Harvesting Wise Quotes

For Someone Awakening To The Trauma of His or Her Past: For everything under the sun there is a time. This is the season of your awkward harvesting, When the pain takes you where you would rather not go, Through the white curtain of yesterdays to a place You had forgotten you knew from the inside out; And a time when that bitter tree was planted That has grown always invisibly beside you And whose branches your awakened hands Now long to disentangle from your heart. You are coming to see how your looking often darkened When you should have felt safe enough to fall toward love, How deep down your eyes were always owned by something That faced them through a dark fester of thorns Converting whoever came into a further figure of the wrong; You could only see what touched you as already torn. Now the act of seeing begins your work of mourning. And your memory is ready to show you everything, Having waited all these years for you to return and know. Only you know where the casket of pain is interred. You will have to scrape through all the layers of covering And according to your readiness, everything will open. May you be blessed with a wise and compassionate guide Who can accompany you through the fear and grief Until your heart has wept its way to your true self. As your tears fall over that wounded place, May they wash away your hurt and free your heart. May your forgiveness still the hunger of the wound So that for the first time you can walk away from that place, Reunited with your banished heart, now healed and freed, And feel the clear, free air bless your new face.

What are you planting today to harvest tomorrow?

Autumn is the very soul of metamorphosis, a time when the world is poised at the door of winter - which is the door of death - but has not yet fallen. It is a world of contradictions: a time of harvest and plenty but also of cold and hardship. Here we dwell in the midst of life, but we know most keenly that all things must pass away and shrivel. Autumn turns the world from one thing into another. The year is seasoned and wise but not yet decrepit or senile.

Blessed are you who sow. Every seed you so plant, will grow into bountiful crops for great harvest.

We can all produce good fruits with fertile soil.

As we plant in tears, we shall harvest with joy.

Friendships are like plowed open fields ready for growth. What we plant is what will grow. If we plant seeds of reassurance, blessing, and love, we reap a great harvest of security. Of course, if we plant seeds of backbiting, questioning, and doubt, we reap a great harvest of insecurity.

The fullness of life is wrapped in all sacred times: plenty and scarcity; happiness and sadness; planting and harvesting; sunrise and sunset; winter and springtime; summer and autumn; beginning and finishing; birth and death…!

what did you think you were doing, then, when you went up through one door and down through another, turning this way and that, through the pages of a book and a deep mine and an entire ocean and the hideout of a wise old woman? My dear, labyrinths ensnare and entangle; they draw one inexorably inward-but it wouldn't be much of a labyrinth if you waited in line with a ticket to get it and the door was clearly marked, like some country-harvest hay maze. All underworlds are labyrinths, in the end. Perhaps all the sunlit lands, too. A labyrinth, when it is big enough, is just the world.

Friendships are like plowed open fields ready for growth. What we plant is what will grow. If we plant seeds of reassurance, blessing, and love, we reap a great harvest of security.

One of the most stupid things in life is not to enter the door which is wide open just because of the fear that this door will be shut and going back will be impossible! Have some courage, because even a harvest mouse leaves his hole to discover new places!

The garden of God is full of ripen fruits.

A wise mother is the unifying force between father and children; her seed of love produces a harvest of trust.

We relied on the slave labor of African peoples to build the levees that protected our homes and farmland, to harvest and cook our food, to care for our children, to chop, and hoe, and sweat, and sew, and nurse us back to health, while we aspired to be persons of leisure, or at least to leave the really brutal work to them.

Where there are no bees there is no honey. Where there are no flowers there is no perfume. Where there are no clouds there is no rain. Where there are no stars there is no light. Where there are no roses there are no thorns. Where there are no skies there are no stars. Where there are no storms there are no rainbows. Where there are no animals there are no forests. Where there are no plants there are no jungles. Where there are no seeds there are no harvests. Where there are no spiders there are no webs. Where there are no ants there are no colonies. Where there are no worms there are no fish. Where there are no mice there are no serpents. Where there are no carcasses there are no vultures. Where there are no stones there are no pebbles. Where there are no rocks there are no mountains. Where there are no deserts there are no oases. Where there are no stars there are no galaxies. Where there are no worlds there are no universes.

