Inspirational Vase Quotes

A fine glass vase goes from treasure to trash, the moment it is broken. Fortunately, something else happens to you and me. Pick up your pieces. Then, help me gather mine.

I believe in roses. And I believe in putting roses into a vase and sitting the vase on the table. I believe in getting lost and being found, I believe in going barefoot, and in laughter! My religion is to laugh at myself, whenever I can! I believe in the sunlight and in grey skies with big, beautiful clouds!

From her very flesh and blood and from the constant cycles of filling and emptying the red vase in her belly, a woman understands physically, emotionally, and spiritually that zeniths fade and expire, and what is left is reborn in unexpected ways and by inspired means, only to fall back to nothing, and yet be reconceived again in full glory.

In a clear voice, Mrs. Ross said, "This may be where we mark Liam's time with us, but I don't want you to think this is where you have to come to think about Liam." She held the vase close to her chest. "Think about him always." Her mouth puckered. "Anywhere.

The fixed is the world without fire- dead flint, dead tinder, and nowhere a spark. It is motion without direction, force without power, the aimless procession of caterpillars round the rim of a vase, and I hate it because at any moment I myself might step to that charmed and glistening thread.

But how can I accept blindness in order to be happy? How can a man turn his back on himself without coming face-to-face with his own negation? You can't water a flower with one hand and pluck it with the other. When you put a rose in a vase, you don't restore its charm; you denature it. You think you're beautifying your room, but in fact, all you're doing is disfiguring your garden.

Eh bien, c'est l'histoire d'un petit ourson qui s'appelle… Arthur. Et y'a une fée, un jour, qui vient voir le petit ourson et qui lui dit : Arthur tu vas partir à la recherche du Vase Magique. Et elle lui donne une épée hmm… magique (ouais, parce qu'y a plein de trucs magiques dans l'histoire, bref) alors le petit ourson il se dit : "Heu, chercher le Vase Magique ça doit être drôlement difficile, alors il faut que je parte dans la forêt pour trouver des amis pour m'aider." Alors il va voir son ami Lancelot… le cerf (parce que le cerf c'est majestueux comme ça), heu, Bohort le faisan et puis Léodagan… heu… l'ours, ouais c'est un ours aussi, c'est pas tout à fait le même ours mais bon. Donc Léodagan qui est le père de la femme du petit ourson, qui s'appelle Guenièvre la truite… non, non, parce que c'est la fille de… non c'est un ours aussi puisque c'est la fille de l'autre ours, non parce qu'après ça fait des machins mixtes, en fait un ours et une truite… non en fait ça va pas. Bref, sinon y'a Gauvain le neveu du petit ourson qui est le fils de sa sœur Anna, qui est restée à Tintagel avec sa mère Igerne la… bah non, ouais du coup je suis obligé de foutre des ours de partout sinon on pige plus rien dans la famille… Donc c'est des ours, en gros, enfin bref… Ils sont tous là et donc Petit Ourson il part avec sa troupe à la recherche du Vase Magique. Mais il le trouve pas, il le trouve pas parce qu'en fait pour la plupart d'entre eux c'est… c'est des nazes : ils sont hyper mous, ils sont bêtes, en plus y'en a qu'ont la trouille. Donc il décide de les faire bruler dans une grange pour s'en débarrasser… Donc la fée revient pour lui dire : "Attention petit ourson, il faut être gentil avec ses amis de la forêt" quand même c'est vrai, et du coup Petit Ourson il lui met un taquet dans la tête à la fée, comme ça : "BAH !". Alors la fée elle est comme ça et elle s'en va… et voilà et en fait il trouve pas le vase. En fait il est… il trouve pas… et Petit Ourson il fait de la dépression et tous les jours il se demande s'il va se tuer ou… pas…

