Fencing Inspirational Quotes

Don't ever take a fence down until you know why it was put up.

Success is determined not by whether or not you face obstacles, but by your reaction to them. And if you look at these obstacles as a containing fence, they become your excuse for failure. If you look at them as a hurdle, each one strengthens you for the next.

And if these mountains had eyes, they would wake to find two strangers in their fences, standing in admiration as a breathing red pours its tinge upon earth's shore. These mountains, which have seen untold sunrises, long to thunder praise but stand reverent, silent so that man's weak praise should be given God's attention.

Beyond the picket fences and the oil wells, the happy endings, and the fairy tales, is the reality of shattered lives and broken dreams. We carry on.

Closing the gate on her oldest fears as she had closed the gate of her own fenced yard, she discovered the wings she'd always wished she had.

The wondrous moment of our meeting... Still I remember you appear Before me like a vision fleeting, A beauty's angel pure and clear. In hopeless ennui surrounding The worldly bustle, to my ear For long your tender voice kept sounding, For long in dreams came features dear. Time passed. Unruly storms confounded Old dreams, and I from year to year Forgot how tender you had sounded, Your heavenly features once so dear. My backwoods days dragged slow and quiet -- Dull fence around, dark vault above -- Devoid of God and uninspired, Devoid of tears, of fire, of love. Sleep from my soul began retreating, And here you once again appear Before me like a vision fleeting, A beauty's angel pure and clear. In ecstasy my heart is beating, Old joys for it anew revive; Inspired and God-filled, it is greeting The fire, and tears, and love alive.

When we shut people out, we wall ourselves in;When we stop building bridges, we start erecting fences.

Your daddy is standing in a swimming pool out a little bit from the edge. You are, let’s say, three years old and standing on the edge of the pool. Daddy holds out his arms to you and says, “Jump, I’ll catch you. I promise.” Now, how do you make your daddy look good at that moment? Answer: trust him and jump. Have faith in him and jump. That makes him look strong and wise and loving. But if you won’t jump, if you shake your head and run away from the edge, you make your daddy look bad. It looks like you are saying, “he can’t catch me” or “he won’t catch me” or “it’s not a good idea to do what he tells me to do.” And all three of those make your dad look bad. But you don’t want to make God look bad. So you trust him. Then you make him look good–which he really is. And that is what we mean when we say, “Faith glorifies God” or “Faith gives God glory.” It makes him look as good as he really is. So trusting God is really important. And the harder it seems for him to fulfill his promise, the better he looks when you trust him. Suppose that you are at the deep end of a pool by the diving board. You are four years old and can’t swim, and your daddy is at the other end of the pool. Suddenly a big, mean dog crawls under the fence and shows his teeth and growls at you and starts coming toward you to bite you. You crawl up on the diving board and walk toward the end to get away from him. The dog puts his front paws up on the diving board. Just then, your daddy sees what’s happening and calls out, “Johnny, jump in the water. I’ll get you.” Now, you have never jumped from one meter high and you can’t swim and your daddy is not underneath you and this water is way over your head. How do you make your daddy look good in that moment? You jump. And almost as soon as you hit the water, you feel his hands under your arms and he treads water holding you safely while someone chases the dog away. Then he takes you to the side of the pool. We give glory to God when we trust him to do what he has promised to do–especially when all human possibilities are exhausted. Faith glorifies God. That is why God planned for faith to be the way we are justified.

We can't choose the family we were born into. But we can choose our actions. We all want to take care of the people we are closest to, those sitting at our table. But is there a world in which those who are blessed with more might build a larger table rather than building a higher fence?

In 1965, a psychologist named Martin Seligman started shocking dogs. He was trying to expand on the research of Pavlov--the guy who could make dogs salivate when they heard a bell ring. Seligman wanted to head in the other direction, and when he rang his bell, instead of providing food, he zapped the dogs with electricity. To keep them still, he restrained them in a harness during the experiment. After they were conditioned, he put these dogs in a big box with a little fence dividing it into two halves. He figured if the dog rang the bell, it would hop over the fence to escape, but it didn't. It just sat there and braced itself. They decided to try shocking the dog after the bell. The dog still just sat there and took it. When they put a dog in the box that had never been shocked before or had previously been allowed to escape and tried to zap it--it jumped the fence. You are just like these dogs. If, over the course of your life, you have experienced crushing defeat or pummeling abuse or loss of control, you convince yourself over time that there is no escape, and if escape is offered, you will not act--you become a nihilist who trusts futility above optimism. Studies of the clinically depressed show that they often give in to defeat and stop trying. . . Any extended period of negative emotions can lead to you giving in to despair and accepting your fate. If you remain alone for a long time, you will decide loneliness is a fact of life and pass up opportunities to hang out with people. The loss of control in any situation can lead to this state. . . Choices, even small ones, can hold back the crushing weight of helplessness, but you can't stop there. You must fight back your behavior and learn to fail with pride. Failing often is the only way to ever get the things you want out of life. Besides death, your destiny is not inescapable.

Lights flash and we'll run for the fences Let them say what they want we won't hear it

We always have reason to rejoice and never have reason to complain.

Staying on the fence is safe ... until someone shoots you off!

The King and Queen did the best they could. They hired the most superior tutors and governesses to teach Cimorene all the things a princess ought to know— dancing, embroidery, drawing, and etiquette. There was a great deal of etiquette, from the proper way to curtsy before a visiting prince to how loudly it was permissible to scream when being carried off by a giant. (...) Cimorene found it all very dull, but she pressed her lips together and learned it anyway. When she couldn’t stand it any longer, she would go down to the castle armory and bully the armsmaster into giving her a fencing lesson. As she got older, she found her regular lessons more and more boring. Consequently, the fencing lessons became more and more frequent. When she was twelve, her father found out. “Fencing is not proper behavior for a princess,” he told her in the gentle-but-firm tone recommended by the court philosopher. Cimorene tilted her head to one side. “Why not?” “It’s ... well, it’s simply not done.” Cimorene considered. “Aren’t I a princess?” “Yes, of course you are, my dear,” said her father with relief. He had been bracing himself for a storm of tears, which was the way his other daughters reacted to reprimands. “Well, I fence,” Cimorene said with the air of one delivering an unshakable argument. “So it is too done by a princess.