In life, we plant seeds everywhere we go. Some fall on fertile ground needing very little to grow. Some fall on rocky soil requiring a tad bit more loving care. While others fall in seemingly barren land and no matter what you do; it appears the seed is dead. Nevertheless, every seed planted will have a ripple effect. You could see it in the present or a time not seen yet. So be wise about where you plant your seeds. Be very mindful of your actions & deeds. Negativity grows just as fast if not faster than positivity. Plant seeds of kindness, love and peace And your harvest will be abundant living.

Bad weather never stopped anyone from reaping a good harvest.

Before Parting A MONTH or twain to live on honeycomb Is pleasant; but one tires of scented time, Cold sweet recurrence of accepted rhyme, And that strong purple under juice and foam Where the wine’s heart has burst; Nor feel the latter kisses like the first. Once yet, this poor one time; I will not pray Even to change the bitterness of it, The bitter taste ensuing on the sweet, To make your tears fall where your soft hair lay All blurred and heavy in some perfumed wise Over my face and eyes. And yet who knows what end the scythèd wheat Makes of its foolish poppies’ mouths of red? These were not sown, these are not harvested, They grow a month and are cast under feet And none has care thereof, As none has care of a divided love. I know each shadow of your lips by rote, Each change of love in eyelids and eyebrows; The fashion of fair temples tremulous With tender blood, and colour of your throat; I know not how love is gone out of this, Seeing that all was his. Love’s likeness there endures upon all these: But out of these one shall not gather love. Day hath not strength nor the night shade enough To make love whole and fill his lips with ease, As some bee-builded cell Feels at filled lips the heavy honey swell. I know not how this last month leaves your hair Less full of purple colour and hid spice, And that luxurious trouble of closed eyes Is mixed with meaner shadow and waste care; And love, kissed out by pleasure, seems not yet Worth patience to regret.

Look to the ant, thou sluggard; Consider her ways and be wise: Which having no chief, overseer, or ruler, Provides her meat in the summer, And gathers her food in the harvest. —PROVERBS 6:6–8

. . . to my surprise I began to know what The Language was about, not just the part we were singing now but the whole poem. It began with the praise and joy in all creation, copying the voice of the wind and the sea. It described sun and moon, stars and clouds, birth and death, winter and spring, the essence of fish, bird, animal, and man. It spoke in what seemed to be the language of each creature. . . . It spoke of well, spring, and stream, of the seed that comes from the loins of a male creature and of the embryo that grows in the womb of the female. It pictured the dry seed deep in the dark earth, feeling the rain and the warmth seeping down to it. It sang of the green shoot and of the tawny heads of harvest grain standing out in the field under the great moon. It described the chrysalis that turns into a golden butterfly, the eggs that break to let out the fluffy bird life within, the birth pangs of woman and of beast. It went on to speak of the dark ferocity of the creatures that pounce upon their prey and plunge their teeth into it--it spoke in the muffled voice of bear and wolf--it sang the song of the great hawks and eagles and owls until their wild faces seemed to be staring into mine, and I knew myself as wild as they. It sang the minor chords of pain and sickness, of injury and old age; for a few moments I felt I was an old woman with age heavy upon me.

We must be careful not to let our strength blinds us to the consequences of our actions. Because destruction and hatred are the fruits of arrogance. Let us try to be wise and measured in our actions, so as not to reap a harvest of sorrow.

That springtime does not last forever and that the fine seasons should have their harvest gathered and stored against harsher times. That you should choose your battles wisely. You cannot fight everything and win. Sometimes the price of losing is beyond what you can afford to pay, but that applies to winning as well.” She narrowed her focus on the girls. “Be very careful and think before you act. Make friends with those who you know will stay true to you and reward them fittingly.

