Fingerprint Heart Quotes

I bet if we dusted her heart for fingerprints, we’d only find yours.

I don't just want your heart I want your flesh, your skin and blood and bones, your voice, your thoughts your pulse and most of all your fingerprints, everywhere.

Her butler opened it for her. His name was Boredom. She said, 'Boredom, fetch me a plaything.' He said 'Very good ma'am,' and putting on his white gloves so that fingerprints would not show he tapped at my heart and I thought he said his name was Love.

Those heart-hammering nightmares that start to lose coherence even as you're waking up from them, but that still manage to leave their moldering fingerprints all across your day.

Can I touch you?” His lashes closed, resting on the tops of his tanned, sculpted cheeks as his smile grew broad. “You don’t have to ask.” I reached out immediately but paused within inches of contact. He must’ve sensed my hesitation because he reopened his eyes. “What’s wrong?” I swallowed, utterly overwhelmed. “I don’t know where to start.” Mason’s gaze warmed . He wrapped strong warm fingers around my wrist and drew my palm forward, leading me where he wanted my hand to follow. When he set it on the center of his chest, right over his heart and pressed my flesh to his as if fingerprinting my soul to his. I blinked back gratified tears. “Start here. No one’s ever touched me here before.

Every night I empty my heart, but by morning it's full again. Slow droplets of you seep in through the night's soft caress. At dawn, I overflow with thoughts of us An aching pleasure that gives me no respite. Love cannot be contained, the neat packaging of desire Splits asunder, spilling crimson through my days. Long, languishing days that are now bruised tender with yearning, Spent searching for a fingerprint, a scent, a breath you left behind.

If anything in the universe reflects the fingerprint of God, it is the human heart"...It derives no benefit from the blood it pumps making it the most unselfish of organs...it is also the most courageous and faithful." (124, 126) - Reese

I have come to kno one thing without ay shadow of doubt: if anything in this universe reflects the fingerprint of God, it is the human heart

Each person’s grief is as unique as their fingerprint. But what everyone has in common is that no matter how they grieve, they share a need for their grief to be witnessed. That doesn’t mean needing someone to try to lessen it or reframe it for them. The need is for someone to be fully present to the magnitude of their loss without trying to point out the silver lining.” Professor Neimeyer’s

My books are my brain and my heart made visible.

Each one of us holds the promise of greatness within our heart, minds, and souls. Our potential and where it leads us are as unique as our fingerprints, yet the way to access what is possible is universal. Affirm your life; find joy every day, even in the mundane; and embrace your strengths and use them better yourself and the world.

In life, we leave a legacy to our children, we leave our footprints wherever we travel, and we leave our fingerprints on every heart we touch.

Every person who you have known in your life, has left their fingerprints on your heart, and your soul. Some leave bigger fingerprints than others. Never take these people for granted, because when they're gone, it's only those fingerprints that remain.

if anything in this universe reflects the fingerprint of God, it is the human heart.

Each person’s grief is as unique as their fingerprint. But what everyone has in common is that no matter how they grieve, they share a need for their grief to be witnessed. That

Without the fingerprint of the heart, it would only be sound... not music.

At the heart of it, being creative allows us to understand ourselves better. Just like fingerprints or personalized music playlists, our creativity couldn’t come from anyone else.

Every child is a one of a kind mini-masterpiece. No known duplicates exist. They each have distinctive fingerprints, heart rhythms, eye patterns, and blood constitution. Even identical twins can be physically alike and yet light years apart in how they are mentally wired and gifted. Our children do not just grow up different; they show up different. Though circumstances and training will greatly affect their lives, the originality that is already ingrained into each of our children reflects brilliant preplanning. Every birthmark is a trademark. Every special feature is a signature of divine design.

You can't have a simple life with a heart like yours. The simple life is a mirage. It's like a perfectly clean and polished wine glass. But the second you want that pristine chailise, the second you reach out and pick it up, it's covered in your fingerprints. It's only clean until it's yours, then it's dirty. That's the simple life. It's simple until you show up and start using it.

Higher LOVE has a mirror image...have you looked into it lately? When the wick of your soul is lit by love, it can magnify its purity, and diamond-like clarity; fired true to its perfection, in flawless reflection of affinity, and traceless etchings upon the heart, by detailed fingerprints of divinity.

Our responses are the fingerprint of our heart and the DNA of our conscience.

he has no fingerprints.