When you look at it that way, you can see how absurd it is that we individualize ourselves with our fences and hoarded possessions.

No wizard has ever made himself useful by magic, or, if they've tried, they've only made matters worse. No wizard ever stopped a war or mended a fence. It's better that they stay in their marshes, out of the way of worldly folk like farmers and soldiers and merchants and kings.

Believe it or not, the notions of free will and destiny are not mutually exclusive. Predestination is the universal framework of limits (based on natural physical laws) placed upon us. Free will is our infinite ability to make choices within that framework. Because the universal scale is so great—and most of it constitutes an undiscovered frontier—our choices are only limited by our knowledge, our abilities, and our imagination. To put it simply, the world is such a huge playground sandbox that we will never run out of sand or reach the faraway safety fence of destiny. So go out there and play!

I am so happy migrating birds and animals do not have visa issues and fences in the sky to halt their efforts to survive, but humans with their mindful consciousness do actually build walls around themselves.

What is the savior of the world doing among these wire fences, in all this broken glass?

I believe in you my soul, the other I am must not abase itself to you, And you must not be abased to the other. Loaf with me on the grass, loose the stop from your throat, Not words, not music or rhyme I want, not custom or lecture, not even the best, Only the lull I like, the hum of your valved voice. I mind how once we lay such a transparent summer morning, How you settled your head athwart my hips, and gently turned over upon me, And parted the shirt from my bosom bone, and plunged your tongue to my bare-stripped heart, And reached till you felt my beard, and reached till you held my feet. Swiftly arose and spread around me the peace and knowledge that pass all the argument of the earth, And I know that the hand of God is the promise of my own, And I know that the spirit of God is the brother of my own, And that all the men ever born are also my brothers, and the women my sisters and lovers, And that a kelson of the creation is love, And limitless are leaves stiff or drooping in the fields, And brown ants in the little wells beneath them, And mossy scabs of the worm fence, heaped stones, elder, mullein and pokeweed.

The assault on our constitutional order was inspired by people wearing suits and ties and cloaked in the genteel language of congressional debate, but their purpose was no less ominous. We can fortify the defenses of the Capitol. We can reinforce the doors and put up fences. But we cannot guard our democracy against those who walk the halls of Congress, have taken an oath to uphold our Constitution, but refuse to do so.

When we find the courage to face our pain, it always helps heal others, as well as ourselves”.

Fences and borders make prisoners of us all.

It is hard to cry when my eyes are closed shut by the barbed wire fence of my eyelashes as they prohibit tears from falling.

Anyone can nurture of myth about their life if they have enough manure, so if the grass looks greener on the other side of the fence, that's probably because it's full of shit.

Its not greener on the other side of the fence, its just a different shade of brown over there. Be happy with who you are and where you are in life.

Wise are those who have seen life from both sides of the fence.

Now I was pretty good at playing Rodeo. I'd been doing it for years. But he was a tricky bird to play. You could say that learning to play Rodeo was like learning to play a guitar, if the guitar had thirteen strings instead of six and three of them were out of tune and two of them were yarn and one of them was wired to an electric fence. He's a handful, is what I'm saying.

Clementine stopped herself from rushing forward to stop him from toppling off the fence rail. Boys seemed to have their own magical powers when it came to posing about in precarious positions.

An artist must regulate his life. Here is a time-table of my daily acts. I rise at 7.18; am inspired from 10.23 to 11.47. I lunch at 12.11 and leave the table at 12.14. A healthy ride on horse-back round my domain follows from 1.19 pm to 2.53 pm. Another bout of inspiration from 3.12 to 4.7 pm. From 5 to 6.47 pm various occupations (fencing, reflection, immobility, visits, contemplation, dexterity, natation, etc.) Dinner is served at 7.16 and finished at 7.20 pm. From 8.9 to 9.59 pm symphonic readings (out loud). I go to bed regularly at 10.37 pm. Once a week (on Tuesdays) I awake with a start at 3.14 am. My only nourishment consists of food that is white: eggs, sugar, shredded bones, the fat of dead animals, veal, salt, coco-nuts, chicken cooked in white water, mouldy fruit, rice, turnips, sausages in camphor, pastry, cheese (white varieties), cotton salad, and certain kinds of fish (without their skin). I boil my wine and drink it cold mixed with the juice of the Fuschia. I have a good appetite but never talk when eating for fear of strangling myself. I breathe carefully (a little at a time) and dance very rarely. When walking I hold my ribs and look steadily behind me. My expression is very serious; when I laugh it is unintentional, and I always apologise very politely. I sleep with only one eye closed, very profoundly. My bed is round with a hole in it for my head to go through. Every hour a servant takes my temperature and gives me another.

If you are free, you're going to scare them. In the same way light scares bats or how a chained animal grown so accustomed to its cage, would refuse an opened fence. That's how you'll scare them: with an open mind, a brave voice, the stare of a bear! You'll scare them every time you belly-laugh and every time you look a man eye-to-eye as an equal. You'll scare them when they see your thighs and when you choose your own religion. You'll scare them. Because it's birds who fly free that terrify the ones in cages.

Sawyer Effect: A weird behavioral alchemy inspired by the scene in The Adventures of Tom Sawyer in which Tom and friends whitewash Aunt Polly’s fence. This effect has two aspects. The negative: Rewards can turn play into work. The positive: Focusing on mastery can turn work into play.