To fill the days up of his dateless year Flame from Queen Helen to Queen Guenevere? For first of all the sphery signs whereby Love severs light from darkness, and most high, In the white front of January there glows The rose-red sign of Helen like a rose: And gold-eyed as the shore-flower shelterless Whereon the sharp-breathed sea blows bitterness, A storm-star that the seafarers of love Strain their wind-wearied eyes for glimpses of, Shoots keen through February's grey frost and damp The lamplike star of Hero for a lamp; The star that Marlowe sang into our skies With mouth of gold, and morning in his eyes; And in clear March across the rough blue sea The signal sapphire of Alcyone Makes bright the blown bross of the wind-foot year; And shining like a sunbeam-smitten tear Full ere it fall, the fair next sign in sight Burns opal-wise with April-coloured light When air is quick with song and rain and flame, My birth-month star that in love's heaven hath name Iseult, a light of blossom and beam and shower, My singing sign that makes the song-tree flower; Next like a pale and burning pearl beyond The rose-white sphere of flower-named Rosamond Signs the sweet head of Maytime; and for June Flares like an angered and storm-reddening moon Her signal sphere, whose Carthaginian pyre Shadowed her traitor's flying sail with fire; Next, glittering as the wine-bright jacinth-stone, A star south-risen that first to music shone, The keen girl-star of golden Juliet bears Light northward to the month whose forehead wears Her name for flower upon it, and his trees Mix their deep English song with Veronese; And like an awful sovereign chrysolite Burning, the supreme fire that blinds the night, The hot gold head of Venus kissed by Mars, A sun-flower among small sphered flowers of stars, The light of Cleopatra fills and burns The hollow of heaven whence ardent August yearns; And fixed and shining as the sister-shed Sweet tears for Phaethon disorbed and dead, The pale bright autumn's amber-coloured sphere, That through September sees the saddening year As love sees change through sorrow, hath to name Francesca's; and the star that watches flame The embers of the harvest overgone Is Thisbe's, slain of love in Babylon, Set in the golden girdle of sweet signs A blood-bright ruby; last save one light shines An eastern wonder of sphery chrysopras, The star that made men mad, Angelica's; And latest named and lordliest, with a sound Of swords and harps in heaven that ring it round, Last love-light and last love-song of the year's, Gleams like a glorious emerald Guenevere's.

We depended on the indigenous of this land to teach us farming and harvesting skills that we largely lacked upon arrival. Indeed, had it not been for the wisdom of native North Americans, the first attempt at European colonization would have failed entirely. We were starving in droves, perishing in Jamestown because we had spent so much time looking for gold that we’d forgotten to plant crops that could sustain us through the harsh winters. Four hundred–plus years later that folly has been repeated, at least metaphorically, in an economy so focused on the chasing of wealth for wealth’s sake that it has failed to re-sow its crops, to invest in the future, to actually produce anything of value as it opts, instead, to chase financial fortunes and immediate riches.

Some might debate whether people are born with talent, or whether it is developed. Toyota’s stand is clear—give us the seeds of talent and we will plant them, tend the soil, water and nurture the seedlings, and eventually harvest the fruits of our labor... Of course the wise farmer selects only the best seeds, but even with careful selection there is no guarantee that the seeds will grow, or that the fruits they yield will be sweet, and yet the effort must be made because it provides the best chance of developing a strong crop.

But truly, the Autumn Provinces provide the most ideal situation for our program. Autumn is the very soul of metamorphosis, a time when the world is poised at the door of winter—which is the door of death—but has not yet fallen. It is a world of contradictions: a time of harvest and plenty but also of cold and hardship. Here we dwell in the midst of life, but we know most keenly that all things must pass away and shrivel. Autumn turns the world from one thing into another. The year is seasoned and wise but not yet decrepit or senile. If you wrote a letter of requisition, you could ask for no better place to practice alchemy.

Can God take much notice of us poor people? Perhaps he only made the world for the great and the wise and the rich. It doesn’t cost him much to give us our little handful of victual and bit of clothing; but how do we know he cares for us any more than we care for the worms and things in the garden, so as we rear our carrots and onions? Will God take care of us when we die? And has he any comfort for us when we are lame and sick and helpless? Perhaps, too, he is angry with us; else why does the blight come, and the bad harvests, and the fever, and all sorts of pain and trouble? For our life is full of trouble, and if God sends us good, he seems to send bad too. How is it? How is it?

