Falling Petals Quotes

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I see nothing. We may sink and settle on the waves. The sea will drum in my ears. The white petals will be darkened with sea water. They will float for a moment and then sink. Rolling over the waves will shoulder me under. Everything falls in a tremendous shower, dissolving me.
Virginia Woolf (The Waves)
Happiness is in the quiet, ordinary things. A table, a chair, a book with a paper-knife stuck between the pages. And the petal falling from the rose, and the light flickering as we sit silent.
Virginia Woolf (The Waves)
Sometimes I wake up and lie still enough to hear a petal drop from the vase of flowers. Sometimes I lie awake and wish there was someone to hear my falling.
Simon Van Booy (The Illusion of Separateness)
Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music
Matsuo Bashō (Japanese Haiku (Japanese Haiku Series I))
Words. Borne on the ever swelling current of hatred, like flowers opening in the current, petals peeling back, then falling apart.
Anne Rice (The Vampire Lestat (The Vampire Chronicles, #2))
With a chaste heart With pure eyes I celebrate your beauty Holding the leash of blood So that it might leap out and trace your outline Where you lie down in my Ode As in a land of forests or in surf In aromatic loam, or in sea music Beautiful nude Equally beautiful your feet Arched by primeval tap of wind or sound Your ears, small shells Of the splendid American sea Your breasts of level plentitude Fulfilled by living light Your flying eyelids of wheat Revealing or enclosing The two deep countries of your eyes The line your shoulders have divided into pale regions Loses itself and blends into the compact halves of an apple Continues separating your beauty down into two columns of Burnished gold Fine alabaster To sink into the two grapes of your feet Where your twin symmetrical tree burns again and rises Flowering fire Open chandelier A swelling fruit Over the pact of sea and earth From what materials Agate? Quartz? Wheat? Did your body come together? Swelling like baking bread to signal silvered hills The cleavage of one petal Sweet fruits of a deep velvet Until alone remained Astonished The fine and firm feminine form It is not only light that falls over the world spreading inside your body Yet suffocate itself So much is clarity Taking its leave of you As if you were on fire within The moon lives in the lining of your skin.
Pablo Neruda
Advice for a human. 90. But know this. Men are not from Mars. Women are not from Venus. Do not fall for categories. Everyone is everything. Every ingredient inside a star is inside you, and every personality that ever existed competes in the theatre of your mind for the main role. 91. You are lucky to be alive. Inhale and take in life's wonders. Never take so much as a single petal of a flower for granted.
Matt Haig (The Humans)
I’ll love you until the last petal falls, Jules.
Laura Miller (Butterfly Weeds (Butterfly Weeds, #1))
Somewhere someone thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you. Somewhere someone shakes from the ripple of a thousand butterflies inside a single stomach. Somewhere someone is packing their bags to see the world with someone else. Somewhere someone is reaching through the most terrifying few feet of space to hold the hand of someone else. Somewhere someone is watching someone else’s chest rise and fall with the breath of slumber. Somewhere someone is pouring ink like blood onto pages fighting to say the truth that has no words. Somewhere someone is waiting patient but exhausted to just be with someone else. Somewhere someone is opening their eyes to a sunrise in someplace they have never seen. Somewhere someone is pulling out the petals twisting the apple stem picking up the heads up penny rubbing the rabbits foot knocking on wood throwing coins into fountains hunting for the only clover with only 4 leaves skipping over the cracks snapping the wishbone crossing their fingers blowing out the candles sending dandelion seeds into the air ushering eyelashes off their thumbs finding the first star and waiting for 11:11 on their clock to spend their wishes on someone else. Somewhere someone is saying goodbye but somewhere someone else is saying hello. Somewhere someone is sharing their first or their last kiss with their or no longer their someone else. Somewhere someone is wondering if how they feel is how the other they feels about them and if both theys could ever become a they together. Somewhere someone is the decoder ring to all of the great mysteries of life for someone else. Somewhere someone is the treasure map. Somewhere someone thinks they love someone else exactly like I love you. Somewhere someone is wrong.
Tyler Knott Gregson
Rose petals of a thousand shades fall from the trees as Golds fight beneath them. They're all red in the end.
Pierce Brown (Golden Son (Red Rising Saga, #2))
That point in time just as the last leaf is about to drop, as the remaining petal is about to fall; that moment captures everything beautiful and sorrowful about life. Mono no aware, the Japanese call it.
Tan Twan Eng (The Garden of Evening Mists)
There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass, Or night-dews on still waters between walls Of shadowy granite, in a gleaming pass; Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tir'd eyelids upon tir'd eyes; Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies. Here are cool mosses deep, And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
Alfred Tennyson
Fireflies out on a warm summer's night, seeing the urgent, flashing, yellow-white phosphorescence below them, go crazy with desire; moths cast to the winds an enchantment potion that draws the opposite sex, wings beating hurriedly, from kilometers away; peacocks display a devastating corona of blue and green and the peahens are all aflutter; competing pollen grains extrude tiny tubes that race each other down the female flower's orifice to the waiting egg below; luminescent squid present rhapsodic light shows, altering the pattern, brightness and color radiated from their heads, tentacles, and eyeballs; a tapeworm diligently lays a hundred thousand fertilized eggs in a single day; a great whale rumbles through the ocean depths uttering plaintive cries that are understood hundreds of thousands of kilometers away, where another lonely behemoth is attentively listening; bacteria sidle up to one another and merge; cicadas chorus in a collective serenade of love; honeybee couples soar on matrimonial flights from which only one partner returns; male fish spray their spunk over a slimy clutch of eggs laid by God-knows-who; dogs, out cruising, sniff each other's nether parts, seeking erotic stimuli; flowers exude sultry perfumes and decorate their petals with garish ultraviolet advertisements for passing insects, birds, and bats; and men and women sing, dance, dress, adorn, paint, posture, self-mutilate, demand, coerce, dissemble, plead, succumb, and risk their lives. To say that love makes the world go around is to go too far. The Earth spins because it did so as it was formed and there has been nothing to stop it since. But the nearly maniacal devotion to sex and love by most of the plants, animals, and microbes with which we are familiar is a pervasive and striking aspect of life on Earth. It cries out for explanation. What is all this in aid of? What is the torrent of passion and obsession about? Why will organisms go without sleep, without food, gladly put themselves in mortal danger for sex? ... For more than half the history of life on Earth organisms seem to have done perfectly well without it. What good is sex?... Through 4 billion years of natural selection, instructions have been honed and fine-tuned...sequences of As, Cs, Gs, and Ts, manuals written out in the alphabet of life in competition with other similar manuals published by other firms. The organisms become the means through which the instructions flow and copy themselves, by which new instructions are tried out, on which selection operates. 'The hen,' said Samuel Butler, 'is the egg's way of making another egg.' It is on this level that we must understand what sex is for. ... The sockeye salmon exhaust themselves swimming up the mighty Columbia River to spawn, heroically hurdling cataracts, in a single-minded effort that works to propagate their DNA sequences into future generation. The moment their work is done, they fall to pieces. Scales flake off, fins drop, and soon--often within hours of spawning--they are dead and becoming distinctly aromatic. They've served their purpose. Nature is unsentimental. Death is built in.
Carl Sagan (Shadows Of Forgotten Ancestors: A Search For Who We Are)
...when the petals fall Say it is beautiful and good, say it is well
May Sarton (Selected Poems)
Now, anyone with two thoughts in their mind can see that no future is set in stone. An infinite number of futures bud at the end of every moment, and each one of them can be changed by a falling rose petal.
Robin Hobb (Fool's Fate (Tawny Man, #3))
He and Nina had never exchanged gifts or rings; they’d had no possessions they shared. They had been wanderers and soldiers. Even so, she could not leave him with nothing. From her pocket, she drew a slender sprig of ash and let it drift down into the grave, followed by a smattering of withered red petals from the tulips their compatriots had placed on his chest when they bid him goodbye in Ketterdam. “I know you never cared for sweets.” Her voice wobbled as she let a handful of toffees fall from her hand. They made a hollow patter. “But this way I’m with you, and you can keep them for me when I see you next. I know you won’t eat them yourself.
Leigh Bardugo (King of Scars (King of Scars, #1))
The collar had restrained his winds but not killed them. They uncoiled from behind the shadows, ready to surround her, to lift her up, to carry her away with only Ariel’s silk-clad arms wrapped about her to keep her from falling. Spirare, they whispered to her like an incantation. Breathe us in. Bertie didn’t mean to, but she inhaled, and everything inside her was a spring morning, a rose opening its petals to the sun, the light coming through the wavering glass of an old, diamond-paned window. Tendrils of wind reached for Bertie with a coaxing hand. Release him, and he will love you.
Lisa Mantchev (Eyes Like Stars (Théâtre Illuminata, #1))
I’m going to give you a handful of wildflowers so, each petal that falls will remind you that the earth breathes, and the moon rises.
Carolyn Riker (My Dear, Love Hasn't Forgotten You)
I’ve often wondered, even to this day, why during painful times some people seem to step away from themselves and make decisions that fall far out of their usual line of character and behaviour. Perhaps a natural reluctance to sit still is central, or perhaps, like the lesser animals, instinct forces us to go on even if grief has left us not up to the task…. In one fleeting moment, I stripped away the petals of my future, let them catch wind, and fly away
Ann Howard Creel (The Magic of Ordinary Days)
The breath of wind that moved them was still chilly on this day in May; the flowers gently resisted, curling up with a kind of trembling grace and turning their pale stamens towards the ground. The sun shone through them, revealing a pattern of interlacing, delicate blue veins, visible through the opaque petals; this added something alive to the flower's fragility, to it's ethereal quality, something almost human ,in the way that human can mean frailty and endurance both at the same time. The wind could ruffle these ravishing creations but it couldn't destroy them, or even crush them; they swayed there, dreamily; they seemed ready to fall but held fast to their slim strong branches-...
Irène Némirovsky
Soft sun shone down on a misty cathedral at the opposite end of a football-field length courtyard. The cathedral had a long pointed tower with beautiful rose and ivory stained glass windows. Pink-petal flowers and deep green ivy climbed the stones from the ground to it’s roof. A large fountain stood in the middle of the courtyard with water falling from several lion’s heads. Between the misty air and rolling slope of the earth, the grounds reminded me of a long lost fairy tale.
Priya Ardis (My Boyfriend Merlin (My Merlin, #1))
I have walked into the wild to witness how falls a petal from a yellow rose silent and sudden like a moment defining time.
Colin Andersen (Out of Nowhere)
And so, yet again, we crush the blossom in our hand, lift our gaze from the tumbling petals, and ask the world, ‘Where, then, is this beauty you promised?
Steven Erikson (Fall of Light (The Kharkanas Trilogy, #2))
As people we narrowly get by with our lives each day, energy from our soft, delicate actions appearing like cherry blossoms, only once, and once for a short while. Eventually petals fall to the ground.
Banana Yoshimoto (Amrita)
Alex: OK, that sounds like a challenge! Well firstly, I would have brought you to a hotel along the coast so that your suite would have the best sea view in the hotel. You could fall asleep listening to the waves crashing against the rocks, I would sprinkle the bed with red rose petals and have candles lit all around the room, I would have your favorite CD playing quietly in the background. But I wouldn’t propose to you there. I would bring you to where there was a huge crowd of people so they could all gasp when I got down on one knee and proposed. Or something like that. Note I have italicized all important buzz words. Rosie: Oh. Alex: Oh? That’s all you can say? One word for the most important night of our lives?
Cecelia Ahern (Love, Rosie)
Greet the sky and live, blossom!... Yet even as the wind stirs your petals, flowers fall. My flowers are eternal, my songs live forever. I lift them in offering; I, a singer. I cast them to the wind, I spill them. The flowers become gold, they come to dwell inside the palace of eternity.
Jacqueline Carey (Naamah's Blessing (Naamah Trilogy, #3))
There is one thing I like about the Poles—their language. Polish, when it is spoken by intelligent people, puts me in ecstasy. The sound of the language evokes strange images in which there is always a greensward of fine spiked grass in which hornets and snakes play a great part. I remember days long back when Stanley would invite me to visit his relatives; he used to make me carry a roll of music because he wanted to show me off to these rich relatives. I remember this atmosphere well because in the presence of these smooth−tongued, overly polite, pretentious and thoroughly false Poles I always felt miserably uncomfortable. But when they spoke to one another, sometimes in French, sometimes in Polish, I sat back and watched them fascinatedly. They made strange Polish grimaces, altogether unlike our relatives who were stupid barbarians at bottom. The Poles were like standing snakes fitted up with collars of hornets. I never knew what they were talking about but it always seemed to me as if they were politely assassinating some one. They were all fitted up with sabres and broad−swords which they held in their teeth or brandished fiercely in a thundering charge. They never swerved from the path but rode rough−shod over women and children, spiking them with long pikes beribboned with blood−red pennants. All this, of course, in the drawing−room over a glass of strong tea, the men in butter−colored gloves, the women dangling their silly lorgnettes. The women were always ravishingly beautiful, the blonde houri type garnered centuries ago during the Crusades. They hissed their long polychromatic words through tiny, sensual mouths whose lips were soft as geraniums. These furious sorties with adders and rose petals made an intoxicating sort of music, a steel−stringed zithery slipper−gibber which could also register anomalous sounds like sobs and falling jets of water.