Since the late 1840s settlers used close-planted Osage orange trees along the borders of their farms, creating, as the thorny wood filled in over some years of trimming, a living fence “horse-high, bull-strong and hog-tight.” It was barbed wire in the days before barbed wire was invented.

Damask roses and white picket fences, a childhood ripe with an array of senses. Forest black against starry skies, Pink clouds dusting an early sunrise. Hundreds of days slipping through hourglass years. The sands of adolescence fading with solemn tears. Oceans of certainty ebbing away, Lessons learned regardless of one's place.

In high school I developed a habit of wandering through shopping malls after school, swaying through the bright, chill mezzanines until I was so dazed with consumer goods and product codes, with promenades and escalators, with mirrors and Muzak and noise and light, that a fuse would blow in my brain and all at once everything would become unintelligible: color without form, a babble of detached molecules. Then I would walk like a zombie to the parking lot and drive to the baseball field, where I wouldn't even get out of the car, just sit with my hands on the steering wheel and stare at the Cyclone fence and the yellowed winter grass until the sun went down and it was too dark for me to see.

Thank you for this. This is something else that I was thinking that you finally put into words. There are so many good points that I have made and rants I worked my ASS off making and they were just left on the side of the road like roadkill and blatantly ignored. I'm sick of that. When you misgender poor Ansel who was just here living their life and really didnt ask to be objectified, that was the final straw. I'm still on the fence about leaving since I don't want it to be completely final, and I want to defend myself if I can. But I hope you all realized the harm in what you have said. Sure, we can debate about LGBTQ+, and your position means that we may never be friends, but still. RESPECT my friends.

Blind obedience to books, whether it is the Bible, the Quran, the Vedas or any other, has erected more and more walls in this world - and to defend those walls, even more fences on both sides. Now the real question is, how much more time will humanity take to realize the obvious devastation that these disgusting walls of segregation have brought along and keep on bringing along in this world!

Walking under Dusk, Moonlit leaf shadows were cast on my skin from the trees above, every step I took was taking a step deeper into magic. Silent whispers of mystical mouthes pulling me in deeper. Then the lights from inside the house turned on. A few seconds later, the fence lights went on. Just like that, the leafy ghosts on my skin ran away and the faery voices ran home. It seems like the creations of man kill magic in so many ways— even the light bulb does this! Oh to be a race of people designing magical things, if someone could capture pieces of Moonlight and place it in a jar; or other things like that, then we could stop killing the magic and be filled with it instead. Or maybe we are already always filled with it. It's the bringing out that we have trouble with. Stop being a doorknob, darling! Be magical, instead!

At a certain age, I come to understand all roads led to my vagina. I have no idea why this is the case. It’s subconsciously, telepathically, and consciously added to my diet as a chastity pill. The energy of the chastity pill follows me wherever I go, like an invisible dog fence. I suppose in Arabic this would be known as the anti-sharmoota pill, which seeks to protect you from natural urges of prostituting yourself. Remember, sharmoota has several meanings – it’s a one-stop shop term that aims to degrade a female or male, but mainly a woman.

For instance, when it came to developing his art of jeet kune do, he delved not just into standard martial arts for inspiration and information; he looked at Western boxing, fencing, biomechanics, and philosophy. He admired the simplicity of boxing, incorporating its ideas into his footwork and his upper-body tools (jab, cross, hook, bob, weave, etc.). And from fencing, he began by looking at the footwork, range, and timing of the stop hit and the riposte, both techniques that meet attacks and defenses with preemptive moves. From biomechanics, he studied movement as a whole,

when Atlantic Monthly published one of Thoreau’s essays, called “Walking.” At present, in this vicinity, the best part of the land is not private property; the landscape is not owned, and the walker enjoys comparative freedom. But possibly the day will come when it will be partitioned off into so-called pleasure-grounds, in which a few will take a narrow and exclusive pleasure only, when fences shall be multiplied, and mantraps and other engines invented to confine men to the public road, and walking over the surface of God’s earth shall be construed to mean trespassing on some gentleman’s grounds. To enjoy a thing exclusively is commonly to exclude yourself from the true enjoyment of it. Let us improve our opportunities, then, before the evil days are upon us. Anthropologists estimate that early man walked twenty miles a day. Mental and physical benefits have been attributed to walking as far back as ancient times. The Roman writer Pliny the Elder (23–79 AD) described walking as one of the “Medicines of the Will.” Hippocrates, the Greek physician, called walking “man’s best medicine” and prescribed walks to treat emotional problems, hallucinations, and digestive disorders.

The days became for Christina endless preparation. Ceaseless winds tore through her massing battle ranks, the grey cold sun above marking the timeless date. With skies of blue and cloud overhead, driving, uncompromising time stood still, lingering, as if giving Christina precious eons to perfect her shaving straight razor cuts of mind and sword. She worked alone now, forging the essence of herself in the policies and ways of hammer and anvil, pounding away with the classic, living Japanese blade. Her deft hands spun dervishly, wroughting out the iron of her will, fashioning a blade-mind remade unto her. --Brickley, The Lady and the Samurai

While engaged in automatic writing I strain to create a protective personal haven, ferret out a padded cell where I can rapturously hold court with the voltaic cells of the self. I labor in solitary, transfixed in a suspended state of consciousness. Freewheeling writing creates a bridgeworks to the situs where hidden gems of insight and candid genuineness wait to be unsheathed by the penetrating beam of a reflective mind trolling for inspirational insight. Probing putative desires while contemporaneously fencing with a barrage of suppressed insecurities, requires piercing protective layers of denial and traveling with teratological demons to confront the monstrous self-destructive gene lodged in the deepest recesses of a confused psyche.