Your touch on the lives of others is like the touch of no one else. The "fingerprints" you leave on someone's heart can be traced back to no one but you. Amy Nappa, A Woman's Touch

and putting on his white gloves so that the fingerprints would not show he tapped at my heart and I thought he said his name was Love.

He doesn’t wear gloves and won’t bother to wipe down any surfaces prior to leaving, for he has no fingerprints. They were removed with the application of a series of lightly applied acids and CO2 laser treatments

David Kessler. I’ll never forget him saying this: “Each person’s grief is as unique as their fingerprint.28 But what everyone has in common is that no matter how they grieve, they share a need for their grief to be witnessed.

Each of our parents and others close to us offer their unique version of attachment, so while we have four categories to give us a general outline of what may occur, we will find that each person's expression of each style is as individual as a fingerprint.

I’ve never understood why the heart always reacts. A shot of adrenaline is all it takes, triggered by a thought. A word. A memory. And every time the reaction is singular, a fingerprint of a moment. Sometimes it’s a flutter, a flicker of wings in your chest. Others, it’s a relentless vise that stops the beat, if only for a second. It might be a hot burn, spreading like wildfire in your ribs, or an icy cold space, empty and void. But the heart always reacts. Even after seven years, just hearing his name inspired any of those reactions or a dozen more. And

You can't have a simple life with a heart like yours. The simple life is a mirage. It's like a perfectly clean and polished wine glass. But the second you want that pristine chalise, the second you reach out and pick it up, it's covered in your fingerprints. It's only clean until it's yours, then it's dirty. That's the simple life. It's simple until you show up and start using it.

When Heaven has an earthquake you fall to your knees and feel through the rubble to find the pieces of God. When my eternal, temple-blessed marriage shattered and everything that had been meaningful lay in jumbled shards around me, I had to slowly and carefully pick up every single piece and examine it, turning it over and over, to see if it was worthy to keep and to use in building a new house of meaning. As I gathered the broken pieces of God, I used only my own authority, only my own relationship with the divine, and the good, small voice that speaks inside me, to appraise them. I threw away many, and I kept many, assembling the bright pieces into One Great Thought. I asked only, "Do I see God's fingerprints on this? Does this little piece feel godly? Does it speak of love?" That made it easy. I was forever finished with the insane attempt to love a God who hurts me. When I picked up the little pieces of God-ordained polygamy, I smiled because there was no question. I thanked the God of Love, and threw that piece away.

I’ve never understood why the heart always reacts. A shot of adrenaline is all it takes, triggered by a thought. A word. A memory. And every time the reaction is singular, a fingerprint of a moment. Sometimes it’s a flutter, a flicker of wings in your chest. Others, it’s a relentless vise that stops the beat, if only for a second. It might be a hot burn, spreading like wildfire in your ribs, or an icy cold space, empty and void. But the heart always reacts. Even after seven years, just hearing his name inspired any of those reactions or a dozen more. And there was one every single time.

Is your heart fixed today to recognize the presence of God? To see His fingerprints and hear His voice? The events that others call coincidence, will you recognize them as sovereign providence? Ask the Lord to sharpen your spiritual senses so that you catch a glimpse of His glory. Focus your expectation. Lean forward or on tiptoe. Resist the inclination to be so caught up in the temporal that you miss seeing the eternal. Scan the horizon for where His voice is calling out to you or where His fingerprints are working on your behalf. Be alert. Be present. Be fully engaged in the day stretched out before you. He’ll be there. Waiting to be seen by anyone watching and waiting.

The endorphin high of birth will fade, but its trace remains with you forever, its fingerprints indelible proof of love's presence and daily grandeur. You have offered up your prayer. You have vowed service to a new world and laid a bedrock of earthly faith. You have chosen your sword, your shield, and where you will fall. Whatever the morrow brings, these things, these people, will be with you always. The power of choice, of a life, a lover, a place to stand, will be there to be called upon and make fresh sense of your tangled history. More important, it will also be there when you waver, when you're lost, providing you with the elements of a new compass, encased within your heart.

