Falling Rose Petals Quotes

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.

Mountain-rose petals Falling, falling, falling now... Waterfall music

Rose petals of a thousand shades fall from the trees as Golds fight beneath them. They're all red in the end.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I have walked into the wild to witness how falls a petal from a yellow rose silent and sudden like a moment defining time.

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.

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?

'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.'

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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!!

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.

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.

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.

Everything and everyone will be taken away from you. You will go away from everything and everyone. This is the process of Life. Trust the process.

The key to Happiness lies in learning to still the mind, learning to let go and learning to just keep walking, to just keep flowing with Life.

No matter what you are going through, spend a few minutes each day to be grateful for who you still have, and for what you still have, in your Life.

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?

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.

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.

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.

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!

Stop scratching,' Rhys said without looking at him as they strode through a blooming apple orchard. No wings to be seen today. Cassian lowered his hands from his chest. 'I can't help it if this place makes my skin crawl.' Rhys snorted, gesturing to one of the blooming trees above them, petals falling thick as snow. 'The feared general, felled by seasonal allergies. Cassian gave an unnecessarily loud sniffle, earning a full chuckle from Rhys.

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.

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.

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.

hang me/like a dead rose/preserve me/and my petals won't fall/until you touch them/and i dissolve

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;

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.

Asking yourself how you want to be remembered is a great way to decide how you want to live the rest of your Life!

There are only three ways to celebrate and savor the magic and beauty of each moment. Be grateful, be grateful, be grateful…for what you have and for all those who love you!

When you learn to flow with Life, you discover the way to just be. When you simply are, you are happy!

A crisis is a great teacher. So, learn to love your crisis. Going through it with acceptance, and a seeking spirit, you will emerge stronger, wiser and happy!

Make time for yourself every day. To pause, reflect, review and, importantly, to celebrate yourself.

You cannot be who you are without having gone through what you went through.

Every once in a while, sit down and make a list of people who have touched your Life and made a difference to you. Quietly, thank them…deeply…from the bottom of your heart. Watch yourself breaking down and crying like a baby. This is the surest way to humble yourself. And to realize just how much you owe the Universe in return for who you are, what you are and where you are today!

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!

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.

We have been conditioned to believe that prayer is all about asking a God for some thing. But what if you have nothing to ask for? What if you treat prayer as a way of being thankful to Life, for the gift of this human form, of this lifetime? What if, in prayer, you offer yourself up to divinity, as a humble, willing instrument, for Life to work through you? Try praying this way – you will find it healing, magical, beautiful and transformational!

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.

Surrendering to Life does not mean inaction. It means trusting Life’s cyclical process and going with the flow. It means making your best efforts every single day and remaining non-frustrated even when you don’t get the results that you expect.

Trust the process of Life. What has to be gone through, has to be gone through; what has to be done, has to be done. Such is Life. The key to being happy in Life is to be calm and go through the process, one step at a time, one moment at a time.

You are bound to lose any game if you play only for fame – and money. This includes the game of Life. Whatever you do, do it for love, out of love. Play following your bliss, enjoying the process, celebrating your spiritual talent, and you will always feel content and happy. Your Happiness is your true reward. It is priceless! Employ your Happiness to get better and better at the game you play, to be among the best in your field. Success and money – and often fame too – will then flow to you!

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!

It is Life’s nature to, at some point, hang you at the edge of a precipice. You will find the darkness suffocating and the pain unbearable. What do you do, when you don’t know what to do? Well, in such times, think deeply about two aspects that you don’t normally consider: 1. Your Life is a gift that has been given to you without your even asking for it. 2. There are many who don’t have what you always take for granted. So, don’t complain. Be grateful. And watch how gratitude soaks your Life in abundance!

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.

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.

Each time you start complaining about your Life, pause to consider that, precisely at this given moment, someone out there is more challenged, more deprived and more unloved than you are. You will then miraculously witness your urge to complain quietly melting away!

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!

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!

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...!

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!

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!

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.

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

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.