You really are sort of a basic person, aren’t you, except for that blue stratospheric veneer of crust you wrap yourself around. I was going to ask you, with your usual never-ending broadside complaints of lack and wearisome bushwa ‘nonsensical’ humdrum excuses, just exactly what kind of person are you? You must have had it easy growing up. Now, as per your habit, tonight when you hit the hay, percle on this: There are 7even basic types of people—: 1. People who make things happen. 2. People who talk about making things happen. 3. People who start to make things happen but never finish. 4. People who watch things happen. 5. People who wonder what just happened. 6. People who don’t have the faintest idea that anything happened. 7. People who need a stout “clue-by-four” of hickory smacked up alongside their head to make them happen. — As for an eighth— —Which one are you? Puzȥle it out. . . . -- Thomas Kannon, Instructor to Brickley. The Lady and the Samurai

Prayer is one of the few spiritual practices that is pointless unless God is real. Meditation calms the body whether or not there's a spiritual being receiving our deliberate breathing and clear mind. Reading sacred texts aligns us with the wisdom of our ancestors whether or not it was divinely inspired. Church attendance connects us to the needs of our community. Fasting cleanses the body of toxic substances. Resting on Sundays allows us to let go of stress and worry. But prayer? Taking time to pour out our needs and our anxieties, demanding change, confessing sin, crying out for help - all of these things depend upon the existence of God, and specifically the existence of a God who hears and responds to our cries. Prayer in the face of insurmountable problems is an admission of weakness and need. Prayer is a commitment to a better future, a sign of faith that the world will one day be made right. Prayer is an act that emerges out of helplessness. Prayer is an act of hope.

A reply dated 13 May finally arrived from the town clerk. Mr Mottershead could open the zoo subject to: 1) the type of animals being limited to those already described in previous correspondence; 2) the estate should not be used as an amusement park, racing track or public dance hall; and 3) no animals were to be kept within a distance of a hundred feet from the existing road. This necessitated the purchase of an additional strip of land between the road and the estate, which would have to be securely enclosed, but which couldn't be used for animals. (First it was used as a children's playground and later became a self-service cafe.) Somehow my dad managed to get a further mortgage of £350 to pay for the land and fencing. Of all the conditions, the most damaging in the long term was the last: the zoo was allowed 'no advertisement, sign or noticeboard which can be seen from the road above-mentioned'. Only a small sign at the entrance to the estate would be permitted, which meant the lodge, which was a good twenty-five yards from the road was completely invisible to any passing car. This would remain a problem for a very long time. For many years, the night before bank holidays, Dad and his friends would have to go out and hang temporary posters under the official road signs on the Chester bypass. The police turned a blind eye as long as they were taken down shortly afterwards.

Dear, What’s the Point of it All? What is the point of being nice? When you do not know what you are going to get from it? Knowing eventually sooner rather than later someone and maybe that person you are being nice to will turn their back on you. I always have to stay grounded and focused. When I am there for people, I feel like I am always punished for it. I am always treated as if I committed a crime. I was there for my mom; however, she was killing me slowly but surely. Like my mom, I noticed that when people get themselves in some shit, they get stuck in their own mess. They are confident that they do not have to deal with the consequences—because they know the ‘kind’ person will bail them out. What’s the point of being kind? Like my mom and the officer, there are so many people in the world who are judgmental and tainted because of their selfish needs. What’s the point of my life? Here I am in a library filled with many books. I can read them and go anywhere I want to in my mind, but after I close the book, I will have to snap out of my fantasy world and welcome the cruel cold world, which is reality. If I was a book, I would be better off left on the shelf. There is no excitement in my life—only struggles. What’s the point of living and loving life when the only thing I do is read between the lines and tread carefully? Come to think about it, I am a book that nobody can understand or read. They think they know what is best for me, but if they only take the time to listen, I would be so happy to tell them about me and my needs and wants. My actions scream for attention, but time after time, I am ignored. Sadly, without a care, they were quick to rip out the pages. Yet, once again, nobody noticed me. What’s the point of it all when I never had an opportunity to make a mistake? If I did one thing wrong, they would give up on me and send me to one home after another. I’ve always been fully exposed and had to walk in a line filled with sharp curves from disappointment to disappointment. Sorrow is my aura, and sadness hugs me tightly. It is hard to cry when my eyes are closed shut by the barbed wire fence of my eyelashes as they prohibit tears from falling. What’s the point of complicating my life? I am always back to where I started, and then ... I relive the same patterns, but on a more difficult journey. I believe when you put yourself in your own mess that you should clean it up and start over. What’s wrong with that? Nothing. However, when someone else puts you in their mess, you do not know how to clean up the mess they’ve made. You do not know how to start over because you do not know where to begin. I look at it this way; it is like telling a dead person he/she can start over. How so, when that person’s life no longer exists? I know my life isn’t over. However, I am lost in a maze my mom set up for herself—and she too is lost in her own maze. When a person gets lost in their own maze, they are really fucked up. However, this maze shouldn’t be left for me to figure out. Unfortunately, I am in it, and I have to find my way out one way or another. What’s the point of taking Kace from me? He was safe and in good hands. Now he is worse off with people who are abusing him. He didn’t ask for this—I didn’t either. He deserves so much better. Again, what is the point of it all? What’s the point of making me suffer? Do you get a kick out of it? What are you trying to accomplish? I am trying to understand; what is the point of it all? What is the point? I don’t know why I am here.

I heard a delightful—and possibly apocryphal—story about what happened when the British introduced golf to India in the 1820s. Upon building the first golf course there, the Royal Calcutta, the British discovered a problem: Indigenous monkeys were intrigued by the little white balls and would swoop down out of the trees and onto the fairways, picking them up and carrying them off. This was a disruption, to say the least. In response, officials tried erecting fences to keep the monkeys out, but the monkeys climbed right over. They tried capturing and relocating the monkeys, but the monkeys kept coming back. They tried loud noises to scare them away. Nothing worked. In the end, they arrived at a solution: They added a new rule to the game—“Play the ball where the monkey drops it.