Ms. Mori offered me her cheek to kiss and Sonny offered me his hand to shake. He showed me the door and I slid home through the cool sheets of night and into my own bed, Bon asleep and hovering above me in his rack. I closed my eyes and, after a spell of darkness, floated on my mattress across a black river to the foreign country that needed no passport to visit. Of its many gnomic features and shady denizens I now recall only one, my mind wiped clean except for this fatal fingerprint, an ancient kapok tree that was my final resting place and on whose arthritic bark I laid my cheek. I was almost asleep within my sleep when I gradually understood that the knot of gnarled wood on which my ear rested was actually an ear itself, curled and stiff, the wax of its auditory history encrusted in the green moss of its twisted canal. Half of the kapok tree towered above me, half was invisible below me in the rooted earth, and when I looked up I saw not just one ear but many ears swelling from the bark of its thick trunk, hundreds of ears listening and having listened to things I could not hear, the sight of those ears so horrible it hurled me back into the black river. I woke drenched and gasping, clutching the sides of my head. Only after I kicked off the damp sheets and looked under the pillow could I lie down again, trembling. My heart still beat with the force of a savage drummer, but at least my bed was not littered with amputated ears.

When I was a boy, not yesterday of course, When life, I thought, was a whole lot More certain than it is today, I made a list of those I thought Liked me as much as I liked them – For at that age we’re loved By just about everybody Whom we care to love; how different It is in later years, when affection Has no guarantee of reciprocation, When we may spend so very long Yearning for one who cannot Love us back, or cares not to, Or who lives somewhere else And has forgotten our address And the way we looked or spoke. The remarkable thing about love Is that it is freely available, Is as plentiful as oxygen, Is as joyous as a burn in spate, And need never run out. And yet, for all its plenitude, We ration it so strictly and forget Its curative properties, its subtle Ability to make the soul-injured Whole again, to make the lonely Somehow assured that their solitude Will not last forever; its promise That if we open our heart It is joy and resolution That will march in triumphant Through the gates we create. When I look at Scotland, At this country that possesses me, I wonder what work love Has still to do; and find the answer Closer at hand than I thought – In the images of contempt and disdain, That are still there, as stubborn As human imperfections can be; In the coldness of heart That sees nothing wrong In indifference to want, in dislike Of those who are different, In the cutting, dismissive Turn of phrase, in the sneer. Love is not there, in all those places, But it will be; love cannot solve Every human problem, but it makes A start on a solution; love Is the only compass-point We need to learn; we need not Be clever to know it, nor endowed With unusual vision, love Comes free, at least in those forms Worth having, lasts as long As anything human may last. May Scotland, when it looks Into its heart tomorrow If not today, see the fingerprints Of love, its signature, its presence, Its promise of healing.

Desire is… " Desire is the glow of bathing lunatics. Starlight is the liquid used to power a whispering machine. Humming is the music of a forest moving in unison with your eyes. * A slip of the tongue and the hummingbird’s empty throne make the acquaintance of the word frenzy, which in turn adopts the phrase: “I am closest to you when we are furthest apart,” and together they follow the anxious doorway that leads far out of the city, where travelers always meet, alone and abandoned with only their mysteries to guide them… and when the sun bleeds out of the dampness of the earth, like pale limbs entwined and exhausted, they all pause in their own fashion to reflect not upon themselves but on the white wolves in the garden shivering like mist, in the mirror hiding your face. * The nature of movement is an image lost between the objects of an eclipse fervently scratched into the face of a sleeping woman when she approaches the liquid state of a circle, wandering aimlessly in search of lucidity and those moments of inarticulate suspicion… when the riddle is only half solved and the alphabet is still adding letters according to the human motors that have not yet arrived, as a species, scintillating in the grass, burning time. Not far from your name there is always a question mark, followed by silent paws… * It is not without the mask of the Enchanter’s dance of unreason, that joy follows the torment of seductive shapes, and sudden appearances in the whisper of long corridors. Tribal veils rising out of fingerprints on invisible entrances in the middle of the landscape, assume the form of her shoulders and the intimacy of her bones making dust, taking flight. * The axis of revolt and the nobility of a springtime stripped of its flowers, expertly balanced with a murmur of the heart on the anvil of chance. Your voice arcing between the two points of day and night, where the oracle of water spinning rapidly above, that is your city of numerology, mixes with the flux of a long voyage more stone-like and absurdly graceful then either milkweed or deadly nightshade, when it acclimatizes the elements of transparency in the host of purity. * The dream birds of a lost language are growing underground in the bed of sorcery. It is all revealed in the arms of your obsession, Arachne, (crawling to kiss) pale Ariadne, (kneeling to feed) in a pool of light that exceeds the dimensions of the loveliest crime. She turns into your evidence, gaining speed and recognition, becoming a brightness never solved, and a clarity that makes crystals. * The early morning hours share their nakedness with those who bare fruit and corset fireflies in long slender bath-like caresses. “Your serum, Sir Moor’s Head, follows the grand figures of the sea, ignites them, throws them like vessels out of fire, raising the sand upwards into oddly repetitive enchantments. Drown me in flight, daughter of wonder…