Where others only see coal, I see diamonds. Where others only see clouds, I see sunshine. Where others only see storms, I see rainbows. Where others only see thorns, I see roses. Where others only see seeds, I see harvests. Where others only see catapillars, I see butterflies. Where others only see cubs, I see lions. Where others only see darkness, I see stars. Where others only see wood, I see fire. Where others only see sparks, I see flames. Where others only see winters, I see summers. Where others only see frowns, I see smiles. Where others only see sorrows, I see joys. Where others only see nights, I sees days. Where others only see burdens, I see blessings. Where others only see hindrances, I see helpers. Where others only see enemies, I sees friends. Where others only see choas, I sees opportunity. Where others only see losses, I see gains. Where others only see crosses, I sees crowns. Where others only see warriors, I see generals. Where others only see learners, I see teachers. Where others only see followers, I see leaders. Where others only see scholars, I see professors. Where others only see soldiers, I sees commanders. Where others only see preachers, I see popes. Where others only see priests, I see prophets. Where others only see lawyers, I see judges. Where others only see students, I see masters. Where others only see outlaws, I see conquerors.

I was a bird. I lived a bird's life from birth to death. I was born the thirty-second chick in the Jipu family. I remember everything in detail. I remember breaking out of the shell at birth. But I learned later that my mother had gently cracked the shell first to ease my way. I dozed under my mother's chest for the first few days. Her feathers were so warm and soft! I was strong, so I kicked away my siblings to keep the cozy spot. Just 10 days after I was born, I was given flying lessons. We all had to learn quickly because there were snakes and owls and hawks. My little brothers and sisters, who didn't practice enough, all died. My little sister looked so unhappy when she got caught. I can still see her face. Before I could fly, I hadn't known that our nest was on the second-lowest branch of a big tree. My parents chose the location wisely. Snakes could reach the lowest branch and eagles and hawks could attack us if we lived at the top. We soared through the sky, above mountains and forests. But it wasn't just for fun! We always had to watch out for enemies, and to hunt for food. Death was always nearby. You could easily starve or freeze to death. Life wasn't easy. Once, I got caught in a monsoon. I smacked into a tree and lay bleeding for days. Many of my family and friends died, one after another. To help rebuild our clan, I found myself a female and married her. She was so sweet. She laid many eggs, but one day, a human cut down the tree we lived in, crushing all the eggs and my beloved. A bird's life is an endless battle against death. I survived for many years before I finally met my end. I found a worm at some harvest festival. I came fluttering down. It was a bad mistake. Some big guy was waiting to ambush hungry little birdies like me. I heard my own guts pop. It was clear to me that I was going to die at last. And I wanted to know where I'd go when I died.

Nature herself in times of great poverty or bad climatic conditions, as well as poor harvest, intervenes to restrict the increase of population of certain countries or races; this, to be sure, by a method as wise as it is ruthless.. She diminishes, not the power of procreation as such, but the conservation of the procreated, by exposing them to hard trials and deprivations with the result that all those who are less strong and less healthy are forced back into the womb of the eternal unknown. Those whom she permits to survive the inclemency of existence are a thousandfold tested, hardened, and well adapted to procreate in turn, in order that the process of thoroughgoing selection may begin again from the beginning. By thus brutally proceeding against the individual and immediately calling him back to herself as soon as he shows himself unequal to the storm of life, she keeps the race and species strong, in fact, raises them to the highest accomplishments.