Don’t continue to straddle the fence. Commit your total effort and energy to Christ. The wholeheartedly committed Christian is the truly happy Christian. In Philippians 1:21 we read: “To me, to live is Christ and to die is gain.” When we lose sight of who God is and forget to give Him honor, anxiety sets into our lives and day-to-day living doesn’t make sense. When we make our goal the pursuit of things and we take our eyes off Jesus, we invariably will be disappointed in our journeys. God does not fail us. He gives us moderation and balance and direction and purpose. A full life. As I’ve mentioned, one of our family’s favorite verses is Matthew 6:33: “Seek first his kingdom and his righteousness and all these things will be given to you as well.” Yes, this is the ultimate anxiety breaker—seek first His kingdom. Bob and I use this as our test for doing anything in life. When we face a decision, we ask ourselves if we are truly seeking His kingdom first, or are we seeking to build our vision of success and value? In John 16:33 we read: “These things I have spoken to you, so that in Me you may have peace. In the world you have tribulation, but take courage; I have overcome the world” (NASB). God has promised us peace, but many of us choose anxiety instead. We will never be the women God wants us to be until we heed His call—“Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest” (Matthew 11:28). Prayer: Father God, take my eyes off the things of the world. I realize that life is more than things. I know that they don’t give my life purpose and meaning. I want to focus on serving You all of my existing days. Give me the power and conviction to follow Your ways. Amen.   Action: Analyze what is making you anxious. What are you going to do about it? Physically write out on a piece of paper what these anxieties are and what you will do to change each into peace. Today’s Wisdom: Anxiety is the natural result when our hopes are centered in anything short of God and His will for us. —BILLY GRAHAM

Felke realized that prescribing herbal teas, homeopathic remedies, diet and water applications was not sufficient. Inspired by the examples of Rikli and Just, he envisioned a therapeutic setting close to nature where patients could escape their accustomed environments and enjoy the benefits of light, air, sun and healthful food. Surprisingly, the residents of the small rural town of Repelen immediately warmed to their new pastor's idea. A delegation undertook the arduous and costly journey to the Hartz mountains to inspect Just's Jungborn. This visit resulted in the formation of the Repelen Jungborn Society, Ltd., with eighty-one associates, mostly members of a local homeopathic lay society. With a capital of 50,000 goldmark, quite a high sum, the group purchased sixty acres of land, which included a forested area and a dead channel of the Rhine abounding in fish. Two large light and air parks, one for women and the other for men, were created and surrounded with high wooden fences. Naked patients took light, air, water and loam baths and engaged in gymnastics twice a day. Felke himself often directed the male patients. Inside the two parks approximately 50 air huts with two or four rooms each were erected. To guarantee maximum access to fresh air they had no doors or windows, only curtains for privacy. An open wooden hall in the center of the park was used for walking during the day, for gymnastics during bad weather and for sleeping on straw mats at night. In the beginning the spa offered friction sitz baths in flat zinc tubs as the only cold water application. Felke also took up Just's earth-and-sand bath, but it was not until he introduced the loam bath in 1912 that he gained fame as the "loam pastor.

I had a beautiful dream the other day. I was coming home from work and you were standing behind white picket fence trimming roses. You were dressed up all in white. We saw each other from afar and smiled. We kissed, got inside our home where our two beautiful children were playing and waiting for us. We all hugged and I kissed your belly because that’s where our third child was. You were pregnant. Than all got blurry and white... I was awake. I was sad because my dream has ended but I was happy at the same time because that was the most beautiful and purest dream I have ever had.

We live in a world where our dreams are blocked by those invisible fences we carry in our mind. The only way you can succeed is to get rid of those invisible fences that are holding you back from achieving your dreams.

I want to become the favorite song of my own uprising. I want to see the most forgotten, unused part of my soul the one which for years I kept closed out of spite, find the courage to go up to my mind and start writing liberation slogans across its highest fences.

Fences can be prisons, in a way. They're necessary for those incapable of learning restraint, but they diminish life.

The names of your informers, what backstabbing campaigns you’re embarking on, where you store your guns, your drugs, your money, the location of your hideout, the interchangeable lists of your friends and enemies, your contacts, the fences, your escape plans—all things you need to keep to yourself, and you will reveal every one if you are in love. Love is the Ultimate Informer because of the conviction it inspires that your love is eternal and immutable—you can no more imagine the end of your love than you can imagine the end of your own head. And because love is nothing without intimacy, and intimacy is nothing without sharing, and sharing is nothing without honesty, you must inevitably spill the beans, every last bean, because dishonesty in intimacy is unworkable and will slowly poison your precious love. When it ends—and it will end (even the most risk-embracing gambler wouldn’t touch those odds)—he or she, the love object, has your secrets. And can use them. And if the relationship ends acrimoniously, he or she will use them, viciously and maliciously—will use them against you. Furthermore, it is highly probable that the secrets you reveal when your soul has all its clothes off will be the cause of the end of love. Your intimate revelations will be the flame that lights the fuse that ignites the dynamite that blows your love to kingdom come. No, you say. She understands my violent ways. She understands that the end justifies the means. Think about this. Being in love is a process of idealization. Now ask yourself, how long can a woman be expected to idealize a man who held his foot on the head of a drowning man? Not too long, believe me. And cold nights in front of the fire, when you get up and slice off another piece of cheese, you don’t think she’s dwelling on that moment of unflinching honesty when you revealed sawing off the feet of your enemy? Well, she is. If a man could be counted on to dispose of his partner the moment the relationship is over, this chapter wouldn’t be necessary. But he can’t be counted on for that. Hope of reconciliation keeps many an ex alive who should be at the bottom of a deep gorge. So, lawbreakers, whoever you are, you need to keep your secrets for your survival, to keep your enemies at bay and your body out of the justice system. Sadly—and this is the lonely responsibility we all have to accept—the only way to do this is to stay single. If you need sexual relief, go to a hooker. If you need an intimate embrace, go to your mother. If you need a bed warmer during cold winter months, get a dog that is not a Chihuahua or a Pekingese. But know this: to give up your secrets is to give up your security, your freedom, your life. The truth will kill your love, then it will kill you. It’s rotten, I know. But so is the sound of the judge’s gavel pounding a mahogany desk.

