Etched In Sand Quotes

Every family has a story, and I love that those stories are etched in sand rather than granite. That way we can change them. We can bury the lies and embrace the truth. And we can move forward.

I’m thirteen—and a half.” He looks at me suspiciously. “Weren’t you eleven last

On the days that feel dark and endless, I make myself a simple promise: I’ll get out of bed in the morning. Then I’ll head up the hill to class. If I put one foot in front of the other, day by day, I’ll move closer to the light at the end of all this struggle.

People look but don’t see, why? People hear but don’t listen, why? People touch, but don’t feel, why?

Our tragedies as fleeting as our smiles. Our futures not etched in stone, but drawn in sand.

Etchings endure, But not in Sand Meanings Collide To Unresolved Fragments Codes fizzle to Static They are not lost But Unheard Never lost Fading slowly to Silence By infinite degrees

Amanda Hamilton poem: Broken Gull of Brandon Beach Winged soul, you danced the skies, And startled dawn with shrilling cries. You followed sails and braved the sea, Then caught the wind back to me. You broke your wing; it dragged the land And etched your mark upon the sand. When feathers break, you cannot fly, But who decides the time to die? . . .

Silence is like scouring sand. When you are quiet, the silence blows against your mind and etches away everything that is soft and unimportant.

More often than not, family stories turn out to be etched in sand rather than granite. Even the parts we think are true—even the parts about ourselves—crumble

There were no milestones in the Copper Country. Often a traveler could only measure the progress of a journey by the time it took to get from each spoiled or broken thing to the next: a half-day’s walk from a dry well to the muzzle of a cannon poking out of a sand-slope, two hours to reach the skeletons of a man and a mule. The land was losing its battle with time. Ancient and exhausted, it visited decrepitude on everything within its bounds, as though out of spleen.

When I came to this city, I would have agreed with anyone who said there was little mystery left in the world. But in you, madam, first in your image, then in your living self, I saw the allure of something far away and as secret as the stars. As I reached towards this unknown, I began to feel like a man who has ridden through a vast desert, never knowing anything but the sand around him and the dry road under him, then comes upon the mirage of a garden and a city, and finds that the mirage is real, and that it is bigger than the desert; that the desert was, after all his walking, only a small part of the mirage” “Then you felt love, which is the state of feeling desire and the fulfillment of desire at the same time,” she said.

There is an old Chinese saying, “Write your sorrows in sand and etch your joys in stone.

The night sky in North Korea is a sight to behold. It might be the most brilliant in Northeast Asia, the only place spared the coal dust, Gobi Desert sand, and carbon monoxide choking the rest of the continent. In the old days, North Korean factories contributed their share to the cloud cover, but no longer. No artificial lighting competes with the intensity of the stars etched into its sky.

Avoiding Shipwreck Let me emblazon your name upon The blue sky, because I love you. I wish to please you, In any way, as many ways as I can…. I will etch your name into the sand, Because I adore you. I shall conduct the early birds dawn chorus, Because you make MY heart sing just so. I want you and I to sit And watch the sun come up, Creating that warm glow that you emit, Because you love me.

I remember a verse I once spotted that Julia had highlighted in her Bible: The truth will set you free. I’ve never been able to forget those words. Even when it hurts, it’s more empowering to know the truth than to stay blind to it.

I’m not a huge fan of poetry. I’ll accept the argument that it’s an art form - being an expression of the imagination - but by that broad definition, so are Etch-A-Sketch drawings and Magic Aqua Sand sculptures. I don’t think anyone really likes poetry, apart from the ones writing it, and they only really like their own.

Broken Gull of Brandon Beach Winged soul, you danced the skies, and startled dawn with shrilling cries. You followed sails and braved the sea, then caught the wind back to me. You broke your wing; it dragged the land and etched your mark upon the sand. When feathers break, you cannot fly, but who decides the time to die? You disappeared, I know not where. But your wings-marks still linger there. A broken heart cannot fly, But who decides the time to die?