Leadership and Culture” may seem like a vague or general catch-all phrase. Let me offer some questions to guide you down the path and to set the stage for upcoming chapters on this important first piece of the framework. What does it feel like to be part of your company’s sales team? Is it a high-performance culture? Why do you feel that way? Are team members laser-focused on goals and results? What’s the vibe in the sales department (whether it is local or based remotely)? What does accountability look like on this team? How often, how big, and how loud are victories celebrated? Is the manager leading the team or just reacting to circumstances? Are sales team meetings valuable? Do salespeople leave those meetings better equipped, envisioned, and energized, or drained and discouraged? Do members of the sales team feel supported, valued, and appreciated? Does the existing compensation plan make sense and does it drive the desired behaviors and results? In what ways is the manager putting his or her fingerprints on the team? How much of the sales leader’s time is devoted to non-sales activities and executive and administrative burdens? What’s the level of intensity, passion, and heart-engagement of team members? I don’t believe that anyone would doubt that we can create significant lift in a sales organization by improving the answers to these questions.

We cannot truly know and understand how God speaks to us unless we have actually experienced it. Learning to discern the fingerprint of God on your own life allows you to know deep in your soul and your skin the person God calls you to be. Then be that person instead of trying to be what you aren't. You'll be much richer for the experience. So will the rest of the world.

In an instant, cold sweat coated my forehead and the back of my neck. I swallowed, and the Eraser Max in the mirror swallowed. I opened my mouth and saw the long, sharp canines. But when I touched them with my finger, they felt small, smooth, normal. I touched my face and felt smooth skin, though the mirror showed me totally morphed. I remembered how ill I had felt, hot and heart-poundy. Oh, God. What was this all about? Had I just discovered a new “skill,” like Angel reading minds, Gazzy able to imitate any voice, Iggy identifying people by feeling their fingerprints? Had I just developed the skill of turning into an Eraser, our worst enemy? I felt sick with revulsion and dread. I glanced guiltily around to make sure no one could see me like this. I didn’t even know what they would see if they woke up. I felt normal. I looked like an Eraser. Kind of a cuter, blonder, Pekingesey Eraser. Respect and honor your enemies, said my Voice. Always. Know your friends well; know your enemies even better. Oh, please, I begged silently. Please let this be just a horrible lesson and not reality. I promise, promise, promise to know my enemies better. Just let me lose the muzzle. Your greatest strength is your greatest weakness, Max. I stared at the mirror. Huh? Your hatred of Erasers gives you the power to fight to the death. But that hatred also blinds you to the big picture: the big picture of them, of you, of everything in your life. Um. Let me think about that and get back to you. Okay? Ow. I winced and pressed my fingers to my temples, trying to rub the pain away. I touched my face one last time to make sure it really was smooth, and then I went and looked at Fang. He was still breathing, sleeping. He looked better. Not so embalmed. He was going to be all right. I sighed, trying to release my pain and fear, then I curled up on my mat next to Nudge. I closed my eyes but didn’t really have any hope of sleeping. I lay quietly in the darkness. The only thing that made me feel better was listening to the even, regular, calm breathing of my sleeping flock.

Jesus perceives the idols of the human heart with incredible clarity, and he strikes back at them. He refuses to share his throne with our lesser gods. He will give us life and nothing less.

No two fingerprints, crystals, flames, snowflakes, or feathers are exactly alike. No two hearts beat to the same drum. No two voices sing the same note. And no two humans will ever have exactly identical callings.

How can I move on When your fingerprints are still on my heart Your voice still resonates all through my nerves Your smile still ingrained in my soul Nothing lasts forever is a lie You’ll live in my memories and I will love you forever There is no goodbye!!