The late American golfing coach and writer, Harvey Penick, held that any who played golf was his friend – in the politer sense of Arcades ambo, I gather. … I myself hold with Honest Izaak that there is – and that I am a member of – a communion of, if not saints, at least anglers and very honest men, some now with God and others of us yet upon the quiet waters. … The man is a mere brute, and no true angler, whose sport is measured only in fish caught and boasted of. For what purpose do we impose on ourselves limits and conventions if not to make sport of a mere mechanical harvest of protein? The true angler can welcome even a low river and a dry year, and learn of it, and be the better for it, in mind and in spirit. So, No: the hatch is not all that it might be, for if it is warm enough and early with it, it is also in a time of drought; and, No: I don’t get to the river as often as I should wish. But these things do not make this a poor year: they are an unlooked-for opportunity to delve yet deeper into the secrets of the river, and grow wise. … Rejoice, then, in all seasons, ye fishers. The world the river is; both you and I, And all mankind, are either fish or fry. We must view it with judicious looks, and get wisdom whilst we may. And to all honest anglers, then, I wish, as our master Izaak wished us long ago, ‘a rainy evening to read this following Discourse; and that if he be an honest Angler, the east wind may never blow when he goes a-fishing.

God continually chooses the least likely to be chosen, the broken and the humble. It’s clearly His modus operandi. I’ve heard this response from people when I talk about this idea: “But how can we possibly get things done without big-time visionaries? Without massive plans to save the world?” Well, the Bible actually singles out a specific, heroic animal species to illustrate how to get things done. If you want to know how to do it, don’t go to the soaring eagle. Don’t go to the impressive, roaring lion, either. God may have a different idea: Go watch the ants, you lazy person. Watch what they do and be wise. Ants have no commander, no leader or ruler, but they store up food in the summer and gather their supplies at harvest. (Prov. 6:6–8 NCV) Yes. Watch how the ants operate. They get it. Sure enough, modern research shows just how remarkable ants are. They all know what to do and when to do it. They know when to rest, when to battle intruders, when to take care of their eggs, all of it. If there are too many ants foraging, just enough ants decide to quit foraging and take on other jobs. They know how to build massive anthills that are marvels of construction engineering. And they do it all without a hierarchy. They manage it all without management. They get it done without any one ant knowing the “big picture.” No ant is a superstar. No ant is irreplaceable. How they operate is still somewhat mysterious to science, but scientists do know that ants just use the information that’s in front of them, and then they respond. That’s it. That’s all the information an ant has. The Bible singles out a species wherein every individual member does whatever needs doing, just by responding to what’s in front of it. An ant can’t worry about the big blueprint. No ant actually has the big picture. If they each do their thing, the thing right in front of them, the big picture takes care of itself.

Wilcox welcomed our interest; we had bottles brought up from every bin, and it was during those tranquil evenings with Sebastian that I first made a serious acquaintance with wine and sowed the seed of a rich harvest which was to be my stay in many barren years. We would sit, he and I, in the Painted Parlour with three bottles open on the table and three glasses before each of us; Sebastian had found a book on wine-tasting, and we followed its instructions in detail. We warmed the glass slightly at a candle, filled it a third high, swirled the wine round, nursed it in our hands, held it to the light, breathed it, sipped it, filled our mouths with it, and rolled it over the tongue, ringing it on the palate like a coin on a counter, tilted our heads back and let it trickle down the throat. Then we talked of it and nibbled Bath Oliver biscuits, and passed on to another wine; then back to the first then on to another, until all three were in circulation and the order of the glasses got confused, and we fell out over which was which, and passed the glasses to and fro between us until there were six glasses, some of them with mixed wines in them which we had filled from the wrong bottle, till we were obliged to start again with three clean glasses each, and the bottles were empty and our praise of them wilder and more exotic. '...It is a little, shy wine like a gazelle.' 'Like a leprechaun.' 'Dappled, in a tapestry meadow.' 'Like a flute by still water.' '...And this is a wise old wine.' 'A prophet in a cave.' '...And this is a necklace of pearls on a white neck.' 'Like a swan.' 'Like the last unicorn.' And we would leave the golden candlelight of the dining-room for the starlight outside and sit on the edge of the fountain, cooling our hands in the water and listening drunkenly to its splash and gurgle over the rocks. 'Ought we to be drunk every night?' Sebastian asked one morning. 'Yes, I think so.' 'I think so too'.