Denial is often seen as an aggressive state; it need not be…often you deny subtly, pushing away (under the carpet) what you don’t want to see. And when you finally accept what you have been denying, you realize you have squandered so much precious time. Must you, really, do it that way? On the other hand, accepting what is, always, unfailingly, leads you to Happiness.

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.

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

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.

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.

The process of Life is to make us, break us, and to remake us. From birth to death, this process endures ceaselessly. Our lived experiences then are integral to how we are shaped – to how we are remade each time that we are broken. We emerge stronger, calmer, content and happy from each upheaval that we go through. That’s how we awaken to the sublime realization that the journey is indeed the only reward.

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…

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.

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!

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!

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

No matter what you are going through, the process of Life is beautiful. It may be challenging, painful and, at times, agonizingly slow. Or it may flow freely, generously, bringing you all that you want. But, unfailingly, Life never ceases to amaze or surprise. It is this inscrutable quality of Life that makes the process beautiful. When you accept the process of Life for what it is, for the way it is, unquestioningly, you see its beauty. That’s how you learn to be happy despite the circumstances.

No matter how talented and successful you are, you have to go through what you have to go through. So learn to accept pain and be happy despite the circumstances. Be happy with what you have. Also, learn to appreciate the impermanence of everything: Of Life itself surely. Also, of name, fame, wealth, success and glory. And of failure too. Focus instead on what you love doing and do it very, very well. Simply, if you create great, unputdownable work, both you and your work will be remembered. Forever.

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!

Slowly, very slowly, that is how you learn to cope with trauma, grief and pain. It always seems to be a never-ending process. The coping doesn’t quite cease; it always appears to be in the present continuous. Then, over time, when you begin to accept the pain and see the pointlessness of grieving endlessly, you slowly learn to move on. Your Life will never be the way it once was. But you will slowly learn to co-live with the pain while setting down the grief. You will slowly, eventually, learn to be happy despite what happened and despite the circumstances.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

The age was the Elizabethan; their morals were not ours; nor their poets; nor their climate; nor their vegetables even. Everything was different. 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. The moment is brief they sang; the moment is over; one long night is then to be slept by all. As for using the artifices of the greenhouse or conservatory to prolong or preserve these fresh pinks and roses, that was not their way. The withered intricacies and ambiguities of our more gradual and doubtful age were unknown to them. Violence was all. The flower bloomed and faded. The sun rose and sank. The lover loved and went. And what the poets said in rhyme, the young translated into practice. Girls were roses, and their seasons were short as the flowers. Plucked they must be before nightfall; for the day was brief and the day was all.

Sitting under a tree, I studied my options. The fall flowers were in full bloom: verbena, goldenrod, chrysanthemum, and a late-blooming rose. The carefully tended city beds around the park held layers of textured evergreen but little color. I set to work, considering height, density, texture, and layers of scent, removing touch-damaged petals with careful pinches. When I had finished, spiraling white mums emerged from a cushion of snow-colored verbena, and clusters of pale climbing roses circled and dripped over the edge of a tightly wrapped nosegay. I removed every thorn. The bouquet was white as a wedding and spoke of prayers, truth, and an unacquainted heart.

In your moments of solitude, when self-doubt, worry, anxiety and fear creep in, dive deep into what you love doing. This could be music, painting, gardening, reading, cooking…whatever…do whatever that makes you forget this world, that makes you forget your pain…surely, there is something that makes you forget who you are. Simply, go do it. When you do this, you will realize how you magically heal, how all your stresses and insecurities vanish. This is why Bliss is so powerful. This is why following your Bliss is so profitable. It helps you live in this world, inevitably trapped in the pulls and pressures of everyday existence, and yet be above all of it, thriving, living happily despite the circumstances.