Despite the march of digital technologies, it is hard to believe that paper will completely disappear as a means of communication. For some messages we trust it above all other media. There is nothing that quite grips the stomach while simultaneously making your heart skip than a letter from your beloved arriving by post. Phone calls are fine and intimate, text messages and e-mails are instantaneous and gratifying, but to hold in your hands the very material that your beloved touched and to breathe in their sweetness from the paper is truly the stuff of love. It is a communication of more than words. There is a permanence, a physical solidity to soothe those of an insecure nature. It can be read and reread over and over again. It physically takes up space in your life. The paper itself becomes a simulacrum of the loved one’s skin, it smells of their scent, and their writing is as much an expression of their unique nature as a fingerprint. A love letter is not faked, and is not cut and pasted. What is it about paper that allows words to be expressed that might otherwise be kept secret? They are written in a private moment, and as such, paper lends itself to sensual love—the act of writing being one fundamentally of touch, of flow, of flourish, of sweet asides and little sketches, an individuality that is free from the mechanics of the keyboard. The ink becomes a kind of blood that demands honesty and expression, it pours on to the page, allowing thoughts to flow. Letters make splitting up harder too, since like photographs they echo forever on the page. For one whose heart is broken this is a cruelty, and for those who have moved on it is a stinging rebuke of infidelity or, at the very least, a thorn of inconstancy in the side of their constructed personality. Paper, though, as a carbon-based material, has a bright solution for those wanting to be released from such torture: a match.

The endorphin high of birth will fade, but its trace remains with you forever, its fingerprints indelible proof of love’s presence and daily grandeur. You have offered up your prayer. You have vowed service to a new world and laid a bedrock of earthly faith. You have chosen your sword, your shield, and where you will fall. Whatever the morrow brings, these things, these people, will be with you always. The power of choice, of a life, a lover, a place to stand, will be there to be called upon and make fresh sense of your tangled history. More important, it will also be there when you waver, when you’re lost, providing you with the elements of a new compass, encased within your heart. From here on, the hard gravitational pull of the past will have a formidable challenger: your current life. Together, Patti and I’d made one and one equal three. That’s rock ’n’ roll.

i only know how to crave skin against skin and my heart against a chest like a fingerprint

i just get captured by his vocabulary… and it isn’t in perfect grammar or in fancy words, but in how, and why, and when he chooses words there’s just something in the moments, and in the places, and in the because… and it’s in this way that only he does it feels like… fingerprints, or just this little glimpse into how, and why, and who he is.

His voice turns into a wolf’s growl. “Oh, yes, I do. I want to hold you down and bite you and fuck you until you’re sobbing. I want to come deep inside your pussy, your mouth, and that perfect little ass. I want to see my teeth marks on your tits and my fingerprints on your thighs and the tears in your eyes when I put you on your knees and make you gag on my cock. Don’t get it wrong, sweet girl. I want to fucking devour you.

Oh, yes, I do. I want to hold you down and bite you and fuck you until you’re sobbing. I want to come deep inside your pussy, your mouth, and that perfect little ass. I want to see my teeth marks on your tits and my fingerprints on your thighs and the tears in your eyes when I put you on your knees and make you gag on my cock. Don’t get it wrong, sweet girl. I want to fucking devour you.

Today, this theory has been soundly discredited. Schizophrenia, we now know, is a disease caused by abnormal brain structure and function, just as heart disease is a product of faulty arteries. The difference is that we don’t yet have a “brain fingerprint” for schizophrenia.