The size of your feet does not determine the size of your speed. The size of your mouth does not determine the size of your voice. The size of your feet does not determine the size of your speed. The size of your eyes does not determine the size of your sight. The size of your heart does not determine the size of your love. The size of your body does not determine the size of your strength. The size of your fists does not determine the size of your fight. The size of your wealth does not determine the size of your honor. The size of your office does not determine the size of your talent. The size of your car does not determine the size of your power. The size of your needs does not determine the size of your wants. The size of your fame does not determine the size of your popularity. The size of your obstacles does not determine the size of your destiny. The size of your candle does not determine your size of your light. The size of your flower does not determine your size of your scent. The size of your seed does not determine the size of your harvest. The size of your tree does not determine the size of your fruit. The size of your sky does not determine the size of your sun.

Peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness” (James 3:18).

Sow good seeds for a bountiful harvest of good fruits.

In the Hebrew Bible a story is told of Joseph (of Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat fame), who saved Egypt from a savage, seven-year famine. The Pharaoh had a dream he could not interpret and asked his wisest advisers to explain it correctly to him. They couldn’t interpret it either, but someone remembered that Joseph, who was in prison at the time, had a reputation for explaining the meaning of dreams, and thus he was called for. In the dream Pharaoh was standing by a river when he saw seven “fat-fleshed” kine (or cows) come out of the water and feed in a meadow. Then seven others came out that were “lean-fleshed.” The second set of cows ate the first set. Joseph explained that the dream meant there would be seven years of plenty in Egypt and then seven years of famine. Therefore, Joseph suggested that the Pharaoh appoint someone “discreet and wise” to take a fifth of the harvest every year for seven years and store it as a buffer for the years of famine. The plan was approved and Joseph was given the position of vizier, or second in command, over Egypt. He executed the plan perfectly so that when the seven years of famine arrived everyone in Egypt and the surrounding areas, including Joseph’s extended family, was saved. In this simple story is one the most powerful practices Essentialists employ to ensure effortless execution.

We are, all of us, exceedingly complex creatures and do ourselves a service in regarding ourselves as complex. Otherwise, we live in a dream world of nonexistent, simplistic black-and-white notions which simply do not apply to human life. There are none of us who are all good, all bad, all wise, all stupid or all anything at all. We are vast combinations of every kind of characteristic possible . . . and the world we affect is full of subtle and blatant incongruities and complex shadings, too. – Theodore Rubin

Reason 3: Pride The next verse gives us the third reason for lack: "Yet in his own opinion he is smarter than seven wise men" (Proverbs 26:16, TLB). This is Farmer Fancy. I see this all the time. Proud people will never succeed because they're unteachable. They don't want to fail because they'll look bad. And they won't serve anyone. It's a perfect recipe for disaster. Humility is so underrated. I believe humility is the mother of all virtues—and the mother of all real success. And from experience, pride is rooted in insecurity. What is the solution? Practice the 7 Success Principles of the Book of Proverbs. And that is where fourth guy, Farmer Focused, comes in. He's the only one who has a huge harvest because he practices all of them.

But then what’s the point in being old and wise if you don’t spend a good bit of your life being young and stupid?

Every seed planted, will yield bountiful harvest.

Ultimately, pay levels are not about merit or social value; they’re about power dynamics. They’re about how much value is placed on various types of work, by people with lots of money to spend. So, for instance, if patients in nursing homes each managed to crap a flawless ten-carat diamond once they reached the age of ninety, rest assured, elder care workers would be paid like investment bankers, solely for their ability to keep old people alive until it was time for the diamond harvest. But as it is, they are paid horribly, since rich people see more value in office buildings and yachts and derivatives than they do in the people who care for their own grandparents.

However, realize that every day, we are tending our garden as planting seeds of ideas, mowing down weeds of unproductivity, tending our thought life which impacts our actions, leading others by example as a wise sage leads the novice gardener through useful tips and tricks of the trade to improve crops. In short, life is the garden and we are the gardeners whose choices make the difference between fertile harvests and dismal defeat. Herein lies the road we choose to travel. Choose wisely. Philippians 3:8

knowledge is the most powerful thing on earth, harvest it and use it wisely

I will sow my seed. The sacred time will determine the harvest.

The more you give, the more you have much to keep giving.