Everyone has a reason for saying or doing what they do. So, don’t judge people without knowing their story. You don’t have to agree with them at all, but don’t judge them, don’t label them. Let them just be. If they interfere in your Life, draw a line and tell them to step back. But, again, don’t black list them just because they differ with you. When we judge people we agonize more than them – because we are cooking in our views of them. They continue to be who they are – because they believe what they are saying or doing is right, that it is justified. So, why invite suffering in your Life by giving them so much importance? You stay focused on your inner peace. Don’t let anyone disturb it – not even your views of others!

Most of what we think will make us happy never really gives us lasting Happiness. Material things, rewards, fame, recognition, money and having a circle of ‘yes’ folks (those who are hanging around you only because they believe they can benefit from you)…these can all make you happy, but only momentarily. They only give you fleeting moments of Happiness. Too much of these, in fact, can leave you feeling drained or suffocated or incomplete. That’s when you start searching for true Happiness. And true Happiness lies only in celebrating what is, in the now. You find it by dropping all your craving, the wants, the desires. It lies in living each moment fully, in gratitude for what you have, with people who complete you, who make you come alive!

This, I have consistently experienced in Life – that no matter how grave the circumstances are, it is not over, to use a cricketing term, until the last ball is bowled! So, even if it seems like a dead-end, a no-go situation, celebrate being alive. It may be dark all around you, there may be no light visible at the far end, everyone, and everything, may appear to be going against you…but do not give up yet. The only evidence that things will turnaround is that you are still alive. And that is a huge, huge, blessing! For, if you still have the gift of this lifetime, then anything is possible! So, bow your head down in complete surrender, in eternal gratitude and give in to Life, just flow with it! This is how you last through a numbing crisis!

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!

Every Life experience is teaching you a lesson. It is likely you may not see the experience as an opportunity to learn – not when you are going through it. But your experiences are always shaping you, teaching you; they are helping you understand who you really are and what your true potential is. So, don’t hate what you are going through if you are currently dealing with something that you didn’t bargain for or didn’t want in your Life. Just step back, climb onto the fly-on-the-wall position, and observe your Life. You will then notice unmistakable teachable, learnable, points of view embedded in your experience. To take them or leave them – well, that’s your personal choice! One thing’s for sure though, you will be a lot more at peace – and happy – when you learn from your experiences!

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…

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!

Like drops of water that fall on the rocks of the jungle, the silence is full of tenderness. Whisper softly my poetry unraveling your admiration. In the name of night. Everything I see is simplicity in your beautiful body Like an incandescent light that dispels the darkness Then it bounced on the rose petals in the dim moonlight. Blushing reconciles the anxiety of the soul Comforting a sore heart Your beauty is a flower that unites to dazzle the majesty of the universe. Ahhh love... Your beauty is like a waterfall from the height of a cliff that is so sensual, showing the magic of a perfect panorama. How seductive and alluring is your soft skin..... As gentle as the twilight wind blew the dandelions scattered under the night sky. As soft as a lump of cotton that lay white on the heart rug. As gentle as the caress of the night breeze, flaking your shiny black hair. Ahhh. Let my breath rest for a moment Here, Between two seas of wine flowing red I find on your lips. How beautiful is love When the stalks of a kiss fall lying down Tickling spoiled and whispering intimately about the love that is heaven behind your ear with a warm whisper blowing slowly And Slowly... caressing your face in a long soft moan Lull a thousand touches and then cast your body into a pleasure that you have not found. In the name of my chest. Let our restless tantrums grapple in the flames of burning love. Until our passion quells the passion, Wet and subside. ️

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.