replied, and thought of Cathy Jones. “Touch that door handle, and I’ll let go,” she’d said, whilst balancing herself on the extreme edge of a chair, her fingers tucked beneath a noose she’d fashioned from torn bedsheets. It had taken ninety minutes to talk her out of it, he recalled, and when he’d finally left the room, he’d vomited until there was nothing but acid left in his stomach. Acid, and the burning shame of knowing that a part of him had wanted her to die. Even while he’d talked her out of it, employing every trick he knew to keep her alive, the deepest, darkest part of his heart had hoped his efforts would fail. Connor watched some indefinable emotion pass across Gregory’s face, and decided not to press it. “Briefing’s about to start,” he said, and left to join his brother at the front of the room. Casting his eye around, Gregory could see officers from all tiers of the Garda hierarchy, as well as various people he guessed were support staff or members of the forensics team. At the last minute, an attractive, statuesque woman with a sleek blonde bob flashed her warrant card and slipped into the back of the room. Precautions had been taken to ensure no errant reporters found their way inside, and all personnel were required to show their badge before the doors were closed. Niall clapped his hands and waited while conversation died down. “I want to thank you all for turning out,” he said. “It’s a hell of a way to spend your weekend.” There were a few murmurs of assent. “You’re here because there’s a killer amongst us,” he said. “Worse than anything we’ve seen in a good long while—not just here, but in the whole of Ireland. There’s no political or gang-related motivation that we’ve found, nor does there seem to be a sexual motivation, but we can’t be sure on either count because the killer leaves nothing of themselves behind. No blood, no fingerprints, no DNA that we’ve been able to use.” He paused, gathering his thoughts. “Contrary to what the press have started calling him, the ‘Butcher’ isn’t really a butcher at all. It’s our view that the murders of Claire Kelly and her unborn child, and of Aideen McArdle were perpetrated by the same person. It’s also our view that this person planned the murders, probably weeks or months in advance, and executed their plans with precision. There was little or no blood found, either at the scene or on the victims’ bodies, which were cleaned with a careful eye for detail after the killer dealt one immobilising blow to the head, followed by a single knife wound to the heart. These were no frenzy attacks, they were premeditated crimes.” One of the officers raised a hand. “Is there any connection between the victims?” she asked. “Aside from being resident in the same town, where they were casual acquaintances but shared no immediate family or friends, they were both female, both married homemakers and both mothers.” “Have you ruled out a copycat?” another one asked, and Niall

Oh, everything! The place where it happened, and the weapon, and the body, and any finger-prints or interesting things like that. I’ve never had a chance of being right in on a murder like this before. It’ll last me all my life?” I turned away, sickened. What were women coming to nowadays? The girl’s ghoulish excitement nauseated me. I had read of the mobs of women who besieged the law courts when some wretched man was being tried for his life on the capital charge. I had sometimes wondered who these women were. Now I knew. They were of the likeness of Cinderella, young, yet obsessed with a yearning for morbid excitement, for sensation at any price, without regard to any decency or good feeling. The vividness of the girl’s beauty had attracted me in spite of myself, yet at heart I retained my first impression of disapproval and dislike. I thought of my mother, long since dead. What would she have said of this strange modern product of girlhood? The pretty face with the paint and powder, and the ghoulish mind behind!

Elderly Woman Behind The Counter In A Small Town" I seem to recognize your face Haunting, familiar, yet I can't seem to place it Cannot find the candle of thought to light your name Lifetimes are catching up with me All these changes taking place I wish I'd seen the place But no one's ever taken me Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away I swear I recognize your breath Memories like fingerprints are slowly raising Me you wouldn't recall for I'm not my former It's hard when you're stuck upon the shelf I changed by not changing at all Small town predicts my fate Perhaps that's what no one wants to see I just wanna scream "Hello!" My God it's been so long Never dreamed you'd return But now here you are, and here I am Hearts and thoughts they fade away Hearts and thoughts they fade fade away Hearts and thoughts they fade fade away Hearts and thoughts they fade away Hearts and thoughts they fade fade away Hearts and thoughts they fade fade away Hearts and thoughts they fade fade away Pearl Jam, Vs. (1993)

I want to take our museum bodies and turn them into art galleries to show us how lovely we are. I want to dust off the fingerprints of old lovers, take down the signs that name our bodies ancient history, turn every wounded object inside us into something that can still be looked at and seen as beautiful, not an object from an era we are glad we are not living through any more. I want us to love ourselves like we love art. I want whole gallery walls dedicated to our soft hearts, vermilion and crimson and indigo across canvas after canvas framed in gold. I want sculptures made from the tears we cried over losing everything. I want our skins to be a celebration: The texture is what makes this art, all these lines and blemishes and spots that show the artist's love. I don't want us to look at ourselves as forgotten things we hate any more. I want us to look at ourselves and see art.

The basic definition of interoceptive awareness is our ability to perceive physical sensations that arise from within the body. This includes bodily states such as a full bladder or racing heart, and satiety and hunger cues. Every emotion has a unique felt sensation in the body, like a physical fingerprint. When we listen to our bodies via interoceptive awareness we have a treasure trove of information to get our biological and psychological needs met! In other words, our wants, needs, and emotions are very much tied to the direct experience of sensations in our here-and-now bodies.