When an opportunity comes knocking, your duty is to check it out and see if it is beneficial for you. Some opportunities can yield immediate results, but others are life seeds planted and they will give results in the future. There are two areas that needs considering when trying to understand the culture of an ant:               (a)  The seed time; and               (b) The harvest time.

For the foolish, old age is winter. For the wise, it is the season of the harvest.

Woolens to wash await Eliza, while Eliza awaits her next thought, a thought which pleases her by being three trees taunting, two, two tombs tattling, one for her and one for me, walking harvest-wise across the bridge.

Woolens to wash await Eliza, while Eliza awaits her next thought, a thought which pleases her by being three trees taunting, two, two tombs tattling, one for her and one for me, walking harvest-wise across the bridge. (Aulisyn: A Gothic Sci-Fi Novel)

Once, on the phone, Hart asked what I thought about the "business with Tower." I answered with my newest, hottest, wise-guy whispers about two Senators, two votes, that Bush could turn around-just a phone call ... but he wouldn't play hardball! There was silence on the phone, until Hart said, in a tone reserved for worms: "You gave me a Washington answer." Of course, it came clear instantly: Hart saw the Tower mess as the government's, the nation's, bitter harvest ... poisoned... by the same blight that ruined him. Hart thought the sickness stemmed from a dangerous fallacy—Americans think they can know (have a right to know!) everything about their leaders. But that certainty of knowledge is not available. People can't be tied down, reduced to facts. More dangerous still, politicians try to toe the line. Hart quoted, from his friend Warren Beatty: "When forced to show all, people become all show.

R.D. Laing’s wise pronouncement: “The only pain that can be avoided is the pain that comes from trying to avoid unavoidable pain.

Professionalism begins in the heart, but it does not remain there: “He becometh poor that dealeth with a slack hand: But the hand of the diligent maketh rich. He that gathereth in summer is a wise son: But he that sleepeth in harvest is a son that causeth shame” (Prov. 10:4–5). Put another way, the lazy son is not being lazy in his heart. He is being lazy in the harvest.

Kral Fakir (Servant King Sonnet) İnsanı seven herkes resul, Yardım eden herkes kraldır. Bencil servet hayvanlara mübarek, İnsan ben, kimliğim kral fakir. Every human who loves a human is apostle, Every human who helps a human is king. Animals may feast on selfish luxury, As for me, I am a servant king. King is the servant, Servant is king. Being is the harvest, Harvest is the being. Life lived for self is goods, Life lived for others is gift. Time spent on self is product, Time spent on others is present. You can spend thousands on the shallow, Still it won't be enough to fill their eyes. Spend a single wise cent on someone in need, It'll fill their heart with new vigor of life.

The greatest factor in achieving spiritual success is willingness. Jesus said, “The harvest truly is plenteous, but the laborers are few.”12 People of the world seek the gifts of God, but he who is wise seeks the Giver Himself.

In seasons of harvest, there is a more urgent need for watchmen, as the “thief” is going to do all he can to steal it, keeping the greater portion. It is little wonder that God has preceded the greatest harvest of souls the world has ever known— which is now happening— with the greatest prayer awakening in history. The Lord of the harvest is wise. I can assure you He has 24- hour sentries “watching” the harvest.

In the world where a million books are being published every year in the United States alone, every book reviewer is my hero! But even more important, every reviewer shapes the culture’s narrative. Reviewers get to decide what’s important. It’s not just the bad reviews — I hated those socks! — the good reviews have as much weight, if not more. Reviewers get to pick what’s the next IT thing! That’s power. …use it wisely…

Know who you are, then you can know where you can be! Choose your environment wisely; but be sure you know your dreams at first! When your dream seeds fall onto the soil with the best environmental factor, you will have a bumper harvest!

1. You always reap what you sow. You can’t plant jalapeno peppers and then reap sweet potatoes. 2. You always reap more than you sow. The plant is always bigger than the seed. 3. You always reap after you sow. The harvest is simply a matter of T-I-M-E. In time, good will come to the godly, and evil to the wicked; sometimes quickly, but always afterwards.

If you are too lazy to plow in the right season, you will have no food at the harvest.