Broken Gull of Brandon Beach Winged soul, you danced the skies, And startled dawn with shrilling cries. You followed sails and braved the sea, Then caught the wind back to me. You broke your wing; it dragged the land And etched your mark upon the sand. When feathers break, you cannot fly, But who decides the time to die? . . . You disappeared, I know not where. But your wing-marks still linger there. A broken heart cannot fly, But who decides the time to die?

Majnun had said to his Layla. Light the dimness with your glow once the full moon dips and shine in the sun’s stead whilst lazy dawn tarries Your radiance outdoes the brightest sun there be: it can never thieve your smile, steal your pearly mouth The resplendent night, your countenance! tho’ the full moon rise a moon bereft of your breast, of this graceful throat I see Whence would the morning sun ever find a ready kohl-stick to etch for its pale face these languid eyes of yours? What starry siren can mime coy Layla when her form spirals away or her eyes, the winsome startled pools of the sands’ wild mare?

Chapter One: The Dawn and the Dread Heartbeat, heartbeat comes from Valhallan way, To meet down in judgment, to ply its trade. Two →swords← to join in worthy cross, Actions to be rendered, one to be lost. She did come now from ’yond northern slope, A day of reckoning did she again once hope. A devout meeting was her qwesterly bane, To stay her hand was to go insane. St. Kari of the Blade to meet her past, A wicked enemy, peerless of match. Rode Kari she her charger on down, Past the Dead Land where Gaul sat crowned. A killing job, yea, she desired to lastly kill, To set things right so her heart might lie still. Upon the mist and roaring plain, She entered in, a soul uncontained. A fierce wind in deed, and forever freed, Enemies she annihilhates (’tis hur’ creed). Her own advanced guard of a sort, Multitudes to follow in her report. Know this Valkyrie from on cold, An ancient maiden soft and bold. A warrior spirit from Ages past, A fragmented mind like broken glass. Solid in stature this eternal framed being, Yet crippled within from internaled bleedings. A sword saint so refined in the poetic art, A noble character yet with a banshee’s heart. Rhythmed horse now to the beats, Kari emboldened amid the sleet. Beyond the mountain she does come, Unto southern fields wherein rules hot sun. Far from that murderous Deadlands ground, The land up swells; the dead still abound. Traverses she those bygones of leprous civilizations Those cities crumbled by the exhalted of oblivions. Stark traces etched now bare in the land, That are no more again, save dust in the hand. A cool stream now in desert sans (Does more good when one is damned). Stopped she her mount to admire the flow, A lovely stream with skeletons packed below. Blue air whisps; dragon flied motion. Flintsteel striking!!! Sparked of commotion. Cold water chortles rushtish with tint, Told of past carnage, it whetted her glint. Fallen warriors, they are no more, Swirls and eddies mark their discord. Gurgled shouts slung and gathered, Faces glazed while steel lathered. Refreshing though it was to her mouth, She smelled an air; she flared about. Came up that ridge of loud, sanded hill, Below a man and his half-score of kills. Kari’s eyes waxed in smug contempt, Possibilities ran deep with no repent . . . On Kari, Valkyrie, Cold Steel Eternity Vol. II

He picks one of the boxes on the table this time, a polished-wood box with a swirling pattern etched into its lid. The inside of the box is lined with white silk. The scent is like incense, deep and spiced, and he can feel smoke curling around his head. It is hot, a dry desert air with pounding sun and powder-soft sand. His cheeks flush from the heat and from something else. The feel and sensation of something as luscious as silk falls across his skin in waves. There is music that he cannot discern. A pipe or a flute. And laughter, a high-pitched laugh that blends harmoniously with the music. The taste of something sweet but spicy on his tongue. The feeling is luxurious and lighthearted, but also secretive and sensual. He feels a hand on his shoulder and jumps in surprise, dropping the lid down on the box.