Henry Miller (Sexus (The Rosy Crucifixion, #1))
'We're not... we haven't been writing poetry and sprinkling rose petals and tripping hand in hand under rainbows, Kay.' 'Just because you have Y chromosomes doesn't mean you can't tell each other how you feel, Dylan. Your penises won't fall off if you do.'
Kim Fielding (Good Bones (Bones #1))
Just then he noticed that Amy had that look, as though she wanted the street to buckle and split so she could fall right in. Dan saw the cool crowd from her school hanging at a table in the front. So that was why she didn't want to go in. Evan Tolliver was at the head of the table. Dan sighed. Even, the human supercomputer, was Amy's dream crush. Whenever Evan was near, she got her stutter back. "Oh, excuse me, I didn't notice Luke Skywalker," Dan said. "Or is it Darth Vader?" "Shhh," Amy said. Her cheeks were red. "He's coming." "You mean Evan Tolliver himself is about to set his foot on the sidewalk? Did you bring the rose petals?" "Cut it out, dweeb!" Amy said fiercely. "Hi, Amy," Evan said from behind her. Amy's color went from summer rose to summer tomato. She shot Dan a look that told him he was in serious trouble. "Hey, Evan," he said. "I'm Amy's little brother, Dweeb. Nice to meet you, man.
Jude Watson (Vespers Rising (The 39 Clues, #11))
When the door to my writing chamber gasps shut and the almost imperceptible sigh of a rose petal falls on my desk, I know that my muse is present.
Brandi L. Bates
When the cost of clinging on is higher than the cost of letting go, that’s when we will act, that’s when we often take decisive steps to change our Life.
AVIS Viswanathan
Cardan gazes at a rosebush with petals so black and glossy they look like patent leather. ¨It was terrifying,¨ he says, ¨watching you fall. I mean, you´re generally terrifying, but I am unused to fearing for you. And then I was furious. I am not sure I have ever been that angry before.¨ ¨Mortals are fragile,¨ I say. ¨Not you,¨ he says in a way that sounds a little like a lament. ¨You never break.¨ Page 159
Holly Black (The Queen of Nothing (The Folk of the Air, #3))
Song of Upbringing" I infancy the snow that fell on me was like floss silk childhood the snow that fell on me was like sleet seventeen to nineteen the snow that fell on me dropped like hail twenty to twenty-two the snow that fell on me seemed like balls of ice twenty-three the snow that fell on me looked like a blizzard twenty-four the snow that fell on me became so mournful II the snow that falls on me falls like petals when the burning firewood makes a noise and the frozen sky darkens the snow that fell on me so delicate and lovely fell reaching out a hand the snow that fell on me was like tears that sink into a burning forehead to the snow that fell on me I offered heartfelt thanks and prayed to God that I would live a long life the snow that fell on me was so chaste
Chūya Nakahara
I’ve never wanted to marry,” Pandora continued. “Anyone who knows me will tell you that. When I was little, I never liked the stories about princesses waiting to be rescued. I never wished on falling stars, or pulled the petals off daisies while reciting ‘he loves me, he loves me not.
Lisa Kleypas (Devil in Spring (The Ravenels, #3))
The mountain trees that grew between the pines were a brilliant blaze of fall colors, like fire against the emerald green of the pines, firs and pruces. And it was, as I'd told myself long ago, the year's last passionate love affair before it grew old and died from the frosty bite of winter.
V.C. Andrews (Petals on the Wind (Dollanganger, #2))
The idea of love walked along the water and her gaze was full of absence and her eyes spat lighting. The impressionable evening received by turns the imprints of grasses, clouds, bodies, and wore crazy astronomical designs. The idea of love walked straight ahead without seeing anything; she was wearing tiny isosceles mirrors whose perfect assemblage was amazing. They were so many images of fish tails, when, by their angelic nature, they answer the promise one might make of always finding each other again. Finding each other again even in the depths of a forest, where the thread of a star is an articulation more silent than life, the dawn a liquor stronger than blood. Who is lost, who truly wanders off when a cup of coffee is steaming in the fog and waiters dressed in snow circulate patiently on the surface of floors whose desired height can be indicated with one's hands? Who? A solitary man whom the idea of love has just left and who tucks in his spirit like an imaginary bed. The man falls all the same and in the next room, under the moon-white verandah, a woman rises whom the idea of love has abandoned. The gravel weeps outside, a rain of glass is falling in which we recognize small chains, tears in which we have time to see ourselves, mirror tears, shards of windows, singular crystals like the ones we witness in our hand on awakening, leaves and the faded petals of those roses that once embelished certain distillery bottles. It's just that the idea of love, it seems angry with love. This is how it began.
André Breton
a blush of roses on my face. […] I catch the rose petals as they fall from my cheeks, as they float around the frame of my body, as they cover me in something that feels like the absence of courage.
Tahereh Mafi (Shatter Me (Shatter Me, #1))
THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ME AND YOU When I hold a rose, I see the soft, velvety petals and smile, because tucked between those precious petals is a special gift - the one of a fragrance, pure and sweet. When you hold a rose, you see the thorns along the stem, and you frown because those thorns can bring you pain and cause you to bleed. I see the gift. You see the tragedy. More and more I fear that one of these days someone will hand me a rose and all I will see are thorns. Talk about tragedy.
Lisa Schroeder (Falling For You)
There is a whirlwind in southern Morocco, the aajej, against which the fellahin defend themselves with knives. There is the africo, which has at times reached into the city of Rome. The alm, a fall wind out of Yugoslavia. The arifi, also christened aref or rifi, which scorches with numerous tongues. These are permanent winds that live in the present tense. There are other, less constant winds that change direction, that can knock down horse and rider and realign themselves anticlockwise. The bist roz leaps into Afghanistan for 170 days--burying villages. There is the hot, dry ghibli from Tunis, which rolls and rolls and produces a nervous condition. The haboob--a Sudan dust storm that dresses in bright yellow walls a thousand metres high and is followed by rain. The harmattan, which blows and eventually drowns itself into the Atlantic. Imbat, a sea breeze in North Africa. Some winds that just sigh towards the sky. Night dust storms that come with the cold. The khamsin, a dust in Egypt from March to May, named after the Arabic word for 'fifty,' blooming for fifty days--the ninth plague of Egypt. The datoo out of Gibraltar, which carries fragrance. There is also the ------, the secret wind of the desert, whose name was erased by a king after his son died within it. And the nafhat--a blast out of Arabia. The mezzar-ifoullousen--a violent and cold southwesterly known to Berbers as 'that which plucks the fowls.' The beshabar, a black and dry northeasterly out of the Caucasus, 'black wind.' The Samiel from Turkey, 'poison and wind,' used often in battle. As well as the other 'poison winds,' the simoom, of North Africa, and the solano, whose dust plucks off rare petals, causing giddiness. Other, private winds. Travelling along the ground like a flood. Blasting off paint, throwing down telephone poles, transporting stones and statue heads. The harmattan blows across the Sahara filled with red dust, dust as fire, as flour, entering and coagulating in the locks of rifles. Mariners called this red wind the 'sea of darkness.' Red sand fogs out of the Sahara were deposited as far north as Cornwall and Devon, producing showers of mud so great this was also mistaken for blood. 'Blood rains were widely reported in Portugal and Spain in 1901.' There are always millions of tons of dust in the air, just as there are millions of cubes of air in the earth and more living flesh in the soil (worms, beetles, underground creatures) than there is grazing and existing on it. Herodotus records the death of various armies engulfed in the simoom who were never seen again. One nation was 'so enraged by this evil wind that they declared war on it and marched out in full battle array, only to be rapidly and completely interred.
Michael Ondaatje
I was a petal quivering in the slightest breeze, about to fall any moment. Even the slightest insult made me think of dying.
Osamu Dazai (Crackling Mountain and Other Stories)
I am very difficult to please. I’m inclined to put men up on a pedestal and think of them as perfect. As soon as I find out they have feet of clay, I fall out of love, become indifferent.
V.C. Andrews (Petals on the Wind (Dollanganger, #2))
It came to me on a winter day. Life so full and rich will fade. Though I wish it were not so, One cannot run from an expected fate. And as a steady gust of wind fell upon my face, It was then when I felt a chill and thus did then know; Though I wish it were not true, Life beautiful and sweet shall ripe and pass today. As a petal falls from a rose so shall she blossom and shed; Catching each falling tear, I will not leave a word unsaid.
Lee Argus
I think true love transcends tiem. The thunderbolt does not. Not if it strkes men the way you described." I start a sprint toward a glade where my favorite orange flowers grow. He catches up with me easily. "Most girls prefer flowers over trees." I brush my fingers on the petals."These flowers blossom quickly. They speak of passion, of beauty." I take a witheting flower that had dropped to the ground and fondle it between my fingers. "But flowers don't last. They wither easily and have limited growth. A tree might not speak of passion but sturdiness. Yet, it grows higher and lasts longer. Some of these trees were here before I was born and they'll be here once I'm gone." My heads falls back as I look at the highest tree. "Real love ought to be more like a tree and less like a flower. That's the kind of love my parents had. It wasn't as consuming as it was everlasting. And you see that tree over there? Now it's showing only green leaves, but in spring it's covered in flowers. Because as reliable as trees are, they can also speak of beauty and passion.
Mya Robarts
Her whispering lips brushed his ear. She was praying. Soft begging words to Ganesha and the Buddha, to Kali-Mary Mercy and the Christian God...she was praying to anything at all, begging the Fates to let her walk from the shadow of death. Pleas spilled from her lips, a desperate trickle. She was broken, soon to die, but still the words slipped out in a steady whisper. Tum Karuna ke saagar Tum palankarta hail Mary full of grace Ajahn Chan Bodhisattva, release me from suffering... He drew away. Her fingers slipped from his cheek like orchid petals falling.
Paolo Bacigalupi (Ship Breaker (Ship Breaker, #1))
I lifted the latch, and there he stood, dark and tall, the scholar's gown falling from his shoulders like the cloak of the Black Knight in the old tale. His arms were laden with boughs of apple blossom. He lifted a branch, high over my head, and shook it, so that the petals showered me, releasing a heady scent that promised spring.
Geraldine Brooks (Caleb's Crossing)
The essence of intelligent living is to do what you can and must do while thriving with the unknown, with uncertainty. So, don’t wish the darkness away, don’t wait for the clouds to clear, embrace your current reality and do whatever you can best do in the circumstances. You will be amazed with how happy you can really be with what is.
AVIS Viswanathan
my brain is many colors, vague, like massed flowers: total spectrum of petals beginning with black. I wear my costume inside like blood and bones, keep graphs of my ups and downs, discover people laugh more at my falls than at my flying. The moral of this story is: sad eyes need also tears.
Grace Butcher (Rumors of Ecstasy, Rumors of Death)
I’ve loved you probably from the first moment that I met you and I will love you until my last breath leaves. I fell in love with you the first time you smiled at me and only realized the truth of it the night you danced with me under the street lamp. You are the first person I think of each morning and the last person that I want to see before I close my eyes at night. You smell like donuts and coffee … And you have a smile that takes my breath away. You bowl me over with your sense of humor and your random comments and you inspire me with your bravery in the face of all that you’ve endured.
Thea Gonzales (Falling Petals: A Story About First Chances)
in winter, it's the snowflakes. in spring, it's the raindrops. in summer, it's the flower petals. in autumn, it's the leaves. all these things will eventually fall, but not one of them will fall as hard as i do for you when i wake up every morning. -all the cliches were written with us in mind.
Amanda Lovelace (The Princess Saves Herself in This One (Women Are Some Kind of Magic, #1))
A new moon lay on its back, and stars were out. Here, away from lights and sounds of town or village, the night was deep, the black sky stretching, fathomless, away among the spheres to some unimaginable world where gods walked, and suns and moons showered down like petals falling. Some power there is that draws men's eyes and hearts up and outward, beyond the heavy clay that fastens them to earth. Music can take them, and the moon's light, and, I suppose, love, though I had not known it then, except in worship.
Mary Stewart (The Last Enchantment (Arthurian Saga, #3))
Bay remembered the Waverley house full of pumpkin pie scents in the fall. There had been mountains of maple cakes with violets hidden inside, lakes of butternut soups with chrysanthemum petals floating on top.
Sarah Addison Allen (First Frost (Waverley Family, #2))
Translating this to the spiritual regions as their wont is, the poets sang beautifully how roses fade and petals fall. The moment is brief they sang; the moment is over; one long night is then to be slept by all.
Virginia Woolf (Orlando)
I’m wearing dead cotton on my limbs and a blush of roses on my face. His eyes scan the silhouette of my structure and the slow motion makes my heart race. I catch the rose petals as they fall from my cheeks, as they float around the frame of my body, as they cover me in something that feels like the absence of courage.
Tahereh Mafi (Shatter Me (Shatter Me, #1))
The fusty showman fumbles, must Fit in a particle of dust The universe, for fear it gain Its freedom from my cube of brain. Yet dust bears seeds that grow to grace Behind my crude-striped wooden face As I, a puppet tinsel-pink Leap on my springs, learn how to think— Till like the trembling golden stalk Of some long-petalled star, I walk Through the dark heavens, and the dew Falls on my eyes and sense thrills through.
Edith Sitwell
Michiko Nogami (1946—1982)” Is she more apparent because she is not anymore forever? Is her whiteness more white because she was the color of pale honey? A smokestack making the sky more visible. A dead woman filling the whole world. Michiko said, “The roses you gave me kept me awake with the sound of their petals falling.