In this manner, my brain constructed my experience of emotion. My particular movements and sensations were not a fingerprint for sadness. With different predictions, my skin would cool rather than flush and my stomach would remain unknotted, yet my brain could still transform the resulting sensations into sadness. Not only that, but my original thumping heart, flushed face, knotted stomach, and tears could become meaningful as a different emotion, such as anger or fear, instead of sadness. Or in a very different situation, like a wedding celebration, those same sensations could become joy or gratitude.

She could live another fifty years, love and leave a hundred cities, press her fingerprints into a thousand turnstiles and plane tickets, and Jane would still be there at the bottom of her heart. This girl from Brooklyn she just can't shake.

You think that it would hurt me if you came back to Buckkeep. That it would keep me from a life you had seen.” “Yes.” “You dread that I would grow old and die. And you would not.” “Yes.” “What if I didn’t care about those things? About the cost.” “I still would.” I asked my last question, my heart squeezed with hurt dreading however he might answer it. “And if I said I would follow you, then? Leave my other life behind and go with you.” I think that question stunned him. He drew breath twice before he answered in a hoarse whisper. “I would not allow it. I could not allow it.” We sat a long time in silence after that. The fire consumed itself. And then I asked the final, awful question. “After I leave you here, will I ever see you again?” “Probably not. It would not be wise.” He lifted my hand and tenderly kissed the sword-callused palm of it, and then held it in both of his. It was farewell, and I knew it, and knew I could do nothing to stop it. I sat still, feeling as if I grew hollow and cold, as if Nighteyes were dying all over again. He was withdrawing from my life and I felt as though I was bleeding to death, my life trickling out of me. I suddenly realized how close to true that was. “Stop!” I cried, but it was too late. He released my hand before I could snatch it back. My wrist was clean and bare. His fingerprints were gone. Somehow, he had taken them back, and our Skill-thread dangled, broken. “I have to let you go,” he said in a cracked whisper. “While I can. Leave me that, Fitz. That I broke the bond. That I did not take what was not mine.” I groped for him. I could see him, but not feel him. No Wit, No Skill, no scent. No Fool. The companion of my childhood, the friend of my youth, was gone. He had turned that facet of himself away from me. A brown skinned man with hazel eyes looked at me sympathetically. “You cannot do this to me,” I said. “It is done,” he pointed out. “Done.” His strength seemed to go out of him with the word. He turned his head away from me, as if by doing that, he could keep me from knowing that he wept. I sat, feeling numbed in the way one does after a terrible injury.

Without volition, I touched the mark he had left upon me so long ago; the silver fingerprints on my wrist, long faded to a pale gray. He smiled again, and lifted one gloved hand, the finger extended toward me, as if he would renew that touch. “All down the years,” he said, his voice going golden as his skin. “You have been with me, as close as the tips of my fingers, even when we were years and seas apart. Your being was like the hum of a plucked string at the edge of my hearing, or a scent carried on a breeze. Did not you feel it so?” I took a breath, fearing my words would hurt him. “No,” I said quietly. “I wish it had been so. Too often I felt myself completely alone save for Nighteyes. Too often I’ve sat at the cliff’s edge, reaching out to touch anyone, anywhere, yet never sensing that anyone reached back to me.” He shook his head at that. “Had I possessed the Skill in truth, you would have known I was there. At your very fingertips, but mute.” I felt an odd easing of my heart at his words, for no reason I could name.

You think that it would hurt me if you came back to Buckkeep. That it would keep me from a life you had seen.” “Yes.” “You dread that I would grow old and die. And you would not.” “Yes.” “What if I didn’t care about those things? About the cost.” “I still would.” I asked my last question, my heart squeezed with hurt dreading however he might answer it. “And if I said I would follow you, then? Leave my other life behind and go with you.” I think that question stunned him. He drew breath twice before he answered in a hoarse whisper. “I would not allow it. I could not allow it.” We sat a long time in silence after that. The fire consumed itself. And then I asked the final, awful question. “After I leave you here, will I ever see you again?” “Probably not. It would not be wise.” He lifted my hand and tenderly kissed the sword-callused palm of it, and then held it in both of his. It was farewell, and I knew it, and knew I could do nothing to stop it. I sat still, feeling as if I grew hollow and cold, as if Nighteyes were dying all over again. He was withdrawing from my life and I felt as though I was bleeding to death, my life trickling out of me. I suddenly realized how close to true that was. “Stop!” I cried, but it was too late. He released my hand before I could snatch it back. My wrist was clean and bare. His fingerprints were gone. Somehow, he had taken them back, and our Skill-thread dangled, broken. “I have to let you go,” he said in a cracked whisper. “While I can. Leave me that, Fitz. That I broke the bond. That I did not take what was not mine.” I groped for him. I could see him, but not feel him. No Wit, No Skill, no scent. No Fool. The companion of my childhood, the friend of my youth, was gone. He had turned that facet of himself away from me. A brown skinned man with hazel eyes looked at me sympathetically. “You cannot do this to me,” I said. “It is done,” he pointed out. “Done.” His strength seemed to go out of him with the word. He turned his head away from me, as if my doing that, he could keep me from knowing that he wept. I sat, feeling numbed in the way one does after a terrible injury.