Are you a revolutionary? Don’t sit on the fence. Be a man of action, someone who makes a difference.

 When St. Kari of the Blade Met Luke Skywalker, Star Wars Jedi Knight  “What’s that?” Kari asked pointing to the silvery object attached to Luke’s waist. “It’s my lightsaber,” Luke said cautiously, not knowing where this was going. “It’s like your sword, only many years advanced.” “I see me thinks,” grinned Kari, “although I cannot see how such a short object labors as a sword. Can you show me how? Here, block my blade.” Kari pull-whipped her sharp, simple straight edge fast and held it so that its steel shaft was stationed off Lukes left shoulder. “I don’t want to ruin your sword,” Luke said with a slight grinning shrug. “It will cut your blade in half.” “No it shan’t. C’mon and try” quipped Kari, her violet-grey eyes dancing with mirth. Luke felt compelled just a little bit to teach the seemingly uncomplicated girl a lesson in advanced blade-play. He struck at her sword, but to his amazement, the laser did not cut through Kari’s antiquated, plain cross-hilt weapon, as it easily should have. She wryed and smiled. “I’ve never seen anything like this,” Luke said eyes widening in surprise. “The only thing that resists a lightsaber cut is Cortosis.” “Let me try cutting at you,” Kari said, her gridelin eyes glittering in delight. As she struck Luke’s sword, the neat humming cylindrical beam of laser light that was Luke’s blade fell as one solid piece to the ground and began to eat itself inward and disappear, both ends vaporizing and fizzling, meeting in the middle and ending with a loud “pop!” “How did you do that?” Skywalker asked in amazement. “What’s your sword made of?” Kari smiled. “My sword is made of adamantine eternal belief. It both cut and resisted your blade because I shalled it to. I am she. All swordplay in the ’Halla exists on the edge of belief, something you will have to learn if you are to survive here whilst your sky-ship is being refitted and rigged out. Learn about the ’Halla, Luke.” Luke awkwardly grimaced. His lightsaber was an amazing piece of advanced technology and here this wispy backwater of a fencing lass had just “out-believed” him, making his well-ahead art of laser swordplay more primitive than the girl’s unadorned straightedge. He remembered Yoda’s words on failure and belief and felt stupid. The word Jedi was not in Kari’s vocabulary, Luke thought, but notwithstanding, she seemed more than a Jedi than he.

You can build something new, one person, one relationship, one meal at a time. You can build friendships instead of watering the flowers alongside our long-held fences. You can choose to believe in the unshakable goodness of those across the Pew or political divide. You can choose fierce kindness by speaking the truth to people about the impact their decisions make on the vulnerable. You can call Self Supremacy the liar it is. It's a bait and switch.

While we've painted the guardians of the pale in a somewhat reactionary light, let's give the gatekeepers their due. What lies beyond the pale isn't always safe and secure. Outside the fence of state-sanctioned consciousness, there are, to be sure, peaks of profound insight and inspiration. But there are also the swamps of addiction, superstition, and groupthink, where the unprepared can get stuck.

Blind cat jumps with faith you should too.

You'll never end up in a museum if you spend your whole life painting fences.

These two, I thought, are no rebels; it is obvious that they have never been on the barricades of protesters and revolutionaries, they have never waved flags through the tear gas of a nation state. They have never charged with stones and sticks to break down the fences that protect the men in suits, the diggers of gold beneath the indigenous's soil, the oil thieves in boardrooms and the politicians behind citadel walls. The first rule of resistance is to keep you eyes open and protect your nose from the smell of defeat when the waft of power comes to separate you from your brothers-in-arms.

experimenter. For instance, when it came to developing his art of jeet kune do, he delved not just into standard martial arts for inspiration and information; he looked at Western boxing, fencing, biomechanics, and philosophy. He admired the simplicity of boxing, incorporating its ideas into his footwork and his upper-body tools (jab, cross, hook, bob, weave, etc.). And from fencing, he began by looking at the footwork, range, and timing of the stop hit and the riposte, both techniques that meet attacks and defenses with preemptive moves. From biomechanics, he studied movement as a whole,

experimenter. For instance, when it came to developing his art of jeet kune do, he delved not just into standard martial arts for inspiration and information; he looked at Western boxing, fencing, biomechanics, and philosophy. He admired the simplicity of boxing, incorporating its ideas into his footwork and his upper-body tools (jab, cross, hook, bob, weave, etc.). And from fencing, he began by looking at the footwork, range, and timing of the stop hit and the riposte, both techniques that meet attacks and defenses with preemptive moves. From biomechanics, he studied movement as a whole, seeking to understand the physical laws of motion while understanding biological efficiencies and strengths. And within philosophy, he read widely from both Eastern and Western writers, such as Lao Tzu, Alan Watts, and Krishnamurti, while also picking up popular self-help books of the day. He was open to all inspiration and all possibilities—his only limit being the limit of his own imagination and understanding.

Welcome change whilst there is return or a strong hypothesis of higher return than not doing so, that you can test on a small ring fenced effort so that you can faster validate or revoke your hypothesis.