Oh tell me please, how does it go, the triple jump?" She pro nounced it tripee-el She had a way of pleading for things in her Brazilian English to make you understand that they were matters simultaneously of no consequence and of life and death. You could refuse, and nothing would be changed; or you could give, and earn undying gratitude. It was a great gift, which she had won by long effort and sorrow and laughter. It was the humorous residue of cravings which had once been corrosive enough to etch her face. "Is that the hop, skip and jump?" I asked lazily from the rock where I was sitting and reading. I did not want to leave my rock. I had my left leg over the side with the foot in the sand. Every thirty seconds or so the movements of the water combined to send a wave swishing along the side of the rock, covering my leg up to the knee and cooling it. I felt the sun's heat flowing through me into the sea. "I really don't know," I said. `Why? What's fascinating you?" She had asked about the triple jump once before, I remembered, in Rio. "I don't know," she said, each word long-drawn-out and husky. "I am going to try it anyway." She pursed her mouth and did a coltish sprint along the sand finishing with both feet together. She stood for a while with the sun on her back, her face in shadow, looking again at the prints she had left. I watched her still, exploring the shape of her body. I would have expected a dancer's body to be harder, to show more muscle.

Broken Gull of Brandon Beach Winged soul, you danced the skies, And startled dawn with shrilling cries. You followed sails and braved the sea, Then caught the wind back to me. You broke your wing; it dragged the land And etched your mark upon the sand. When feathers break, you cannot fly, But who decides the time to die? You disappeared, I know not where. But your wing-marks still linger there. A broken heart cannot fly, But who decides the time to die?

In the realm of boundless skies I soar, With the fire of beginnings, I implore, Though thorns may pierce, and darkness may loom, I'll test my strength in thunder's fierce boom. For high above, I seek my place, In the heavens, a name to embrace, Yet every breath fuels my might, As I brave the storms, take flight in the night. In the face of dust, my resolve remains, Despite the wounds, and life's crushing pains, I stand unbroken, my spirit's ablaze, In the crucible, I'll burn and amaze. Though I may stumble, and falter, and strain, In my heart, the desire remains untamed, With sparks in my eyes, and hope in my veins, I'll rise from the ashes, through trials and gains. For I've etched in my fists, a star's radiant gleam, In the city's uproar, I'll conquer, it seems, Though darkness may fall in an infinite stream, My end won't be falling; it's more than it seems. On my face, I may wear the marks of the fight, With a broken resolve, a fractured light, But within my core, strength takes its flight, And from the embers, I'll emerge in the night. Though breaths may shatter, and heartbeats may sway, In the depths of my being, I'll find my way, With fiery gaze, and a steadfast say, I'll conquer the tempest, come what may. I've woven a star in the palm of my hand, Let the drums of the city resound, understand, Though shadows may gather, like grains of sand, My fall is not final, I'll rise and expand. In the realm of boundless skies, I roam, With a heart unyielding, I'll find my home, Through trials and triumphs, I'll ceaselessly roam, My end isn't falling; it's where I'll become.

Broken Gull of Brandon Beach Winged soul, you danced the skies, And startled dawn with shrilling cries. You followed sails and braved the sea, Then caught the wind back to me. You broke your wing; it dragged the land And etched your mark upon the sand. When feathers break, you cannot fly, But who decides the time to die? ... You disappeared, I know not where. But your wing-marks still linger there. A broken heart cannot fly, But who decides the time to die?

She was right next door, but I was afraid that if I didn’t etch her into my mind deeply enough, she would slip away like grains of sand through my fingers.

Two Waves You etched a heart upon the sand with a driftwood pen in hand, encircling both our given names, in a gesture bold and grand. A crashing wave first made claim to our monikers in its tidal game. A second then seized your heart to sea. erasing the love you once declared to me.

discursive regimes of the late eighteenth century drew the figure of man into the sand, and even if he manages to survive the etching, typing, and storing of the late nineteenth-century analog media, he is certain to disappear with the compression of that sand into silicon.

Every leader needs to etch some things in granite (never-change core) and write some things in sand (must -change methods).

was

No accomplishment has taken place without trial, and no growth could have occurred without unwavering love. This is the story of how it took a community to raise a child . . . and how that child used her future to give hope back.

