I can love him unconditionally. Yes, I can and I do truly. I am so glad that he loves me too beyond words can express.

The renunciate is no authority on worldly matters, the non-lecherous does not love decorating himself, the non-expert cannot speak delightfully, the outspoken is not competent as a crook.

If we pack the peace and joy and wonder of Christmas in the attic with our decorations, we have missed Christmas altogether.

Oh, my goodness," Sylvie said with obvious delight, immediately leaning down for a closer look at the former professor's Beauty and the Beast spread. There were iced biscuits, piped well, each in the shape of an animated character. Happily chomping down on a smiling teapot, Mariana cooed, "Look at the gingerbread houses." Adam had re-created the central square of a small French-inspired town in gingerbread blocks, chocolate beams, and blown sugar fountains. He'd mechanized the latter to spill out a cascade of syrup, which fizzed like sherbet and tasted far better than Dominic had expected. Most of the sugar-craft requirements had been checked off on the cake, however, and the sculpted objects that stood atop the icing. Even for a highly skilled, trained sugar artist, it was difficult to pull off a human figure, and Adam had wisely opted for the Beast's enchanted household: the clock, the candelabra, and so on.

Wishes are seeds of hope. Some take root in the fertile soil of reality while others continue as memories of lost desires. Wishes have inspired great successes, filled fountains and lip-polished a stone in Ireland. Wishes are the visions we create in relation to our talents, needs or simple wants. We have decorated all we wish for with the spirit of mere possibility. Someone has to win the lottery, why not me? Some wishes are greater than possibility. Some defy a greater design. All are dreams of achieving something we cannot do alone, not without the luxury of chance.

Standing under a tree and paying complete attention to the sounds of Nature can attract peace and reduce most of our burdens. It is a perfect way of meditation in this land decorated by Nature.

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Consider decorating your home with calligraphy—it could be an inspiring saying, a quote from someone you admire, or something that allows for self-reflection. You don’t need an alcove—your living room wall serves just as well. It doesn’t matter whether the calligraphy is particularly skillful, either.

I embraced the desert, a place without representations of the natural world and where art, when it is found, tends toward the nonfigurative, the decorative. There I stayed, until legal obligations forced me to return here, however briefly.” “And that’s why you asked for the paintings in this room to be removed,” I said. “Now I perceive some mistrust creeping in,” said Hayden. “I can hardly blame you.” “I admit only that it is straining my credulity,” I said, “not shattering it. But a creature, a homunculus, that finds its way into our world through—what, pictures of landscapes or standing stones?” “I have spent a long time considering this,” said Hayden, “and have learned that I am not alone in what I have experienced. Others, too, have seen the flaw. In fact, once the eye is trained to look for it, it becomes hard to miss. It is in everything—this blemish, this imperfection—but most profoundly in art because art is so deeply human, and humans are so deeply flawed. What if there are worlds beyond this one? What if, in creating representations of what we see around us, an artist may, in moments of great vision or inspiration, capture a quintessence, and in so doing, forge a connection between the real and the unreal: a window between realms, or the expansion of a fissure, a gap wide enough for something to enter, something that seeks to be what it is not?