When you have more than you need, build a longer table, not a higher fence.

I came to believe that every single person is a hurdle, even if they don't know it. While most aren't sprinting over literal fences, everyone has something to overcome. Sometimes e fall in our attempt and that's okay, because there is always a reason to pick yourself up and move forward" (My Mother's Daughter, p. 267).

Jared had taught me the value of swinging for the fences and being the master of my own destiny.

In an ideal world, Two would be two letters, I wouldn’t have to make small talk, And we could all survive without a liver. In an ideal world, Love would not have a past tense, Home would be anywhere you want, And there’d be no such phrase as ‘On the fence’. In an ideal world, We would only need water to live, Wars would end after the first gunshot, And stammering would be the only disease. In an ideal world, There’d be no such thing as ‘meat’, We would have no need for education, And caring for nature would be our only responsibility. In an ideal world, Wealth would be synonymous with Health, Time and space would not be a continuum, And we would never be able to forget! Poem - In an Ideal World, from Respectful Ideation. July 26, 2022.

And whose very snug-looking place is this? said Charlotte as, in a sheltered dip within two miles of the sea, they passed close by a moderate-sized house, well fenced and planted, and rich in the garden, orchard and meadows which are the best embellishments of such a dwelling. (This is basically the description of my maternal great grandparents on Prince Edward Island who lived closer to the sea than two miles. <3)

Kids Riding Tornados The Wizard of Oz is a famous movie that was made in 1939. Dorothy is the girl who is the main character and in the story, she is picked up by a tornado and carried off to the fictional land of Oz. A few years later, in 1955, a 9-year-old really did go for a ride in a tornado! But first she rode a horse. There’s not a whole lot around Bowdle, South Dakota. It’s a very rural part of the state. Sharon Weron was 9 years old and riding a horse home from a neighbor’s house. Her mom was following in her car and saw everything. Just as Sharon and her horse reached their house, the tornado was on them. They had very little warning. Sharon’s mom saw the tornado pick up her daughter (and horse), spin them around wildly, and carry them away. Sharon was wearing a blue shirt so her mom was looking for that in the tornado and could see her spinning. The tornado carried them around 1,000 feet, over several fences, and dumped Sharon in a ditch. She was wearing a leather jacket and pulled that up around her head during her flight. There was hail and all kinds of debris flying around inside the tornado with her. Sharon’s hands were badly bruised from being hit by the hail and who knows what else. She remembered hitting the ground and grabbing the grass so that she wouldn’t get sucked up again. As she looked around, she found her horse. He was just standing there not far from her. Both were a little beaten up but okay. That’s crazy, right? Their story got picked up by newspapers and spread all over the world. Reporters had no reason to doubt the story. As unbelievable as it seems, it still holds up as credible. Sharon’s ride was also witnessed by neighbors. The Guinness book of world records listed Sharon’s ride as the furthest anyone had ever ridden in a tornado until 2006. It’s remarkable that both Sharon and her horse lived through such a terrifying experience. That has to be the craziest horse story in the history of the world!

What happened to you?” Monica accused over a tray of leafy greens. “What?” Joy said. “Nothing.” “Well, that nothing has you eating your salad with a spoon.” Embarrassed, Joy switched utensils, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting her fingers linger there. She grinned again. “I’m just thinking,” she said, poking the lettuce, “about stuff.” “Thinking stuff.” Monica nodded and chewed. “Sounds dangerous.” “Not yet,” Joy chirped. Monica slapped both hands on her tray, “Okay, that’s it— spill.” “What?” “What ‘what?’ Don’t give me ‘what’ and expect me not to ask ‘what?’” Monica pointed her fork at Joy’s nose. “You’ve been a total nut job ever since that night at the Carousel, and what with breaking windows and random notes and skipping off after school, you think I don’t know there’s a ‘what?’” Monica sounded angry, which was her protective-sisterhood thing. Joy tried not to laugh. “Is it drugs?” Monica hissed over her salad. “Because if it’s drugs, so help me, I will beat your sorry pale pink butt from here to next Thursday. I will call your dad, I will call the cops and I will even call Gordon and cancel our date!” “Whoa.” Joy waved a napkin in surrender. “It’s not drugs. No drugs. I swear. Remember? No Stupid,” Joy said, but had to add, “But there is a someone.” “A someone?” “A someone.” “A guy?” Joy rolled her eyes. “Yes, a guy. There’s a guy. I like guys.” Monica pursed her lips. “There’s a guy and you like guys and you met a guy, this Someone-A-Guy?” Joy prodded her lunch, picking at the crust of her sandwich. “There’s a guy and I don’t know what I think about him. I’m just…thinking about him. A lot.” “Mmm,” Monica said noncommittally. “So does this guy have a name?” Joy considered the question. “Yes.” “Yes?” Monica prompted with a wave of speared iceberg lettuce. “And?” “And there’s not much to talk about.” Joy shrugged and took a wide bite of sandwich, filling her mouth. She couldn’t decide whether Indelible was his first name or Ink, but neither sounded particularly normal. As opposed to Gordon Wiener-Schnitzel. Still, it was a subject best avoided. “Uh-huh.” Monica joined Joy in a long bout of chewing. They exchanged glances and evasions like fencing partners until Monica swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “So, this mysterious Someone-A-Guy that you can’t stop thinking about— would I, as your best friend, theoretically speaking, give him a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down?” Two thumbs down, definitely, for mysteryguywhostabbedmeintheeye. Joy swallowed. “He’s not your type,” she said diplomatically. “But he’s your type?” Monica said. “And, what is your type, exactly?” “He’s…” Joy stumbled, trying to find the words. “Exciting. Intellectual. A little sad, which can be sweet.” The flash in her eye inspired her. “He’s an artist.” “An artist?” Monica sneered around cukes. “Please do not tell me that you’re going to go all emo on me. That’s worse than drugs.