Cultivate wonder in your children, make your home a chapel of praise. Give thanks, always, with a glad heart. Look for God's fingerprints. Treasure God's Word. Treasure each other. Live for eternity.

The language of our hearts reflects the language of creation because in both are fingerprints of  God.

Love stays with you, a scar on your heart like a fingerprint of the ones who touched you.

healing is an intimate, delicate, unique, fingerprint… take the journey you need to get there

Each person’s grief is as unique as their fingerprint. But what everyone has in common is that no matter how they grieve, they share a need for their grief to be witnessed. That doesn’t mean needing someone to try to lessen it or reframe it for them. The need is for someone to be fully present to the magnitude of their loss without trying to point out the silver lining.

When Warren was a little boy fingerprinting nuns and collecting bottle caps, he had no knowledge of what he would someday become. Yet as he rode his bike through Spring Valley, flinging papers day after day, and raced through the halls of The Westchester, pulse pounding, trying to make his deliveries on time, if you had asked him if he wanted to be the richest man on earth—with his whole heart, he would have said, Yes. That passion had led him to study a universe of thousands of stocks. It made him burrow into libraries and basements for records nobody else troubled to get. He sat up nights studying hundreds of thousands of numbers that would glaze anyone else’s eyes. He read every word of several newspapers each morning and sucked down the Wall Street Journal like his morning Pepsi, then Coke. He dropped in on companies, spending hours talking about barrels with the woman who ran an outpost of Greif Bros. Cooperage or auto insurance with Lorimer Davidson. He read magazines like the Progressive Grocer to learn how to stock a meat department. He stuffed the backseat of his car with Moody’s Manuals and ledgers on his honeymoon. He spent months reading old newspapers dating back a century to learn the cycles of business, the history of Wall Street, the history of capitalism, the history of the modern corporation. He followed the world of politics intensely and recognized how it affected business. He analyzed economic statistics until he had a deep understanding of what they signified. Since childhood, he had read every biography he could find of people he admired, looking for the lessons he could learn from their lives. He attached himself to everyone who could help him and coattailed anyone he could find who was smart. He ruled out paying attention to almost anything but business—art, literature, science, travel, architecture—so that he could focus on his passion. He defined a circle of competence to avoid making mistakes. To limit risk he never used any significant amount of debt. He never stopped thinking about business: what made a good business, what made a bad business, how they competed, what made customers loyal to one versus another. He had an unusual way of turning problems around in his head, which gave him insights nobody else had. He developed a network of people who—for the sake of his friendship as well as his sagacity—not only helped him but also stayed out of his way when he wanted them to. In hard times or easy, he never stopped thinking about ways to make money. And all of this energy and intensity became the motor that powered his innate intelligence, temperament, and skills.

When you find love, you'll also find God. The Lord lurks into the depths of affection, in the curves of fondness and in the corners of tenderness. The Almighty is found between devotion and adoration. God is as close to you as your fingerprints and as near to you as your heart.

The sun inside of him rages like wildfire and he is gold gold gold and he is scorching the skin of my heart, yet still he pretends that he is safe for me to love, that his hands are gentle, that his fingerprints won't be seared into the notches of my spine. The sun inside of him could set the kingdom ablaze; he knows this, he does. And he still asks me to love him, to face the flame. Find me in the ashes.

When you find love, you'll also find God. The Lord lurks into the depths of affection, in the curves of fondness and in the corners of tenderness. The Almighty is found between devotion and adoration. God is as close to you as your fingerprints and as near to you as your heart.