Jack Gilbert (The Great Fires)
Stars were falling deep in the darkness as prayers rose softly, petals at dawn And as I listened, your voice seemed so clear so calmly you were calling your god Somewhere the sun rose, o'er dunes in the desert such was the stillness, I ne'er felt before Was this the question, pulling, pulling, pulling you in your heart, in your soul, did you find rest there? Elsewhere a snowfall, the first in the winter covered the ground as the bells filled the air You in your robes sang, calling, calling, calling him in your heart, in your soul, did you find peace there?
Loreena McKennitt
Aren't these the finest treasures? Each one springs up, and becomes more red than rubies, more fine than diamonds adn more valuable, so we are told; and before you can run back here again to look, the petals have begin to drop and the leaves to yellow. Look, they sag, they fall. Are they the more wonderful because they live such a short time.
Gregory Maguire (Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister)
Oh what a morning it was, that first morning of Mrs. Sweet awaking before the baby Heracles with his angry cries, declaring his hunger, the discomfort of his wet diaper, the very aggravation of being new and in the world; the rays of sun were falling on the just and unjust, the beautiful and the ugly, causing the innocent dew to evaporate; the sun, the dew, the little waterfall right next to the village's firehouse, making a roar, though really it was an imitation of the roar of a real waterfall; the smell of some flower, faint, as it unfurled its petals for the first time: oh what a morning!
Jamaica Kincaid (See Now Then)
When I think of it as happening to somebody else, it seems that the idea of me soaked to the skin, surrounded by countless driving streaks of silver, and moving through when I completely forget my material existence, and view myself from a purely objective standpoint, can I, as a figure in a painting, blend into the beautiful harmony of my natural surroundings. The moment, however, I feel annoyed because of the rain, or miserable because my legs are weary because of the rain, or miserable because my legs are weary with walking, then I have already ceased to be a character in a poem, or a figure in a painting, and I revert to the uncomprehending, insensitive man in the street I was before. I am then even blind to the elegance of the fleeting clouds; unable even to feel any bond of sympathy with a falling petal or the cry of a bird, much less appreciate the great beauty in the image of myself, completely alone, walking through the mountains in spring.
Natsume Sōseki (The Three-Cornered World)
The Devil's Rose You would never take a rose from a beast. If his callous hand were to hold out a scarlet flower, his grip unaffected by pricking thorns, you would shrink from the gift and refuse it. I know that is what you would do. But the cunning beast will have his beauty. He hunts not in hopeless pursuit, for fear would have you sprint all the day long. Thus, he turns toward the shadows and clutches the rosebud, crunching and twisting until every delicate petal is detached. One falls not far from your feet, and you notice the red spot in the snow. The color sparkles in the sunlight, catching your curious eye. No beast stands in sight; there is nothing to fear, so you dare retrieve the lone petal. The touch of temptation is velvet against your thumb. It carries a scent you bring to your nose, and both eyes close to float on a cloud of perfume. As your lashes lift, another scarlet drop stains the snow at a near distance. A glance around perceives no danger, and so your footprints scar the snowflakes to retrieve another rosy leaflet as soft and sweet as the first. Your eyes shine with flecks of golden greed at the discovery of more discarded petals, and you blame the wind for scattering them mere footprints apart. All you want is a few, so you step and snatch, step and snatch, step and snatch. Soon, there is enough velvet to rub against your cheek like a silken kerchief. Your collection of one-plus-one-more reeks of floral essence. Distracted, you jump at the sight of the beast in your path. He stands before his lair, grinning without love. His callous hands grip at thorns on a single naked stem, and you look down at your own hands that now cup his rose. But how can it be? You would never take a rose from a beast. You would shrink from the gift and refuse it. He knows that is what you would do.
Richelle E. Goodrich (Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, & a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year)
Now the moon of the Aztecs is at the zenith, and all the world lies still. Full and white, the white of bones, the white of a skull; blistering the center of the sky well with its throbbing, not touching it on any side. Now the patio is a piebald place of black and white, burning in the downward-teeming light. Not a leaf moves, not a petal falls, in this fierce amalgam. ("The Moon Of Montezuma")
Cornell Woolrich (The Fantastic Stories of Cornell Woolrich (Alternatives SF Series))
COVID-19's forcing the whole world to transition - from 'becoming to being'! Isn’t it amazing? Don’t you see what’s happening? The whole world has surrendered; it has been forced, in fact, to capitulate – to jump off the becoming treadmill, to being home, just being!
AVIS Viswanathan
I dream of a garden overripe and wild. Of a woman gathering the sea into her hands and letting it fall in many colored petals to a green, green earth. I dream of words on a page transforming to birds, and birds transforming to children, and children transforming to stars.
Kelly Barnhill (Dreadful Young Ladies and Other Stories)
They say the most powerful prayer is simply saying “Thank You”. And the best way to say “Thank You” is to serve others, to help make our broken world a better place! Inspire everyone at home to pitch in. Remember, the family that serves together is happy – and stays together!!
AVIS Viswanathan
and when a leaf falls from the climbing vines, you know, my love, what name is written on that leaf, a name that is yours and mine, our love name, a single being, the arrow that pierced winter, the invincible love, the fire of the days, a leaf that dropped upon my breast, a leaf from the tree of life that made a nest and sang, that put out roots, that gave flowers and fruits. And so you see, my love, how I move around the island, around the world, safe in the midst of spring, crazy with light in the cold, walking tranquil in the fire, lifting your petal weight in my arms as if I had never walked except with you, my heart, as if I could not walk except with you, as if I could not sing except when you sing.
Pablo Neruda (Love Poems (New Directions Paperbook))
destroying beauty a rose red sunlight; I take it apart in the garage like a puzzle: the petals are as greasy as old bacon and fall like the maidens of the world backs to floor and I look up at the old calendar hung from a nail and touch my wrinkled face and smile because the secret is beyond me.
Charles Bukowski (Essential Bukowski: Poetry)
This story is one for which some people will have to suspend their belief. If it wasn't me and this wasn't happening to me, I would be one of those people. Many won't struggle to believe it, though, for their minds have been opened; unlocked by whatever kind of key causes people to believe. Those people are either born that way or, as babies, when their minds are like little buds, they are nurtured until their petals slowly open and prepare for the very nature of life to feed them. As the rain falls and the sun shines, they grow, grow, grow; minds so open, they go through life aware and accepting, seeing light where there is dark, seeing possibility in dead ends, tasting victory as others spit out failure, questioning when others accept. Just a little less jaded, a little less cynical. A little less likely to throw in the towel. Some peoples' minds open later in life, through tragedy or triumph. Either thing acting as the key to unlatch and lift the lid on that know-it-all box, to accept the unknown, to say goodbye to pragmatism and straight lines. But then there are those whose minds are merely a bouquet of stalks, which bud as they learn new information - a new bud for a new fact - but yet they never open, never flourish. They are the people of capital letters and full stops, but never of question marks and ellipses...
Cecelia Ahern (The Book of Tomorrow)
Together they flew, in all their bright colors, streaming toward the inevitable cliff: leaping like deer. Their stride broke, almost at the edge. And then in a rush they strained against their clothes, against their own bodies, and broke free into flight. They burst into the air as silently as the beating of wings, like so many scattered leaves: each falling maiden with her skirts blossoming through the rush of air, opening like a fan as she flew toward the ocean below. Together they fell like a downpour of brightly colored rain, each petal suspended in air before drifting down to the crashing of the sea.
Catherine Chung (Forgotten Country)
If with the water’s rosy hue comparison be made, Carmine tears and dewy flowers seem of the self-same shade. Yet lady’s tears and flowers in this unalike I find, That the flowers are still and smiling, but the tears flow unallayed. As she gazes on the smiling flowers, her tears at last grow dry; But as they dry, the springtime ends and the flowers fade. The flowers fade, and an equal blight the lady’s fair cheek palls. The petals drift; she is weary; and soon the darkness falls. A nightingale is singing a dirge for the death of spring, And moonlight steals through the casement and dapples the silent walls.
Cáo Xuěqín (The Warning Voice)
Like any great and good country, Japan has a culture of gathering- weddings, holidays, seasonal celebrations- with food at the core. In the fall, harvest celebrations mark the changing of the guard with roasted chestnuts, sweet potatoes, and skewers of grilled gingko nuts. As the cherry blossoms bloom, festive picnics called hanami usher in the spring with elaborate spreads of miso salmon, mountain vegetables, colorful bento, and fresh mochi turned pink with sakura petals.
Matt Goulding (Rice, Noodle, Fish: Deep Travels Through Japan's Food Culture)
Gloire de Dijon When she rises in the morning I linger to watch her; She spreads the bath-cloth underneath the window And the sunbeams catch her Glistening white on the shoulders, While down her sides the mellow Golden shadow glows as She stoops to the sponge, and her swung breasts Sway like full-blown yellow Gloire de Dijon roses. She drips herself with water, and her shoulders Glisten as silver, they crumple up Like wet and falling roses, and I listen For the sluicing of their rain-dishevelled petals. In the window full of sunlight Concentrates her golden shadow Fold on fold, until it glows as Mellow as the glory roses.
D.H. Lawrence (The Complete Poems of D.H. Lawrence)
Wait for the dust of reading to settle; for the conflict and the questioning to die down; walk, talk, pull the dead petals from a rose, or fall asleep. Then suddenly without our willing it, for it is thus that Nature undertakes these transitions, the book will return, but differently. It will float to the top of the mind as a whole.
Virginia Woolf (How Should One Read a Book?)
A rural Venus, Selah rises from the gold foliage of the Sixhiboux River, sweeps petals of water from her skin. At once, clouds begin to sob for such beauty. Clothing drops like leaves. "No one makes poetry,my Mme. Butterfly, my Carmen, in Whylah,” I whisper. She smiles: “We’ll shape it with our souls.” Desire illuminates the dark manuscript of our skin with beetles and butterflies. After the lightning and rain has ceased, after the lightning and rain of lovemaking has ceased, Selah will dive again into the sunflower-open river.
George Elliott Clarke (Whylah Falls)
Sometimes the rules of writing get in the way of a good story told.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
Even the wolf gets anxious, but the wolf keeps moving and doing, all while being washed in the magic of moonlight
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
You cannot be who you are without having gone through what you went through.
AVIS Viswanathan
The circle that they drew was laid with fresh petals from the cherry tree on a bed of salt...
Mahvesh Murad (The Djinn Falls in Love & Other Stories)
Petals don't ask Where to land They just fall With grace.
Sheniz Janmohamed (Firesmoke)
The dove will rise above destruction with a white rose in her beak. over storm over tempest. over time and the ages. And the petals will fall to the ground like snow.
Catherine Fisher (Sapphique (Incarceron, #2))
There’s only one way to deal with uncertainty. And that is to not fear it. So, don’t resist uncertainty, don’t run away from it, but instead embrace it wholeheartedly!
AVIS Viswanathan
The flowers were opulent, full-blown, topple shower petals at a touch. He thought that she might topple that way, falling all at once into his hand, a soft drift of blossom between his fingers. The roses bowed their extravagant heads, nodding, but she was all stiff prim and black, back in her bonnet, so that he could not see her face unless she looked directly at him.
Laura Kinsale (Flowers from the Storm)
Love itself is what is left over when being in love has burned away, and this is both an art and a fortunate accident. Your mother and I had it, we had roots that grew towards each other underground, and when all the pretty blossom had fallen from our branches we found that we were one tree and not two. But sometimes the petals fall away and the roots have not entwined.
Louis de Bernières (Captain Corelli's Mandolin)
A Tear And A Smile - I would not exchange the sorrows of my heart For the joys of the multitude. And I would not have the tears that sadness makes To flow from my every part turn into laughter. I would that my life remain a tear and a smile. A tear to purify my heart and give me understanding Of life's secrets and hidden things. A smile to draw me nigh to the sons of my kind and To be a symbol of my glorification of the gods. A tear to unite me with those of broken heart; A smile to be a sign of my joy in existence. I would rather that I died in yearning and longing than that I live Weary and despairing. I want the hunger for love and beauty to be in the Depths of my spirit,for I have seen those who are Satisfied the most wretched of people. I have heard the sigh of those in yearning and Longing, and it is sweeter than the sweetest melody. With evening's coming the flower folds her petals And sleeps, embracingher longing. At morning's approach she opens her lips to meet The sun's kiss. The life of a flower is longing and fulfilment. A tear and a smile. The waters of the sea become vapor and rise and come Together and area cloud. And the cloud floats above the hills and valleys Until it meets the gentle breeze, then falls weeping To the fields and joins with brooks and rivers to Return to the sea, its home. The life of clouds is a parting and a meeting. A tear and a smile. And so does the spirit become separated from The greater spirit to move in the world of matter And pass as a cloud over the mountain of sorrow And the plains of joy to meet the breeze of death And return whence it came. To the ocean of Love and Beauty----to God.
Kahlil Gibran (A Tear and a Smile)
At the center of the bouquet is a monstrous peony, probably purchased on sale at the supermarket. By Tuesday its curling petals had begun to collect at the bottom of the vase, infusing the room with the faint but unmistakable sweet odor of corruption and imminent death. ... In Tick's opinion there was something extravagantly excessive about the peony from the start, as if God had intended so suggest with this particular bloom that you could have too much of a good thing. The swiftness with which the fallen petals bean to stink drove the point home in case anybody missed it. As a rule, Tick leans toward believing that there is no God, but she isn't so sure at times like this, when pockets of meaning emerge so clearly that they feel like divine communication.