Lifting his head, Quincel de Morhban looked at me with something like awe. “It’s true,” he whispered. “What they say … Kushiel’s Dart. It’s all true.” “Yes, my lord,” I murmured; if he’d told me the moon was locked in his stables, I’d have said the same, at that moment. De Morhban released me, turning away to pluck a great silvery rose, mindful of its thorns. “You see this?” he asked, placing it in my hand and folding my fingers about the stem. “It exists nowhere else. My Namarrese-gardener bred it. Naamah’s Star, he calls it.” His hand was still around mine; he closed it, tightening my clutch on the stem. Thorns pierced my skin and I gasped, my bones turning to water. The silvery rose blossomed between us, fragrant in the torchlit night air, while blood ran, drop by slow drop, from my fist. De Morhban’s gaze held me pinioned, his body close, rigid phallus pressed against my belly. He released my hand and I sank to my knees, divining his desire, unfastening his breeches, the rose falling forgotten as I took him in my hand, his hard-veined and throbbing phallus, slick with my own warm blood, and then into my mouth. All around us his unlikely garden opened onto the night as I performed the languisement until he drew away at the end, spending himself on me, in the garden, drops of milky fluid lying on my skin, on the dark leaves and silken petals, pearlescent and salty. He groaned with pleasure, then gazed down at me, freeing my hair from the caul with a harsh twist, so that it cascaded about my shoulders and down my back. “Dinner,” he said, catching his breath. “And then I will show you my pleasure-chamber, little anguissette.

Not liking to think of him so, and wondering if they had guessed at dinner why he suddenly became irritable when they talked about fame and books lasting, wondering if the children were laughing at that, she twitched the stockings out, and all the fine gravings came drawn with steel instruments about her lips and forehead, and she grew still like a tree which has been tossing and quivering and now, when the breeze falls, settles, leaf by leaf, into quiet. It didn't matter, any of it, she thought. A great man, a great book, fame—who could tell? She knew nothing about it. But it was his way with him, his truthfulness—for instance at dinner she had been thinking quite instinctively, If only he would speak! She had complete trust in him. And dismissing all this, as one passes in diving now a weed, now a straw, now a bubble, she felt again, sinking deeper, as she had felt in the hall when the others were talking, There is something I want—something I have come to get, and she fell deeper and deeper without knowing quite what it was, with her eyes closed. And she waited a little, knitting, wondering, and slowly rose those words they had said at dinner, "the China rose is all abloom and buzzing with the honey bee," began washing from side to side of her mind rhythmically, and as they washed, words, like little shaded lights, one red, one blue, one yellow, lit up in the dark of her mind, and seemed leaving their perches up there to fly across and across, or to cry out and to be echoed; so she turned and felt on the table beside her for a book. And all the lives we ever lived And all the lives to be, Are full of trees and changing leaves, she murmured, sticking her needles into the stocking. And she opened the book and began reading here and there at random, and as she did so, she felt that she was climbing backwards, upwards, shoving her way up under petals that curved over her, so that she only knew this is white, or this is red. She did not know at first what the words meant at all. Steer, hither steer your winged pines, all beaten Mariners she read and turned the page, swinging herself, zigzagging this way and that, from one line to another as from one branch to another, from one red and white flower to another, until a little sound roused her—her husband slapping his thighs. Their eyes met for a second; but they did not want to speak to each other. They had nothing to say, but something seemed, nevertheless, to go from him to her. It was the life, it was the power of it, it was the tremendous humour, she knew, that made him slap his thighs. Don't interrupt me, he seemed to be saying, don't say anything; just sit there. And he went on reading. His lips twitched. It filled him. It fortified him. He clean forgot all the little rubs and digs of the evening, and how it bored him unutterably to sit still while people ate and drank interminably, and his being so irritable with his wife and so touchy and minding when they passed his books over as if they didn't exist at all. But now, he felt, it didn't matter a damn who reached Z (if thought ran like an alphabet from A to Z). Somebody would reach it—if not he, then another. This man's strength and sanity, his feeling for straight forward simple things, these fishermen, the poor old crazed creature in Mucklebackit's cottage made him feel so vigorous, so relieved of something that he felt roused and triumphant and could not choke back his tears. Raising the book a little to hide his face, he let them fall and shook his head from side to side and forgot himself completely (but not one or two reflections about morality and French novels and English novels and Scott's hands being tied but his view perhaps being as true as the other view), forgot his own bothers and failures completely in poor Steenie's drowning and Mucklebackit's sorrow (that was Scott at his best) and the astonishing delight and feeling of vigour that it gave him.