The electrified fence of segregation and the centuries of shocks it delivered so effectively circumscribed the lives of American blacks that even after the current was turned off, the idea of climbing over the fence inspired dread.

I approached the fence but I could see through new gaps in the straw that the tents on the other side had been cleared out. Anne, Margot, Mrs van Pels, everyone was gone. Vanished. It was if they were never there.

Flower killers ( Part 2 ) And if you visit the fence and look at the metallic vampire, You will notice something strange in this tragedy’s ultimate empire, Bullets where the address is still the same: kill, Who? Just anyone do it at your free will, The flower had no name, the bee that loved it and the butterfly that romanced it, Have all died with it, forever dead with it, The garden of tragedies invokes a morbid feeling, It is as if asking the angel of death to rescue life’s last hope its last feeling, But the bullets still travel through the garden of tragedies, Only that now there are no casualties, Do you know why? Because now there is no one left to kill, and no one left to die, The young flower has fallen, others with it fell too, But a bullet with no address, still has a job to do, Because its address reads: Kill anyone at your free will, And that is what it did yesterday, it will do so today too, because it has mad man’s wish to fulfil, Who directs its anonymity and its every act, But the bullet in the fence has a different fact, The bullet is not the killer of the flower, It is someone else, whom the garden of tragedies knows as “The Bullet Lover!” Men have died, women have been killed, flowers murdered, But the mad man’s will has not surrendered, It may not ever, it may never, Because he is on a quest to find a bullet that can travel forever, Through desires, hopes, wishes and feelings of love, And kill them all one by one, for the sake of his mad love, Where exaltation is sought via phoney acts, Always feeding on a desire that never detracts, From being the seminal factor in everything related with misery, So it kills with a delusional passion bearing vigour missionary, And if you happen to visit the garden of tragedies to see the bullet in the fence, Towards the bullet, please hold not feelings of lament or any offence, Because it obeys the shooter, Who has never been a lover! That is why the bullet lies pierced in the wall, Because it no more wants to obey the mad man’s call, And be known as the killer of the young flowers, Murderer of many passionate lovers!

Flower killers ( PART 1 ) Flower killers There is a war going on out there, Wherever you turn to see, it is everywhere, Guns firing bullets that bear one address: kill, Who? Just anyone do it at your free will, And the guns spray death in all directions, Giving rise to endless predilections, That of a father, a mother and a lover, Whoever the bullet may hit, is lost forever, And when bullets turn stray, They hit anything that comes in their way, It does not matter whether you are a foe or a friend, That time the bullet, only its purpose does defend, That to kill and shoot anyhow and anyone, It can be a father, a mother, a daughter, a lover, or just a human someone, And as the victim falls and collapses on the ground, The bullet pierces deeper like the canines of a hungry hound, And no matter how hard you tried it cannot be bound, Because the war is everywhere and so is its echoing and deathly sound, That tempts the bullet to travel and shoot someone, somewhere, And it couldn't be happier than now, because the war is everywhere, Yesterday a stray bullet whizzed through the air, And it hit a flower that had just bloomed and looked fair, Its petals got shredded into countless pieces, The pollen grains flew in the air and fell in different places, And as they fell, they all cried, “murder!” But the bullet had no intention to surrender, The tattered flower petals fell on the ground, I realised there is a new gang called, “flower killers” and they abound, The bee and the butterfly desperately searched for their missing flower, And ah the pain they felt as a dismayed lover, Their wings dropped and they fell to ground like dead autumn leaves, Where except the bullet, even death grieves, The other flowers looked helplessly at the fallen youth and it's still falling memories, And in honour of the killed flower, they named their garden, the garden of tragedies, And to pay their homages, they all wilted on the same day, The garden looked barren even on a new Summer day, The bullet that killed the flower lies embedded in the fence, Same bullet that killed someone who possessed nothing in self defence, Continued in part 2...

It gives one a sudden start in going down a barren, stoney street, to see upon a narrow strip of grass, just within the iron fence, the radiant dandelion, shining in the grass, like a spark dropped from the sun.

It’s not that koalas can’t live with these changes. Often they can: if there are enough trees, of the right kind, for them to live in, in linear parks that follow old creeklines; if enough trees are left in the paddocks for them; if there are places for them to cross roads safely; if new urban developments retain old eucalypts and maintain habitat corridors; if dogs are managed and confined; if rural and urban fences are constructed for wildlife safety instead of as traps to entangle, ensnare and obstruct; if swimming pools have slopes and steps for animals to exit; if we take the time and make an effort.

A number of the wrought-iron fences that encircled the courtyards and gardens of the homes were painted the color of gold on their European-inspired spikes and finials.

What do I smell?" interrupted Carl, sniffing. They all smelled it now. A most delectable odour came floating up on the still evening air from the direction of the little woodsy dell below the manse hill. "That makes me hungry," said Jerry. "We had only bread and molasses for supper and cold ditto for dinner," said Una plaintively. Aunt Martha's habit was to boil a large slab of mutton early in the week and serve it up every day, cold and greasy, as long as it lasted. To this Faith, in a moment of inspiration, had give the name of "ditto", and by this it was invariably known at the manse. "Let's go and see where that smell is coming from," said Jerry. They all sprang up, frolicked over the lawn with the abandon of young puppies, climbed a fence, and tore down the mossy slope, guided by the savory lure that ever grew stronger.

Don’t surrender your life to a Face, a Farce, a Fence or a Force. Don’t be a Slave, be Brave.

We don't want to settle down anymore; we've been settled, like some western township, and now we want to kick up the dust and tear down the fences. Not only won't we settle down; we also won't settle for less than what we've always wanted: a good time and a fair fight.