Richard Russo (Empire Falls)
Winter Grace It is autumn again and our anxiety blows With the wind, breaking the heart of the rose, Petals and leaves fall down and everything goes. All but the seed, all but the hard bright berry And the bulbs we kneel on the earth to bury And lay away with our anguish and our worry. It is time we learned again the winter grace To put the nerves to sleep in a dark place And smooth the lines in the self-tortured face. For we are at the end of our endurance nearly And we shall have to die this winter surely, For this is the end of more than a season clearly. Now we shall have to be poor, to yield up all, With the leaves wither, with the petals fall, Now we shall have to die, once and for all. Before the seed of faith so deep and still Pushes up gently through the frozen will And the joyless wake and learn to be joyful. Before this buried love leaps up from sorrow And doubt and violence and pity follow To greet the radiant morning and the swallow.
May Sarton (Collected Poems: 1930-1993)
I have often seen this about Life…that when a door closes on you, when people reject you, when what you desperately want does not come to you despite your best efforts and prayers…all this happens only because you are meant to be walking through a different door, you are meant to be meeting other people and only because it is ordained that you receive something else, which you have not even imagined…that which is truly meant for you. So, don’t grieve when you don’t get what you want; what you want is immaterial…What Life believes you need is what you eventually, always, get!
AVIS Viswanathan
I am struck by what a tawdry magician’s trick Time is after all. I am sixty-six years old. Viewed from your coign of vantage—facing toward the future—sixty-six years is a great deal of time. It is all of the experience of your life more than three times over. But, viewed from my coign of vantage—facing toward the past—this sixty-six years was the fluttering down of a cherry petal. I feel that my life was a picture hastily sketched but never filled in . . . for lack of time. Only yesterday—but more than fifty years ago—I walked along this river with my father. I can remember how big and strong his hand felt to my small fingers. Fifty years. But all the insignificant, busy things—the terribly important, now forgotten things that cluttered the intervening time collapse and fall away from my memory. And I remember another yesterday when my daughter was a little girl. We walked along here. At this very moment, the nerves in my hand remember the feeling of her chubby fingers clinging to one of mine.
Permanence is an illusion. Nothing lasts. When this awareness arrives in your Life, you awaken to Happiness – to embracing what is, to finding meaning and Purpose in what is and to be content with what is.
AVIS Viswanathan
There was a mild wind in the air, and one or two petals of cherry blossom were falling gently to the ground. It was the kind of day you often have in late March—so perfect that you want it to last for ever.
Noboyuki Yuasa
Things never quite get so bad as we imagine them to be. Fear of the unknown makes us delay decisions. But if we turn around and face our fears they make way for acceptance and decision-making. Courage is not the absence of fear. It is what fear delivers unto us when we face our fears. Life is never easy at this point, but it becomes a lot simpler to navigate through the maze of our problems; the pain is intense, but we don’t suffer.
AVIS Viswanathan
The summer I was ten years old, there was a group of kids in my neighborhood who played together every night after dinner. I often watched them from my window…Every night around nine-thirty or ten, those kids would get called in one by one…I knew the first ones called were full of resentment. But they needn’t have been. Nothing ever happened after they left anyway. Things just sort of ended in a slow motion way, like petals falling off a flower. You couldn’t have people leave like that and have anything good happen afterward. Whoever was left couldn’t pay much attention to anything other than waiting for their turn to get called in. So, it wasn’t so bad to go first, to head back toward those deep yellow lights and beds made up with summer linens. It was much better than being last, when you would be left standing there alone, finally going in without anybody calling you.
Elizabeth Berg (Never Change)
The Geranium When I put her out, once, by the garbage pail, She looked so limp and bedraggled, So foolish and trusting, like a sick poodle, Or a wizened aster in late September, I brought her back in again For a new routine - Vitamins, water, and whatever Sustenance seemed sensible At the time: she'd lived So long on gin, bobbie pins, half-smoked cigars, dead beer, Her shriveled petals falling On the faded carpet, the stale Steak grease stuck to her fuzzy leaves. (Dried-out, she creaked like a tulip.) The things she endured!- The dumb dames shrieking half the night Or the two of us, alone, both seedy, Me breathing booze at her, She leaning out of her pot toward the window. Near the end, she seemed almost to hear me- And that was scary- So when that snuffling cretin of a maid Threw her, pot and all, into the trash-can, I said nothing. But I sacked the presumptuous hag the next week, I was that lonely.
Theodore Roethke (Selected Poems)
Home" It would take forever to get there but I would know it anywhere: My white horse grazing in my blossomy field. Its soft nostrils. The petals falling from the trees into the stream. The festival would be about to begin in the dusky village in the distance. The doe frozen at the edge of the grove: She leaps. She vanishes. My face— She has taken it. And my name— (Although the plaintive lark in the tall grass continues to say and to say it.) Yes. This is the place. Where my shining treasure has been waiting. Where my shadow washes itself in my fountain. A few graves among the roses. Some moss on those. An ancient bell in a steeple down the road making no sound at all as the monk pulls and pulls on the rope.
Laura Kasischke (Space, in Chains)
You wake up from your stupor, from taking your Life for granted, only when you understand its transient nature. When you realize that it is a limited-period offer, that it is literally a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity…that’s when you really start living!
AVIS Viswanathan
Anger is both a destructor and a catalyst for progress. When directed at someone, it consumes you; but when directed at an issue, it is constructive energy. It then transforms as fuel that drives change – at a personal level and in your circle of influence.
AVIS Viswanathan
When facing a Life-changing crisis, don’t expect your situation to turn around instantaneously. It won’t. So, prepare for the long haul. Nourish yourself. Meditate. Pray. Eat your meals on time and please eat healthy stuff. Exercise. Go for long walks. Goof off once in a while. Your being morose, or your worrying stiff, is not going to solve your problems. The situation will resolve only when the time arrives. Until that happens, you have to last, you have to survive. So, take care of yourself. Every moment. Every day.
AVIS Viswanathan
Reflection, Resilience and Resourcefulness are three dormant strengths that are inherent in all of us. There's a beautiful interplay between these three qualities. Each one complements the other.They are key to not just surviving a crisis, they help you thrive in one.
AVIS Viswanathan
It is only one Life that you have; just this one lifetime! So, please don’t postpone Happiness, don’t postpone living. Of course, you can’t avoid the lows, the crises, the tragedies. But you can learn to be happy despite the circumstances. You do that by accepting whatever comes your way and by letting go of debilitating emotions. Remember: only when you let go of something can you receive another…clinging on never helps…so, to receive grace and abundance…let go, let go, let go…of all that makes you unhappy and…simply flow with Life!
AVIS Viswanathan
The weather itself, the heat and cold of summer and winter, was, we may believe, of another temper altogether. The brilliant amorous day was divided as sheerly from the night as land from water. Sunsets were redder and more intense; dawns were whiter and more auroral. Of our crepuscular half-lights and lingering twilights they knew nothing. The rain fell vehemently, or not at all. The sun blazed or there was darkness. Translating this to the spiritual regions as their wont is, the poets sang beautifully how roses fade and petals fall.
Virginia Woolf (Orlando)
As if in answer to her question, an odor of decay seeped through thee doorway from the darkened shop. Senescence, she thought. A beautiful word for what happened to all living things as they progressed toward death. Petals fading, leaves falling, stems beginning to rot.
Ella Griffin (The Flower Arrangement)
Back in his room, Lale carefully places the precious flower beside his bed before falling into a dreamless sleep, but the next morning when he wakes, the petals from his flower have separated and lie curled up beside the black center. Death alone persists in this place.
Heather Morris (The Tattooist of Auschwitz (The Tattooist of Auschwitz, #1))
Only when you let go of all that you are clinging on to, will you receive whatever you need. It is in your unclinging, and opening the palms of your empty hands in surrender, that you invoke grace and abundance into your Life. That’s how Life works – no logic, all magic!
AVIS Viswanathan
They lit candles on the table, all while the apple tree shook and blossoms continued to fall. When the petals hit the flames of the candles, they hissed and popped into ash, leaving behind a scent that was so beautiful and sweet that it smelled like both yesterday and tomorrow.
Sarah Addison Allen (First Frost (Waverley Family, #2))
The COVID-19 pandemic is Life's way of slowing us all down. So, let us take a reflective pause and focus on taking care of ourselves and each other! As it is with most inscrutable situations in Life, there is no other way to deal with this crisis, going with the flow is THE way...!
AVIS Viswanathan
One morning she at last succeeded in helping him to the foot of the steps, trampling down the grass before him with her feet, and clearing a way for him through the briars, whose supple arms barred the last few yards. Then they slowly entered the wood of roses. It was indeed a very wood, with thickets of tall standard roses throwing out leafy clumps as big as trees, and enormous rose bushes impenetrable as copses of young oaks. Here, formerly, there had been a most marvellous collection of plants. But since the flower garden had been left in abandonment, everything had run wild, and a virgin forest had arisen, a forest of roses over-running the paths, crowded with wild offshoots, so mingled, so blended, that roses of every scent and hue seemed to blossom on the same stem. Creeping roses formed mossy carpets on the ground, while climbing roses clung to others like greedy ivy plants, and ascended in spindles of verdure, letting a shower of their loosened petals fall at the lightest breeze. Natural paths coursed through the wood — narrow footways, broad avenues, enchanting covered walks in which one strolled in the shade and scent. These led to glades and clearings, under bowers of small red roses, and between walls hung with tiny yellow ones. Some sunny nooks gleamed like green silken stuff embroidered with bright patterns; other shadier corners offered the seclusion of alcoves and an aroma of love, the balmy warmth, as it were, of a posy languishing on a woman’s bosom. The rose bushes had whispering voices too. And the rose bushes were full of songbirds’ nests. ‘We must take care not to lose ourselves,’ said Albine, as she entered the wood. ‘I did lose myself once, and the sun had set before I was able to free myself from the rose bushes which caught me by the skirt at every step.’ They had barely walked a few minutes, however, before Serge, worn out with fatigue, wished to sit down. He stretched himself upon the ground, and fell into deep slumber. Albine sat musing by his side. They were on the edge of a glade, near a narrow path which stretched away through the wood, streaked with flashes of sunlight, and, through a small round blue gap at its far end, revealed the sky. Other little paths led from the clearing into leafy recesses. The glade was formed of tall rose bushes rising one above the other with such a wealth of branches, such a tangle of thorny shoots, that big patches of foliage were caught aloft, and hung there tent-like, stretching out from bush to bush. Through the tiny apertures in the patches of leaves, which were suggestive of fine lace, the light
Émile Zola (Delphi Complete Works of Emile Zola)
I see that this body—made of the four elements—is not really me, and I am not limited by this body. I am the whole of the river of life, of blood ancestors and spiritual ancestors, that has been continuously flowing for thousands of years and flows on for thousands of years into the future. I am one with my ancestors and my descendants. I am life manifesting in countless different forms. I am one with all people and all species, whether they are peaceful and joyful or suffering and afraid. At this very moment I am present everywhere in this world. I have been present in the past and will be there in the future. The disintegration of this body does not touch me, just as when the petals of the plum blossom fall it does not mean the end of the plum tree. I see that I am like a wave on the surface of the ocean. I see myself in all the other waves, and I see all the other waves in me. The manifestation or the disappearance of the wave does not lessen the presence of the ocean. My Dharma body and spiritual life are not subject to birth or death. I am able to see my presence before this body manifested and after this body disintegrates. I am able to see my presence outside this body, even in the present moment. Eighty or ninety years is not my life span. My life span, like that of a leaf or of a buddha, is immeasurable. I am able to go beyond the idea that I am a body separate from all other manifestations of life, in time and in space.
Thich Nhat Hanh (The Art of Living)
We must employ our intelligence wisely. Do you want to feed your fears or do you want to feed your Bliss? Some opportunities that will give us great joy may not always be financially rewarding. And some opportunities may be giving us only money and no joy. Invest in your Bliss. It will never fail you.
AVIS Viswanathan
Our eyes meet. Am I mistaken or does the corner of her mouth tuck in ever so slightly and the petal of her lower lip curl out ever so richly? She is smiling-at me! My mind hits upon half a dozen schemes to circumvent the terrible moment of separation. No doubt she is a Texan. They are nearly always bad judges of men, these splendid Amazons. Most men are afraid of them and so they fall victim to the first little Mickey Rooney that comes along. In a better world I should be able to speak to her: come, darling, you can see that I love you. If you are planning to meet some little Mickey, think better of it. What a tragedy it is that I do not know her, will probably never see her again. What good times we could have!
Walker Percy (The Moviegoer)
Is it always this awkward?" Sara asked. Her voice was hushed. Derek turned to look at her, his gaze falling to the white rose in her hands. She had taken it from the arrangement of hothouse flowers. Nervously her fingers ruffled the fragile petals. Self-consciously Sara sniffed the pale blossom and began to insert it back into the huge vase. "It's nice to have roses in January," she murmured. "Nothing in the world has such a lovely scent." She was so innocently beautiful, with the disordered waves of her hair falling around her face. His muscles tightened in response. He would like to have her painted this way, standing by the table with her head turned toward him, the white flower caught in her fingers. "Bring it here," he said. She obeyed, coming to him and handing him the rose. He closed his fingers around the plump head of the flower and pulled gently, freeing the petals from their tenuous moorings. Tossing aside the desecrated stem, he opened his hand over the bed. The petals scattered in a fragrant shower. Sara drew in a quick breath, staring at him as if mesmerized.