More often than not, family stories turn out to be etched in sand rather than granite. Even the parts we think are true—even the parts about ourselves—crumble under scrutiny. These are the lies we tell everyone who knows us. These are the lies we tell ourselves.

my commitment grows stronger with the realization that my fight for others to maintain their dignity is exactly the same fight I’ve known all my life.

I've just stepped into the kitchen when Rosie's glass fall and shatters on the living room floor, inches from Cookie's ear. (page 54)

Are you facing giants today? Does your problem look too big? Do your dreams seem impossible? You need to get your staff out. Instead of going around discouraged, and thinking it’s never going to work out, start dwelling on your victories. Start thinking about how you killed the lion and bear in your own life. Start remembering how far God has brought you. Rehearse all the times He opened doors, gave you promotions, healed your family members, and put you in the right places with the right people. Don’t forget your victories. On a regular basis go back over your memorial stones, and read the victories etched on your staff. When those negative memories come up, they come to all of us--the things that didn’t work out, your hurts, your failures, and your disappointments. Many people mistakenly stay on that channel and they end up stuck in a negative rut and do not expect anything good. Remember, that’s not the only channel--get your remote control and switch over to the victory channel. Expect breakthroughs. Expect problems to turn around. Expect to rise to new levels. You haven’t seen your greatest victories. You haven’t accomplished your greatest dreams. There are new mountains to climb, new horizons to explore. Don’t let past disappointments steal your passion. Don’t let the way somebody treated you sour you on life. God is still in control. It may not have happened in the past, but it can happen in the future. Draw a line in the sand and say, “That’s it. I’m done with low expectations. I’m not settling for mediocrity. I expect favor, increase, and promotion. I expect blessings to chase me down. I expect this year to be my best so far.” If you raise your level of expectancy, God will take you places you’ve never dreamed. He’ll open doors no man can shut. He will help you overcome obstacles that looked insurmountable, and you will see His goodness in amazing ways.

There’s no way a person could be born into dysfunction, fighting to survive and helping her family do the same, without some purpose to give it all meaning.

She steps back—she’s contemplating whether I will accept her explanation. But I know it will never be possible for her to acknowledge what she did, the same as it will never be possible for me to fully forget it:

After I put on my coat, I turn and whisper to Camille: “Just a minute.” In the living room, I leave a wide space between myself and the recliner where Cookie’s sitting, knowing that distance from her is the only thing that has kept me both physically and emotionally safe. Wearing a blue flannel shirt, black stretch pants, and a scowl, she slowly meets my eyes. The TV’s reflection flashes off the lenses of her huge, shaded eyeglasses. “Good-bye,” I tell her. It comes out cold and flat. When she responds with silence, I nod. This is all I’ll get. Cherie opens the front door, and Camille and I exit with her. When the three of us get to the train station, we all break down in tears. It’s a cry of anger for our mother’s failure to take responsibility, for the unfairness of having had no say in choosing who brought us into this world . . . and for our relief knowing that soon she’ll be gone, for good.

Now the wind begins to stir. They call this a Santa Ana, this wind which comes from the desert beyond the city, unpredictable and fierce, scenting the irradiated night with sagebrush and sand. She takes pleasure in the way it howls through its broken Spanish mouth, shattering leaves, breaking the branches of trees, etching its insistent southern story in a braille of twisted fronds. She enjoys the stillness in the mornings after the winds have passed, after the winds have ripped the palms, made confetti of the pale listless fronds, dragged their anemic sun-drained fronds to the ground. Then the city has been purified. A sense of salt lingers. The calligraphy is obvious. At such moments she understands exactly what God is saying. His voice rises with the clarity of church bells above the debris. And God is saying the party is over.

In migration, above all topics, the levels of otherness, of hybridization and plurality, of shifting identities and friendships, are perhaps greater than in many other aspects of life. It is essentially the experience of choosing to forgo everything that is settled and established and moving on to construct a different reality—whether by choice or compulsion. I’d compare this with how wind etches the vast sand dunes in beautiful patterns, but chooses to deconstruct the same later, and rebuild it as it fancies.