Lisa Kleypas (Dreaming of You (The Gamblers of Craven's, #2))
Whether you believe in this idea or not, Time changes everyone, it changes everything. Everyone and every thing is a product of the Time they go through. What goes up, comes down, only to go up again; and what goes around, comes around. When you awaken to this truth, you learn to keep the Faith, to trust the process of Life, and to be patient through your journey here.
AVIS Viswanathan
I knew that life couldn’t be like a romance novel, where someone could fall hopelessly in love with her soul mate the moment they met eyes across a crowded room. Preposterous. Or that you could be whisked off into a world of fantasy and excitement by a handsome stranger, instantly connect, and be in perfect sexual sync from the second his mammoth male member teased your delicate flower petals.
Alice Clayton (Screwdrivered (Cocktail, #3))
I see why every boy falls in love with you,” he said. “Before, you saw why every boy dumped me,” Sophie replied. “Which is it?” Rhian leaned over his chair and took her hand. “I thought I knew your fairy tale. But no story can do you justice. It took me time to see deeper. Beneath the beauty and wit and games. I know you now, Sophie. The real you. Petals and thorns. And I love you for them both.
Soman Chainani
And now it is said of me That my love is nothing because I have borne no children, Or because I have fathered none; That I twisted the twig in my hands And cut the blossom free too soon from the seed; That I lay across the fire, And snuffed it dead sooner than draft or rain. But I have turned away, and drawn myself Upright to walk along the room alone. Across the dark the spines of cactus plants Remind me how I go—aloof, obscure, Indifferent to the words the children chalk Against my house and down the garden walls. They cannot tear the garden out of me, Nor smear my love with names. Love is a cliff, A clear, cold curve of stone, mottled by stars, smirched by the morning, carved by the dark sea Till stars and dawn and waves can slash no more, Till the rock’s heart is found and shaped again. I keep the house and say no words, the evening Falls like a petal down the shawl of trees. I light the fire and see the blossom dance On air alone; I will not douse that flame, That searing flower; I will burn in it. I will not banish love to empty rain. For I know that I am asked to hate myself For their sweet sake Who sow the world with child. I am given to burn on the dark fire they make With their sly voices. But I have burned already down to bone. There is a fire that burns beyond the names Of sludge and filth of which this world is made. Agony sears the dark flesh of the body, And lifts me higher than the smoke, to rise Above the earth, above the sacrifice; Until my soul flares outward like a blue Blossom of gas fire dancing in mid-air: Free of the body’s work of twisted iron.
James Wright
Whatever is born will die; Whatever is joined will come apart; Whatever is gathered will disperse; Whatever is high will fall. Having considered this, I resolve not to be attached To these lush meadows, Even now, in the full glory of my display, Even as my petals unfold in splendor . . . You too, while strong and fit, Should abandon your clinging. . . . Seek the pure field of freedom, The great serenity.3
Joseph Goldstein (Mindfulness: A Practical Guide to Awakening)
True enlightenment arrives the moment you understand the difference between your wants and your needs. When you awaken to this understanding, you will realize that Life has always been providing for you, caring for you, giving you all that you need. This is how you stop wanting anything, anymore and start living with what you have, with what is. This is how you learn to be happy despite your circumstances.
AVIS Viswanathan
Life = a series of complex, inscrutable, events, relationships, that in turns, bring joy and grief. The only way to deal with Life when it becomes challenging is to flow with it, with graceful acceptance. Accept that there are and there will be imperfections. Deal with them, with faith, with patience, to the best of your abilities…and keep flowing…gracefully accepting what is and working calmly on what can be…
AVIS Viswanathan
What we think is breaking us, is actually making us…yes, it is breaking the stranglehold of debilitating emotions that are pinning us down and holding us hostage…and through learning to deal with these emotions, we emerge resilient, content and anchored. Which is why it is important to learn to live fully with what is – to learn to be non-worrying, non-frustrated and non-suffering, to be happy despite your circumstances.
AVIS Viswanathan
Descending the stairs from her room, I was tempted to go outside and find out if the shivering gut-wrench I’d felt as I came in really meant what I thought it did. But I stayed in the warmth of the house. I felt like I knew something about myself that I hadn’t before, a bit of knowledge so new that if I became a wolf now, I might lose it and not remember it whenever I became Cole again. I wandered down the main stairs, mindful that her father was somewhere in the house’s depths while Isabel stayed up in her tower alone. What would it be like, growing up in a house that looked like this? If I breathed too hard it would knock some decorative bowl off the wall or cause the perfectly arranged dried flowers to weep petals. Sure, my family had been affluent growing up—successful mad scientists generally are—but it never looked like this. Our lives had looked…lived in.
Maggie Stiefvater (Linger (The Wolves of Mercy Falls, #2))
Beside Thane—who watched the setting sun with such peace, with such light in his eyes—the “woman” seemed imaginary. Because she is, Ceony realized, a second breeze tickling her skirt and blowing loose flower petals across her vision. These are the things Thane—Emery—hopes for. She studied him, his peace and his contentment, the eyes that seemed to radiate life. She studied the shadowy woman beside him from head to foot. He wants to fall in love again.
Charlie N. Holmberg (The Paper Magician (The Paper Magician, #1))
Is there a right time to follow your Bliss? Not really. You postpone your Happiness, following your Bliss, only because you think you have a lot of time later in Life to do what you love doing. But the truth is that there is not enough time. Life comes with an expiry date; it is a one-time, limited-period offer. So, if you are not living your Life fully, happily, you are losing precious time. Simply, there is no better time than NOW to do what you love doing!
AVIS Viswanathan
When someone chooses not to understand you, despite your best efforts, you may want to examine whether they are not getting what you are saying or if they simply don’t want to understand you. If it is the latter, Life is so much simpler for both of you – there is no need to invest any more time and energy in striving for that understanding. The brutal truth that you often fail to confront is the fact that someone who is keen not to understand you, perhaps never will, no matter how hard you try!
AVIS Viswanathan
Simplify your Life! Give away anything that you have not used in six months, except key documents like your passports and IDs. Every single day, forgive those who mess around with you…for they will most likely not matter in your Life in a few weeks from now. If there is one thing you will never forgive yourself for doing, just don't ever do it! You will soon start being happy with what is, with who you are, with what you have – because you are now practicing detachment, giving, forgiveness and self-control!
AVIS Viswanathan
Flower Herding On Mount Monadnock In the forest I discover a flower. The invisible life of the thing Goes up in flames that are invisible, Like cellophane burning in the sunlight. It burns up. Its drift is to be nothing. In its covertness it has a way Of uttering itself in place of itself, Its blossoms claim to float in the Empyrean, A wrathful presence on the blur of the ground. The appeal to heaven breaks off. The petals begin to fall, in self-forgiveness. It is a flower. On this mountainside it is dying.
Galway Kinnell
Stronger Than Time Since I have set my lips to your full cup, my sweet, Since I my pallid face between your hands have laid, Since I have known your soul, and all the bloom of it, And all the perfume rare, now buried in the shade; Since it was given to me to hear on happy while, The words wherein your heart spoke all its mysteries, Since I have seen you weep, and since I have seen you smile, Your lips upon my lips, and your eyes upon my eyes; Since I have known above my forehead glance and gleam, A ray, a single ray, of your star, veiled always, Since I have felt the fall, upon my lifetime's stream, Of one rose petal plucked from the roses of your days; I now am bold to say to the swift changing hours, Pass, pass upon your way, for I grow never old, Fleet to the dark abysm with all your fading flowers, One rose that none may pluck, within my heart I hold. Your flying wings may smite, but they can never spill The cup fulfilled of love, from which my lips are wet; My heart has far more fire than you can frost to chill, My soul more love than you can make my soul forget
Victor Hugo
Life is not only about going after name, money, success, fame and fortune and getting all of them. It is also about how you live with humility, dignity, and discipline when all of what you attained and acquired are taken away from you. Resilience and equanimity cannot be developed and deployed in simulated environments. They are always discovered within you, when you stand in the middle of the battle of Life, in the chaos, in the eye of the storm. It is by facing Life and learning to be happy, to be useful, despite your circumstances, that you become stronger.
AVIS Viswanathan
aware (Japanese) The feelings engendered by ephemeral beauty. [noun] Something of the sweetness and brevity of life is conveyed wordlessly in the fall of a petal. This inspires a kind of aware-ness known as aware (ah-WAH-ray), brought on by that ephemeral, fragile beauty of, say, a cherry blossom as it floats to the ground. Would cherry blossoms be as poignantly beautiful if they bloomed all year round, or if they were as tough as walnuts? Would our worldview be enriched if our notion of beautiful objects expanded to include things that remind us of our mortality?
Howard Rheingold (They Have a Word for It: A Lighthearted Lexicon of Untranslatable Words & Phrases)
Perverse? Because they obey the only law of life; because they are satisfied with the only need of life, which is love? But consider, milady, the flower is only a reproductive organ. Is there anything healthier, stronger, or more beautiful than that? These marvelous petals, these silks, these velvets... these soft, supple, and caressing materials are the curtains of the alcove, the draperies of the bridal chamber, the perfumed bed where they unite, where they pass their ephemeral and immortal life, swooning with love. What an admirable example for us!” he spread the petals of the flower, counted the stamens laden with pollen, and he spoke again, his eyes swimming in a comical ecstasy: “See, milady; one, two, five, ten, twenty. See how they quiver! Look! Sometimes twenty males are required for the delight of a single female! he! he! he! Sometimes it’s the opposite.” one by one he tore off the petals of the flower: “And when they are gorged with love, then the curtains of the bed are torn away, the draperies of the chamber wither and fall; and the flowers die, because they know well they have nothing more to do. They die, to be reborn later, and once again, to love!
Octave Mirbeau (The Torture Garden)
The earth had granted me a lifeline, by letting me siphon off some of the water that was on its way somewhere else. Because of me, there would be less water flowing into the Chattahoochee River: less for the speckled trout, less for the wood ducks, less for the mountain laurel that drop their white petals into the river every fall. There would be more water flowing into my septic tank, laced with laundry detergent, dish soap, and human waste. At that moment of high awareness, I promised the land that I would go easy on the water. I would remember where it came from. I would remain grateful for the sacrifice.
Barbara Brown Taylor (Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith)
There are no constraints in Life when you learn to flow with it. Flowing is an important quality to be embraced. It is an art. You can and must learn it. When you are flowing with Life, you are not resisting it; therefore, there is no conflict. Whatever is, you are accepting it and are going with the flow of Life. This does not mean you must not work towards changing what you don’t like about your Life. It means that while you are working on changing your current reality, you are willing to be led by the process of Life. This is a beautiful state to be in – contentment, inner peace and Happiness are guaranteed!
AVIS Viswanathan
Sometimes the best way to deal with a broken family is to leave its members to be at peace within their own broken worlds. When each one is at peace with who they are, with the problems they are dealing with and are not sure of the way forward, then letting things be, just be, is a sane option. At least each one is individually at peace. And that’s no small miracle! People being born into a family does not necessarily ensure that they stay together. It takes trust and transparency to build and nurture families. When these values cease to exist, merely coming together under a roof is a lie. It achieves no purpose!
AVIS Viswanathan
Look you," Pandora told him in a businesslike tone, "marriage is not on the table." Look you? Look you? Gabriel was simultaneously amused and outraged. Was she really speaking to him as if he were an errand boy? "I've never wanted to marry," Pandora continued. "Anyone who knows me will tell you that. When I was little, I never liked the stories about princesses waiting to be rescued. I never wished on falling stars, or pulled the petals off daisies while reciting 'he loves me, he loves me not.' At my brother's wedding, they handed out slivers of wedding cake to all the unmarried girls and said if we put it under our pillows, we would dream of our future husbands. I ate my cake instead. Every crumb. I've made plans for my life that don't involve becoming anyone's wife." "What plans?" Gabriel asked. How could a girl of her position, with her looks, make plans that didn't include the possibility of marriage? "That's none of your business," she told him smartly. "Understood," Gabriel assured her. "There's just one thing I'd like to ask: What the bloody hell were you doing at the ball in the first place, if you don't want to marry?" "Because I thought it would be only slightly less boring than staying at home." "Anyone as opposed to marriage as you claim to be has no business taking part in the Season." "Not every girl who attends a ball wants to be Cinderella." "If it's grouse season," Gabriel pointed out acidly, "and you're keeping company with a flock of grouse on a grouse-moor, it's a bit disingenuous to ask a sportsman to pretend you're not a grouse." "Is that how men think of it? No wonder I hate balls." Pandora looked scornful. "I'm so sorry for intruding on your happy hunting grounds." "I wasn't wife-hunting," he snapped. "I'm no more interested in marrying than you are." "Then why were you at the ball?" "To see a fireworks display!" After a brief, electric silence, Pandora dropped her head swiftly. He saw her shoulders tremble, and for an alarming moment, he thought she had begun to cry. But then he heard a delicate snorting, snickering sound, and he realized she was... laughing? "Well," she muttered, "it seems you succeeded." Before Gabriel even realized what he was doing, he reached out to lift her chin with his fingers. She struggled to hold back her amusement, but it slipped out nonetheless. Droll, sneaky laughter, punctuated with vole-like squeaks, while sparks danced in her blue eyes like shy emerging stars. Her grin made him lightheaded. Damn it.
Lisa Kleypas (Devil in Spring (The Ravenels, #3))
He buried his head in the lawn, letting his smooth cheeks feel the softness of the earth and be tickled by the short blunt spears of grass. Suddenly he wanted to do something heroic and brutal. He pulled handfuls of grass out of its roots, experiencing a crazy satisfaction at the ugly grating sound it produced like a limb being torn from limb! He dug his nails into the soft, wet earth, wanting suddenly to break it up, to disfigure it, to wreck his vengeful will upon it! He picked a rose from a bush nearby and plucked its petals one by one, letting them fall in a crumpled heap. He got his finger pricked by a thorn but when he sucked at the injured spot, the blood, his own blood, tasted bitter - and good - on his tongue. Then he retired to his room exhausted yet strangely satisfied. But he was pursued by someone even in his sleep. It was the same "other woman" of his childhood dreams and she was still screaming, "I am Woman, the daughter of Woman. Thou shalt not escape me." But when she came near, Anwar saw that she had an oval face, framed by a halo of dark curly hair, with big black innocent eyes! Next morning, as he looked into the mirror to comb his hair, Anwar saw the downy growth of hair, the beginnings of a beard on his cheeks and chin.
Khwaja Ahmad Abbas (Inqilab)
Nothing belongs to us. Everything and everyone will be gone someday – including you and me! Clinging on to people, material possessions, stances and opinions is a total waste of energy and precious time. If we review our lives closely, deeply, we will find that all our insecurities, our strife, our suffering, comes from whatever we are clinging on to. The moment you let go of whatever is possessing you, consuming you – a habit or a position or an object or a person or a relationship – you are liberated. You are free. It is only when you are free that you can experience Life – and its magic and beauty – fully…and live happily!
AVIS Viswanathan
Don't imagine you are in a worse place than you actually are. Things could have been far worse. So, seize the day, count your blessings and move on. You can survive a crisis only by dealing it with one day at a time. Don't add up all your problems in your mind and think you are finished. Compartmentalize your problems; put them in different buckets and project-manage them separately. This is how you live through uncertain times – making decisions when there are few or no options to choose from. You never see it this way when you are going through a crisis. But, unfailingly, every crisis leaves you stronger, wiser – and happy!
AVIS Viswanathan
If you fall for a dark-eyed beauty, pretty as a picture, with lips as sweet as a luscious rasberry, and a gentle face, unrumpled by kisses, like an apple-blossom petal in May, and she becomes your love—then do not say that love is yours: even though you cannot tire of her rounded breasts, of her slender frame that melts in your embrace like wax before a flame. . . . The day will come, that cruel hour will come, the fatal moment will come, when he face will fade, rumpled by kisses, her breasts will no longer quiver at your touch: all this will come to pass; and you will be alone with your own shadow amidst the sunscorched deserts and the dried up springs, where flowers do not bloom and the sunlight plays on the dry skin of a lizard; and you might even see the hairy black tarantula’s lair, all enmeshed in the threads of its web . . . And then your thirsting voice will be raised from the sands, calling longingly to your homeland. --- But if your love is otherwise, if her browless face has once been touched by the black blemish of the pox, if her hair is red, her breasts sagging, her bare feet dirty, and to any extent at all her stomach protrudes, and still she is your love—then that which you have sought and found in her is the sacred homeland of your soul.
Andrei Bely (The Silver Dove)
Intelligence is really the ability to decide which battles to fight in Life…and when you employ your intelligence this way, you will awaken to the choice that perhaps, in most cases, it is best not to fight (any battle) at all. Almost always, the best way to live (and to win, if you like) is to not fight anyone – or anything. This understanding will interestingly help you choose wisely and in the event that you do choose to fight for a cause that you truly believe in, it will teach you to be detached from the outcome. When you are engaged only with the process, you discover the opportunity to be happy without getting keyed up about the result.
AVIS Viswanathan
What will make me happy? This is a simple question. And you sure know the answer to it. But you don’t wish to ask this question to yourself, because you fear confronting the truth. Because the answer entails making tough choices, firm decisions. So, you keep postponing asking yourself the question, postponing your Happiness. But when you do ask yourself this question – what will make me happy – and go to work on your answer, then your fears evaporate, courage takes over; resilience kicks in, doors open and Life, your kind of happy, Blissful Life, embraces you and takes you into its fold! This is how Life works. This is how you choose your Happiness.
AVIS Viswanathan
Tomino’s Hell Elder sister vomits blood, younger sister’s breathing fire while sweet little Tomino just spits up the jewels. All alone does Tomino go falling into that hell, a hell of utter darkness, without even flowers. Is Tomino’s big sister the one who whips him? The purpose of the scourging hangs dark in his mind. Lashing and thrashing him, ah! But never quite shattering. One sure path to Avici, the eternal hell. Into that blackest of hells guide him now, I pray— to the golden sheep, to the nightingale. How much did he put in that leather pouch to prepare for his trek to the eternal hell? Spring is coming to the valley, to the wood, to the spiraling chasms of the blackest hell. The nightingale in her cage, the sheep aboard the wagon, and tears well up in the eyes of sweet little Tomino. Sing, o nightingale, in the vast, misty forest— he screams he only misses his little sister. His wailing desperation echoes throughout hell— a fox peony opens its golden petals. Down past the seven mountains and seven rivers of hell— the solitary journey of sweet little Tomino. If in this hell they be found, may they then come to me, please, those sharp spikes of punishment from Needle Mountain. Not just on some empty whim Is flesh pierced with blood-red pins: they serve as hellish signposts for sweet little Tomino. —translated by David Bowles June 29, 2014
Saijo Yaso
Understand a simple truth about Life: you have to go through what you have to go through! No amount of praying or wishing can change what you have to, and will, experience in Life. So, stop resisting anything that you dislike and are faced with. The role of a crisis is to make you stronger, wiser and, interestingly, happy. Look back at all that you have been through and you will find that you are better from your experiences. So, why be bitter about whatever’s happening to you now? Embrace your current reality, accept it as your new normal, and keep doing what you can possibly do each given day. Over time, you will find yourself soaked in equanimity, no matter how hard the going is!
AVIS Viswanathan
When your Life’s Purpose comes calling, nothing else will matter! It will embrace you and you will be drawn into it. This is because your Purpose is the reason for your creation. You see, money is a human invention; you were not created to just make money. You were created to be happy, to serve, to make the world a better place. Which is why, your Purpose is also referred to as your “calling”. Truly, your Purpose is calling you! Step out of your earning-a-living bubble and allow your Purpose to lead you onward. Witness then, magically, how doors open, how the relevant people walk into your Life and how you end up doing all that you love doing and are meant to do. When you live a Life of Purpose, you live happily despite the circumstances.
AVIS Viswanathan
If it is meant for you, it will come to you. It will find you and reach you. So, don’t despair when, despite your best intention and effort, something does not happen the way you envisioned it and planned it. Take it easy. Of course, you have every right to have an intention, put forth a plan and execute it, but you have no right to insist that just because you did all that you must get what you want. The outcomes are never in your hand. The idea that you deserve something is what you have grown within you. So, drop that idea. Just do your bit, and do it well, in any situation. And leave the results, the outcomes, to Life. If you must get it, you will. When you do, be grateful for Life’s compassion. When you don’t, be accepting of Life’s verdict.
AVIS Viswanathan
Facing your fears is key to flowing with Life…Flowing is an important word here: are you flowing with Life or are you fighting it? When you flow with Life, through accepting and living with what is, then miraculously, magically, Life reveals a big secret to you – that fearlessness is not the absence of fear…in fact, it is what fear delivers to you when you turn around and face a situation that is tormenting you, scaring you. What you run away from, will chase you, haunt you…but when you face your fears, the game changes dramatically! You are in control now, not your fears! And when you are in control, while you may not be able to solve every problem immediately, you can deal with the situation calmly, efficiently. This is how you learn to be happy, no matter what you are going through!
AVIS Viswanathan
You've asked me what the lobster is weaving there with his golden feet? I reply, the ocean knows this. You say, what is the ascidia waiting for in its transparent bell? What is it waiting for? I tell you it is waiting for time, like you. You ask me whom the Macrocystis alga hugs in its arms? Study, study it, at a certain hour, in a certain sea I know. You question me about the wicked tusk of the narwhal, and I reply by describing how the sea unicorn with the harpoon in it dies. You enquire about the kingfisher's feathers, which tremble in the pure springs of the southern tides? Or you've found in the cards a new question touching on the crystal architecture of the sea anemone, and you'll deal that to me now? You want to understand the electric nature of the ocean spines? The armored stalactite that breaks as it walks? The hook of the angler fish, the music stretched out in the deep places like a thread in the water? I want to tell you the ocean knows this, that life in its jewel boxes is endless as the sand, impossible to count, pure, and among the blood-colored grapes time has made the petal hard and shiny, made the jellyfish full of light and untied its knot, letting its musical threads fall from a horn of plenty made of infinite mother-of-pearl. I am nothing but the empty net which has gone on ahead of human eyes, dead in those darknesses, of fingers accustomed to the triangle, longitudes on the timid globe of an orange. I walked around as you do, investigating the endless star, and in my net, during the night, I woke up naked, the only thing caught, a fish trapped inside the wind.
Pablo Neruda
Floating" Our canoe idles in the idling current Of the tree and vine and rush enclosed Backwater of a torpid midwestern stream; Revolves slowly, and lodges in the glutted Waterlilies. We are tired of paddling. All afternoon we have climbed the weak current, Up dim meanders, through woods and pastures, Past muddy fords where the strong smell of cattle Lay thick across the water; singing the songs Of perfect, habitual motion; ski songs, Nightherding songs, songs of the capstan walk, The levee, and the roll of the voyageurs. Tired of motion, of the rhythms of motion, Tired of the sweet play of our interwoven strength, We lie in each other's arms and let the palps Of waterlily leaf and petal hold back All motion in the heat thickened, drowsing air. Sing to me softly, Westron Wynde, Ah the Syghes, Mon coeur se recommend à vous, Phoebi Claro; Sing the wandering erotic melodies Of men and women gone seven hundred years, Softly, your mouth close to my cheek. Let our thighs lie entangled on the cushions, Let your breasts in their thin cover Hang pendant against my naked arms and throat; Let your odorous hair fall across our eyes; Kiss me with those subtle, melodic lips. As I undress you, your pupils are black, wet, Immense, and your skin ivory and humid. Move softly, move hardly at all, part your thighs, Take me slowly while our gnawing lips Fumble against the humming blood in our throats. Move softly, do not move at all, but hold me, Deep, still, deep within you, while time slides away, As the river slides beyond this lily bed, And the thieving moments fuse and disappear In our mortal, timeless flesh.
Kenneth Rexroth (The Complete Poems)
How do you last a torrid time in Life? 1. Accept the reality that you are in the throes of a crisis. Stop wishing that it didn’t exist. Acceptance always delivers inner peace. 2. Know that the storm will always be strong. By even thinking of its ferocity, you are only going to feel debilitated. At the epicenter of a storm, it is always calm. Find that center, your center. That’s where you will find strength. 3. Your center is where you lose sense of time, place and thought. Art – anything inherent that makes you come alive – often leads you there. 4. Trust the process of Life. Do what you can do without losing your inner peace – daily, diligently. 5. No matter how intense it is, no storm lasts forever. All storms pass. So, be patient, surrender completely, let go…and offer yourself to be led by Life…
AVIS Viswanathan
Your tendency to seek approval from others, to compare yourself with others and to judge yourself basis external parameters stems from a deep-rooted social conditioning. Society wants you to fit into certain frameworks, it wants you to check certain boxes so that you can be categorized, classified and made to conform to how it wants you to be. Don’t let this conditioned view of who you are get to you. Let society keep slotting you. But you just be who you are. Yearning for approval from others, for you to feel good about yourself, is futile. As long as you are causing no harm to the people or environment around you, go on, be yourself. The truth is while you can’t avoid society’s norms entirely, you can choose not to let them affect your self-worth. Who you are is seriously none of anyone’s business; and, for the same reason, what others think of you, is none of your business too!
AVIS Viswanathan
Not reacting with anger, but responding with compassion and equanimity, is a personal choice. Particularly so, in an explosive situation, when someone is provoking you, by trampling all over your self-esteem. How can you employ compassion when someone is spewing venom? Well, if you observe their behavior closely, someone causing you pain and anguish is actually suffering a lot within themselves. Their thoughts and actions are only reflecting their distressed state of mind. They surely know not what they are doing. So, respond – don’t react – with compassion. Ahimsa is not just non-violent action. It includes non-violent thought as well. Respond with ahimsa – that’s the best way to disarm your ‘opponent’! When you leave the other party guessing, as to why you are not striking back, you have won the battle without even fighting it. Isn’t that a great way to be protect your inner peace and profit from it?
AVIS Viswanathan
It is so rare to have a new tent appear that Celia considers canceling her performances entirely in order to spend the evening investigating it. Instead she waits, executing her standard number of shows, finishing the last a few hours before dawn. Only then does she navigate her way through nearly empty pathways to find the latest edition to the circus. The sign proclaims something called the Ice Garden. and Celia smiles at the addendum below which contains an apology for any thermal inconvenience. Despite the name, she is not prepared for what awaits her inside the tent. It is exactly what the sign described. But it is so much more than that. There are no stripes visible on the walls, everything is sparkling and white. She cannot tell how far it stretches, the size of the tent obscured by cascading willows and twisting vines. The air itself is magical. Crisp and sweet in her lungs as she breathes, sending a shiver down to her toes that is caused by more than the forewarned drop in temperature. There are no patrons in the tent as she explores, circling alone around trellises covered in pale roses and a softly bubbling, elaborately carved fountain. And everything, save for occasional lengths of whet silk ribbon strung like garlands, is made of ice. Curious, Celia picks a frosted peony from its branch, the stem breaking easily. But the layered petals shatter, falling from her fingers to the ground, disappearing in the blades of ivory grass below. When she looks back at the branch, an identical bloom has already appeared. Celia cannot imagine how much power and skill it would take not only to construct such a thing but to maintain it as well. And she longs to know how her opponent came up with the idea. Aware that each perfectly structured topiary, every detail down to the stones that line the paths like pearls, must have been planned.
Erin Morgenstern (The Night Circus)
ls the Conjugial Angel stone That here he stands with heavy head The backward-looking pillared dead Inert, moss-covered, aIl alone? The Holy Ghost trawls ln the Void, With fleshly Sophy on His Hook The Sons of God crowd round to look At plumpy limbs to be enjoyed The Greater Man casts out the line With dangling Sophy as the lure Who howls around the Heavens' colure To clasp the Human Form Divine Rose-petals fall from fallen hair That in the clay is redolent Of liquid oozings and the scent Of the dark Pit, the Beastly lair And is my Love become the beast That was, and is not, and yet is, Who stretches scarlet holes to kiss And clasps with claws the fleshly feast Sweet Rosamund, adult'rous Rose May lie inside her urn and stink Whlle Alfred's tears tum into ink And drop into her quelque-chose The Angel spreads his golden wings And raises high his golden cock And man and wife together lock Into one corpse that moans and sings
A.S. Byatt (Angels and Insects)
At the side of the house he scraped scales of fungus off the shingles. His basement smelled of mildew, his eyes stinging when he put in the laundry. The soil of his vegetable garden was too wet to till, the roots of the seedlings he’d planted washing away. The rhododendrons shed their purple petals too soon, the peonies barely opening before the stalks bent over, the blossoms smashed across the drenched ground. It was carnal, the smell of so much moisture. The smell of the earth’s decay. At night the rain would wake him. He heard it pelting the windows, washing the pitch of the driveway clean. He wondered if it was a sign of something. Of another juncture in his life. He remembered rain falling the first night he spent with Holly, in her cottage. Heavy rain the evening Bela was born. He began expecting it to leak through the bricks around the fireplace, to drip through the ceiling, to seep in below the doors. He thought of the monsoon coming every year in Tollygunge. The two ponds flooding, the embankment between them turning invisible.
Jhumpa Lahiri (The Lowland)
Many won’t struggle to believe it though, for their minds have been opened; unlocked by whatever kind of key causes people to believe. They’re either born that way or, as babies, their little budlike minds are nurtured until their petals slowly open and prepare for the very nature of life to feed them. As the rain falls and the sun shines, they grow, grow, grow; minds so open they go through life aware and accepting, seeing light where there’s dark, seeing possibility in dead ends, tasting victory as others spit out failure, questioning when others accept. Just a little less jaded, a little less cynical. A little less likely to throw in the towel. Some people’s minds open later in life, through tragedy or triumph, either thing acting as the key to unlatch and lift the lid on that know-it-all box, to accept the unknown, to say good-bye to pragmatism and straight lines. But then there are those whose minds are merely a bouquet of stalks that bud as they learn new information—a new bud for each new fact—but yet they never open, never flourish. They are the people of capital letters and full stops but never of question marks and ellipses
Cecelia Ahern (The Book of Tomorrow)
A butterfly fluttered from flower to flower in the old garden, gracing the silvery-blue tips of the crocuses and what remained of the icy-white petals of the lady's prized tulips. The yellow strands on the butterfly's wings shimmered in the fading light, and Libby watched the creature in its journey, mesmerized by the graceful rise and fall of its dance. Her arms outstretched, Libby twirled around like she had as a girl, embracing the last rays of sunlight. Here in this garden, she was as free as the butterfly. Here she didn't have to hide. The butterfly climbed above the flowers and soared toward the lily pond. Beyond the pond were more flowers, hundreds of them, and then the trees. Soon the butterfly would curl up under a rock or leaf and rest for the night, hiding in the darkness, alone and vulnerable until the sun powered her wings again at dawn. Libby trailed the creature around the pond to see where it would land. If the night stayed warm, she might curl up beside the butterfly to rest, but not now. She no longer had to hide in these gardens. Soon the moonlight would glaze the paths with gold, and she would explore for hours, enveloped in the shadows and the light.
Melanie Dobson (Shadows of Ladenbrooke Manor)
I lift the lid of the chest. Inside, the air is musty and stale, held hostage for years in its three-foot-by-four-foot tomb. I lean in to survey the contents cautiously, then pull out a stack of old photos tied with twine. On top is a photo of a couple on their wedding day. She's a young bride, wearing one of those 1950's netted veils. He looks older, distinguished- sort of like Cary Grant or Gregory Peck in the old black-and-white movies I used to watch with my grandmother. I set the stack down and turn back to the chest, where I find a notebook, filled with handwritten recipes. The page for Cinnamon Rolls is labeled "Dex's Favorite." 'Dex.' I wonder if he's the man in the photo. There are two ticket stubs from 1959, one to a Frank Sinatra concert, another to the movie 'An Affair to Remember.' A single shriveled rosebud rests on a white handkerchief. A corsage? When I lift it into my hand, it disintegrates; the petals crinkle into tiny pieces that fall onto the living room carpet. At the bottom of the chest is what looks like a wedding dress. It's yellowed and moth-eaten, but I imagine it was once stark white and beautiful. As I lift it, I can hear the lace swishing as if to say, "Ahh." Whoever wore it was very petite. The waist circumference is tiny. A pair of long white gloves falls to the floor. They must have been tucked inside the dress. I refold the finery and set the ensemble back inside. Whose things are these? And why have they been left here? I thumb through the recipe book. All cookies, cakes, desserts. She must have loved to bake. I tuck the book back inside the chest, along with the photographs after I've retied the twine, which is when I notice a book tucked into the corner. It's an old paperback copy of Ernest Hemingway's 'The Sun Also Rises.' I've read a little of Hemingway over the years- 'A Moveable Feast' and some of his later work- but not this one. I flip through the book and notice that one page is dog-eared. I open to it and see a line that has been underscored. "You can't get away from yourself by moving from one place to another." I look out to the lake, letting the words sink in. 'Is that what I'm trying to do? Get away from myself?' I stare at the line in the book again and wonder if it resonated with the woman who underlined it so many years ago. Did she have her own secret pain? 'Was she trying to escape it just like me?
Sarah Jio (Morning Glory)
As I walked, I became aware of the strong odor of peonies and jasmine. I inhaled deeply to draw in the lovely bouquet. The scent was from the fresh flowers of a lush garden. The path opened into a courtyard, a tangle of peonies and jasmine framing the entrance, blooming in spectacular fashion. Silky petals brushed against my skin. The tension building in my neck and shoulders melted away as I entered a fairyland. The rustle of the night breeze joined the familiar voice of Teresa Teng echoing from invisible speakers. Beneath my feet, a path of moss-covered stones led to a circular platform surrounded by a large, shallow pond. The night garden was bursting with a palette of muted greens, starlit ivories, and sparkling golds: the verdant lichen and waxy lily pads in the pond, the snowy white peonies and jasmine flowers, and the metallic tones of the fireflies suspended in the air, the square-holed coins lining the floor of the pond, and the special golden three-legged creatures resting on the floating fronds. I knew these creatures from my childhood. The feng shui symbol of prosperity, Jin Chan was transformed into a golden toad for stealing the peaches of immortality. Jin Chan's three legs represented heave, earth, and humanity. Statues of him graced every Chinese home I had ever been in, for fortune was a visitor always in demand. Ma-ma had placed one near the stairs leading to the front door. The pond before me held eight fabled toads, each biting on a coin. If not for the subtle rise and fall of their vocal sacs, I would have thought them statues.
Roselle Lim (Natalie Tan's Book of Luck and Fortune)
The next room was a great round ballroom. Its walls were arrayed in gold-painted moldings; its floor was a swirling mosaic of blue and gold; its dome was painted with the loves of all the gods, a vast tangle of plump limbs and writhing fabric. The air was cool, still, and hugely silent. My footsteps were only a soft tap-tap-tap, but they echoed through the room. After that came what seemed like a hundred more rooms and hallways. In every one, the air was different: hot or cold, fresh or stuffy, smelling of rosemary, incense, pomegranates, old paper, pickled fish, cedarwood. None of the rooms frightened me like the first hallway. But sometimes--especially when sunlight glowed through a window--I thought I heard the faint laughter. Finally, at the end of a long hallway with a cherrywood wainscot and lace-hung windows between the doors, we came to my room. I could see why the Gentle Lord called it the "bridal suite": the walls were papered with a silver pattern of hearts and doves, and most of the room was taken up by a huge canopied bed, more than big enough for two. The four posts were shaped like four maidens, coiffed and dressed in gauzy robes that clung to their bodies, their faces serene. They were exactly like the caryatids holding up the porch of a temple. The bed curtains were great falls of white lace, woven through with crimson ribbons. A vase of roses sat on the bedside table. Their red petals had blossomed wide to expose their gold centers, and their musk wove through the air. It was a bed that had been built for pleasure, just like my dress, and as I stared at it I felt hot and cold at once.
Rosamund Hodge (Cruel Beauty)
Mamaw also said that the best things in life die quickly, like the cherry blossom. Because something so beautiful can never last forever, shouldn’t last forever. It stays for a brief moment in time to remind us how precious life is, before fading away just as quickly as it came. She said that it teaches you more in its short life than anything that is forever by your side.” My throat began to close at the pain in her voice. She looked up at me. “Because nothing so perfect can last an eternity, can it? Like shooting stars. We see the usual stars above us every single night. Most people take them for granted, even forget they are there. But if a person sees a shooting star, they remember that moment forever, they even make a wish at its presence.” She took in a deep breath. “It shoots by so quickly that people savor the short time they have with it.” I felt a teardrop fall on our joined hands. I was confused, unsure why she was talking about such sad things. “Because something so completely perfect and special is destined to fade. Eventually, it has to blow away into the wind.” Poppy held up the cherry blossom that was still in her hand. “Like this flower.” She threw it into the air, just as a gust of wind came. The strong bluster carried the petals into the sky and away above the trees. It disappeared from our sight. “Poppy—” I went to speak, but she cut me off. “Maybe we’re like the cherry blossom, Rune. Like shooting stars. Maybe we loved too much too young and burned so bright that we had to fade out.” She pointed behind us, to the blossom grove. “Extreme beauty, quick death. We had this love long enough to teach us a lesson. To show us how capable of love we truly are.
Tillie Cole (A Thousand Boy Kisses)
I walked through the cemetery holding a bouquet of yellow and red flowers with brown combat boots, feeling grateful and bitter the sun was shining so brightly. I felt an urge to run, as well as a magnet to reach the group of people surrounding you. I wanted to be wearing white. I wanted to be walking down an isle with flowers and for this to be a different ceremony. I wanted to curl up beside the earth that held you, the pink and yellow petals, strings of ground hanging loosely in the wind and be beside you. I was angry you were buried, I resented the earth falling upon you. Each scoop felt heavy and indefinite. I'm not ready to know this is definite. I watched your chest, in a white linen shirt last night wishing for your chest to rise. But when I kissed your forehead it was cold. And when I held your hands it wasn't you. It was a shell. It was a vessel. It was empty. The first time I heard your new music it was by accident and your voice drove me from your home into hysterics. But when I entered your home and it played with your casket it was welcome. I read your letter with your mom and dad out loud beside you, and halfway through "spelunking in your soul" started to play. That was a gift, thank you. Today walking back from the funeral a green and black beetle landed in my hair and crawled onto my finger. I just had a bad moment with a woman in your life and I felt you in the little beetle. I'm writing something to be read at your celebration of life. It's not going to be read by me. I have a wedding in Joshua tree. But I will celebrate you in the desert there. I wanted to read the poem "sex and wine for breakfast" I wrote about you but figured I would go less steamy. I love you.
Janne Robinson
Before us lay a green sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit blossom- apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out amongst these green hills of what they call here the 'Mittel Land' ran the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down the hillside like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in summertime excellent, but that it had not been put in order after the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run of roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are not to be kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadors would not repair them, lest the Turks should think that they were preparing to bring in foreign troops, and so hasten the war which was always really at loading point. Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty slopes of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling full upon them and bringing out all the glorious colors of this beautiful range, deep blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and again the white gleam of falling water.
Bram Stoker (Dracula)
He caught my hand and drew me closer to his side. “Well, should I begin to list them one by one, and by name? If I did it would take several hours. If there had been someone special, all I would do is name one—and I can’t do that. I liked them all . . . but I didn’t like any well enough to love, if that’s what you want to know.” Yes, that was exactly what I wanted to know. “I’m sure you didn’t live a celibate life, even though you didn’t fall in love . . . ?” “That’s none of your business,” he said lightly. “I think it is. It would give me peace to know you had a girl you loved.” “I do have a girl I love,” he answered. “I’ve known her all my life. When I go to sleep at night, I dream of her, dancing overhead, calling my name, kissing my cheek, screaming when she has nightmares, and I wake up to take the tar from her hair. There are times when I wake up to ache all over, as she aches all over, and I dream I kiss the marks the whip made . . . and I dream of a certain night when she and I went out on the cold slate roof and stared up at the sky, and she said the moon was the eye of God looking down and condemning us for what we were. So there, Cathy, is the girl who haunts me and rules me, and fills me with frustrations, and darkens all the hours I spend with other girls who just can’t live up to the standards she set. And I hope to God you’re satisfied.” I turned to move as in a dream, and in that dream I put my arms about him and stared up into his face, his beautiful face that haunted me too. “Don’t love me, Chris. Forget about me. Do as I do, take whomever knocks first on your door, and let her in.” He smiled ironically and put me quickly from him. “I did exactly what you did, Catherine Doll, the first who knocked on my door was let in—and now I can’t drive her out. But that’s my problem—not yours.” “I don’t deserve to be there. I’m not an angel, not a saint . . . you should know that.” “Angel, saint, Devil’s spawn, good or evil, you’ve got me pinned to the wall and labeled as yours until the day I die. And if you die first, then it won’t be long before I follow.
V.C. Andrews (Petals on the Wind (Dollanganger, #2))
Sang had got down on all fours and crawled into Farouk’s coat closet, weeping uncontrollably, at one point hitting herself with a shoe. She’d refused to emerge from the closet until the policeman lifted her by the armpits and dragged her forcefully from the apartment, telling Paul to see her home. Tiny pieces of flower petals and leaves were still stuck in her hair. She had taken Paul’s hand in the elevator, and all the way back to the house. In the car, she had cried continuously with her head between her knees, not letting go of Paul’s hand, gripping it even as he shifted gears. He had put the seatbelt on her; her body had been stiff, unyielding. She seemed to know, without looking up, when they turned in to their road. By then, she had stopped crying. Her nose was running. She wiped it with the back of her hand. A light rain had begun to fall, and within seconds the windows and the windshield seemed covered with scratches, similar to the ones she’d inflicted on herself, the drops beading up in small diagonal lines.
Jhumpa Lahiri (Unaccustomed Earth)
Despite an icy northeast wind huffing across the bay I sneak out after dark, after my mother falls asleep clutching her leather Bible, and I hike up the rutted road to the frosted meadow to stand in mist, my shoes in muck, and toss my echo against the moss-covered fieldstone corners of the burned-out church where Sunday nights in summer for years Father Thomas, that mad handsome priest, would gather us girls in the basement to dye the rose cotton linen cut-outs that the deacon’s daughter, a thin beauty with short white hair and long trim nails, would stitch by hand each folded edge then steam-iron flat so full of starch, stiffening fabric petals, which we silly Sunday school girls curled with quick sharp pulls of a scissor blade, forming clusters of curved petals the younger children assembled with Krazy glue and fuzzy green wire, sometimes adding tissue paper leaves, all of us gladly laboring like factory workers rather than have to color with crayon stubs the robe of Christ again, Christ with his empty hands inviting us to dine, Christ with a shepherd's staff signaling to another flock of puffy lambs, or naked Christ with a drooping head crowned with blackened thorns, and Lord how we laughed later when we went door to door in groups, visiting the old parishioners, the sick and bittersweet, all the near dead, and we dropped our bikes on the perfect lawns of dull neighbors, agnostics we suspected, hawking our handmade linen roses for a donation, bragging how each petal was hand-cut from a pattern drawn by Father Thomas himself, that mad handsome priest, who personally told the Monsignor to go fornicate himself, saying he was a disgruntled altar boy calling home from a phone booth outside a pub in North Dublin, while I sat half-dressed, sniffing incense, giddy and drunk with sacrament wine stains on my panties, whispering my oath of unholy love while wiggling uncomfortably on the mad priest's lap, but God he was beautiful with a fine chiseled chin and perfect teeth and a smile that would melt the Madonna, and God he was kind with a slow gentle touch, never harsh or too quick, and Christ how that crafty devil could draw, imitate a rose petal in perfect outline, his sharp pencil slanted just so, the tip barely touching so that he could sketch and drink, and cough without jerking, without ruining the work, or tearing the tissue paper, thin as a membrane, which like a clean skin arrived fresh each Saturday delivered by the dry cleaners, tucked into the crisp black vestment, wrapped around shirt cardboard, pinned to protect the high collar.
Bob Thurber (Nothing But Trouble)
People who think following your dreams is a fairytale don’t realize they’re living the biggest fairytale of all, following the sheep
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
I’m not afraid to die, but I’m also, not afraid to live.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
Sometimes people just can't take how real the world can be. Even if they're your friend they’ll drop away from you like petals from a dying flower to keep their own sanity.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
A poet writes what they see every day, what they know, what they’ve lived or barely lived through.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
Writers that are pouring their soul out for the world to see, will cast a perfect reflection of themselves in their work.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
I was just a drifter, a writer of what I saw.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
My life has been a storm of change, Some I did not want, but all I have weathered.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
Some live it, some wish they lived it, and some never know it’s there.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
You know you’re getting somewhere as a writer when the rejection letters mean as much as spam in your inbox.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
We didn’t have AC or Cable TV. We had shade trees and storytellers. This is where my writing comes from.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
I write novellas, short books, whatever. I set out to write a good story not write a dictionary.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
Writers live within their mind for their flesh and bones are stuck in a far worse place.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
For the writer that has truly suffered, their pen, their words, their art will become as important as breathing.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
A shovel is the greatest motivational teacher I know.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
Chaos is life, if you're doing great things.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
You can be the greatest at stringing words together but if you don’t mean what you say your words will not live long in this world.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
Sleeplessness and being a writer seem to go together hand in hand.
Jason E. Hodges (Petals Falling)
*Rose petals, doves, and the sinister cherubs make a big reappearance, shouting, “Ready. Aim. Fire.”*
Anne Eliot (How I Fall (How I Fall #1))
Three factors contribute to your choosing to do what you love doing, they hold the key to your Happiness. These are having enough time on you, good health and a reasonable amount of money. You often believe that you need all three to do what you love doing. You may not be wrong. But getting all three together in one phase in Life is rare – chances are you may get two of those three factors in place but not all three. Most people therefore keep postponing their Happiness in the hope that they will be happy, they will do what they love doing, when they have all three – time, health and money. And when they eventually realize this isn’t likely to happen, it is too late. Think about it. So, please don’t postpone your Happiness, just make the best of what you have, of what is, of the conditions as they are.
AVIS Viswanathan
The nature of Life is that at least once in your lifetime, if not more times, the unexpected will come and sock you, it will defy logic and it may even hang you from the edge of a precipice. You will not know what to do. You will be engulfed by darkness. The pain will be unbearable and you will imagine you can’t go on. That’s when Life will send you a lifeboat, a raft…a shepherd may arrive, a door may open, showing you the way forward to last one more day…surely your problems won’t get solved overnight…they may even endure and so will you…such is Life…
AVIS Viswanathan
Bliss can – and will – never lead you astray. When you follow your Bliss, you sure may face challenges, there may be pain, but you will not be unhappy. On the other hand, if you resist your Bliss, choosing not to do what you love doing – not only will Life be challenging, but it will also be intensely unhappy…making you feel low, depressed and causing you a lot of grief, misery and suffering. Think: what if you had challenges and were happy facing them? Well, that is the biggest benefit of following your Bliss. Simply, you cannot go wrong with Happiness.
AVIS Viswanathan
There will be times in Life when you will find yourself in a deep, dark, hole. And you will not see any way out. Every idea you believed in will be challenged. This includes your faith in yourself…and you may even end up asking if there is really a God up there who still values ‘goodness’! In such times, know that you are not the first person to experience darkness in Life and you are certainly not alone. This is how Life works. Everyone has to bear their cross, everyone has the go through their spell of darkness – feeling clueless, helpless and hopeless…these are part of the process of Life. Realizing this truth, that such is Life, that you control nothing and you have to go through what you have to go through…this awakening, this is what enlightenment is all about. It is through experiencing darkness and pain that you see the light, soak in grace and learn to be happy despite the circumstances.
AVIS Viswanathan
The “Why?” and “Why Me?” questions are futile and debilitating. They make you wallow in self-pity and lead you to compare yourself with others. They keep coming back to push you down a depressive spiral even if you want to let go and move on. So, essentially, Life is a mind-game. You must train your mind to drop the “Why?” and “Why Me?” questions altogether. Whatever has happened has happened, and your Life is what it is now. What then is the point in asking “Why?” and “Why Me?”. When you realize the futility of those questions, you will be free…you will then see magic and beauty in the inscrutable process of Life. In faith. In acceptance. In letting go. In moving on.
AVIS Viswanathan
The whole idea of love is not about falling in love and falling out of love, it is about rising in love. It is about loving, staying loving, in the present continuous tense. There is no physicality to the act of loving…there is compassion, there is understanding, there is listening, there is holding the other person up when they are falling apart. You hold their heart…this is rising in love… You see, people change, circumstances change, appearances change, physicality changes, but when the loving doesn’t change, when the love flows, you go on rising in love…
AVIS Viswanathan
Happiness is a decision. You make that decision by choosing to work consistently on – and by removing – all the factors in your Life that make you unhappy.
AVIS Viswanathan
Don’t crave for anyone’s understanding. It is futile. Plainly state your views, your preferences and move on…this is the only way to preserve your inner peace and be happy.
AVIS Viswanathan
When you don’t get what you want, it doesn’t mean there’s a conspiracy by Life to deny you what you think you deserve. This simply means that it is not time yet for you to have what you want or even that, perhaps, it isn’t meant for you at all. This perspective cannot be logically explained. Just that, such is Life. Don’t resist or question this suchness. Simply embrace it. And you will always be happy, content and peaceful with what is, with what you have!
AVIS Viswanathan
Yes, only when you embrace your fears, when you accept them, do you learn to face them, and that’s how you turn fearless. Happiness is living Life fearlessly, dangerously!
AVIS Viswanathan
Life is always giving you messages. It is constantly sending you signs. It is inviting you to follow, to be led. If you have the humility and the stillness in you to listen to Life, you will find those messages seeping into you and those signs leading you onward to where you must and will eventually arrive!
AVIS Viswanathan
Kurai Ondrum Illai!!! It is a simple, uncomplicated, place to be in, this non-complaining state...
AVIS Viswanathan
Yes, only when you embrace you fears, when you accept them, do you learn to face them, and that’s how you turn fearless. Happiness is living Life fearlessly, dangerously!
AVIS Viswanathan
When your Bliss comes calling, you have a huge responsibility: you must trust the process of Life! You have to let go of whatever you are clinging on to and go with the flow of Life. It may be scary, even unnerving, at times, but this is what makes Life fun. So, think of it as romance, celebrate its raw beauty, that sense of uncertainty…Remember, only an unscripted adventure can offer you this quality of inner peace and joy – pure and immersive!
AVIS Viswanathan
Don’t feed your insecurities, your fears, your worries. Invest your time, attention, energy and resources only in your Happiness, in what makes you truly come alive. Remember, this is the only Life you have!
AVIS Viswanathan
Never fight Life, flow with it. It will always take you to where you must arrive; it will always make you, shape you, into who you must be. Every experience you go through, interestingly, only makes you stronger, wiser and happy.
AVIS Viswanathan
I think social media and WhatsApp are extremely worthy if you use them, like everything else, intelligently. There is some (limited) good, useful, content out there, there is definitely some utility for these tools/platforms and we must stay with those in focus. There is no point in berating their intrusive and mindless nature/character. Know the beast. Tame it. Use it for its true benefits. This holds the key to your inner peace and Happiness!
AVIS Viswanathan
Don’t give anyone else the responsibility of your Life. If you do, then don’t complain about being unhappy. Not that you will not face upheavals and challenges if you own the responsibility for your actions and choices. You sure will. But at least you may have well made those decisions based on what you thought would make you happy. So, you certainly can’t complain. When you learn to be non-complaining, despite the circumstances, you eventually end up being happy!
AVIS Viswanathan
Think of the COVID-19 situation as a global, mandatory-for-everyone, Masterclass by Life on 'How to embrace uncertainty and go with the flow'! Be sure to glean your own lessons as you stay at home and as the scenario unfolds.
AVIS Viswanathan
In a way, we are all imprisoned by our beliefs, our opinions, our fears and our worries. We are therefore causing our own suffering. We are responsible for our unhappiness. Happiness truly is a decision. It is the ability to unshackle ourselves, to break free from all those people, events and things that makes us intensely unhappy. And this ability manifests itself in you when you understand that Life is intrinsically a limited-period offer and when you realize that by postponing your Happiness, you are actually squandering an opportunity of a lifetime – literally!!!
AVIS Viswanathan
Street-Cries II. The Ship of Earth Thou ship of Earth, with Death, and Birth, and Life, and Sex aboard, And fires of Desires burning hotly in the hold, I fear thee, O! I fear thee, for I hear the tongue and sword At battle on the deck, and the wild mutineers are bold! The dewdrop morn may fall from off the petal of the sky, But all the deck is wet with blood and stains the crystal red. A pilot, God, a pilot! for the helm is left awry, And the best sailors in the ship lie there among the dead! Prattville, Alabama, 1868
Sidney Lanier (Poems of Sidney Lanier)