The nutritionist said I should eat root vegetables. Said if I could get down thirteen turnips a day I would be grounded, rooted. Said my head would not keep flying away to where the darkness lives. The psychic told me my heart carries too much weight. Said for twenty dollars she’d tell me what to do. I handed her the twenty. She said, “Stop worrying, darling. You will find a good man soon.” The first psycho therapist told me to spend three hours each day sitting in a dark closet with my eyes closed and ears plugged. I tried it once but couldn’t stop thinking about how gay it was to be sitting in the closet. The yogi told me to stretch everything but the truth. Said to focus on the out breath. Said everyone finds happiness when they care more about what they give than what they get. The pharmacist said, “Lexapro, Lamicatl, Lithium, Xanax.” The doctor said an anti-psychotic might help me forget what the trauma said. The trauma said, “Don’t write these poems. Nobody wants to hear you cry about the grief inside your bones.” But my bones said, “Tyler Clementi jumped from the George Washington Bridge into the Hudson River convinced he was entirely alone.” My bones said, “Write the poems.

No one pours liquid into a cracked and broken vase which can hold nothing. Your heart is divided into as many pieces representing the cares you hold: each care is a broken piece; and do you think that God will pour his grace into such a useless vessel? Ask the wise man, who says: “The heart of a fool is like a broken vessel, and not all wisdom shall it hold.” [47]   God instills this devout and very sweet wisdom of which we speak into the hearts of the righteous, the golden vessels and cups from which he drinks our good desires, symbolized by the goblets from which King Solomon drank which were all gold. A golden vase cannot easily be broken, neither can the heart of the just be divided between different interests without urgent necessity. However, the hearts of unreflecting men are like the ill-baked clay vessels which David was given in the desert when persecuted by Absalom.[48] This clay vessel is broken because the man's exterior and worldly actions are not referred to God nor performed purely for his sake, but some are done to please men, others by the inspiration of the devil, others for pleasure or vainglory, so that his heart being divided, cannot retain the grace of devotion or the sweetness of the heavenly liquor.

Blindly reaching out for his bottle of Madame Beffy’s Headache Tonic, he knocked over a vase filled with glass marbles. They fell to the floor with a great clatter. As he watched them bouncing and skittering across the floor, he had an unexpected thought. The wild, chaotic path of the marbles was not really chaotic at all. Each marble was precisely following the known laws of physical motion. He was not witnessing chaos, but order and perfection. Each marble was exactly where it should be at every moment in time.

I can feel myself getting inured to inertia, slowly wearing away into lifelessness, I don't know a job more important than to get us back into feeling things and also what's wrong if I want to be connected to the living?

Photographs from Distant Places (1) In distant villages, You always see the same scenes: Farms Cattle Worship spaces Small local shops. Just basic the things humans need To endure life. (2) ‘Can you stay with me forever?’ She asked him in the airport, While hugging him tightly in her arms. ‘Sorry, I can’t. My flight leaves in two hours and a half.’ He responded with an artificially caring voice, As he kissed her on her right cheek. (3) I was walking in one of Bucharest’s old streets, In a neighborhood that looked harshly beaten by Time, And severely damaged by development and globalization. I saw a poor homeless man Combing his dirty hair In a side mirror of a modern and expensive car! (4) The shape and the color of the eyes don’t matter. What matters is that, As soon as you gaze into them, You know that they have seen a lot. All eyes that dare to bear witness To what they have seen are beautiful. (5) A stranger asked me how I chose my path in life. I told him: ‘I never chose anything, my friend.’ My path has always been like someone forced to sit In an airplane on a long flight. Forced to sit with the condition Of keeping the seatbelt on at all times, Until the end of the flight. Here I am still sitting with the seatbelt on. I can neither move Nor walk. I can’t even throw myself out of the plane’s emergency exit To end this forced flight! (6) After years of searching and observing, I discovered that despair’s favorite hiding place Is under business suits and tuxedos. Under jewelry and expensive night gowns. Despair dances at the tables where Expensive wines of corruption And delicious dinners of betrayal are served. (7) Oh, my poet friend, Did you know that The bouquet of fresh flowers in that vase On your table is not a source of inspiration or creativity? The vase is just a reminder Of a flower massacre that took place recently In a field Where these poor flowers happened to be. It was their fate to have their already short lives cut shorter, To wither and wilt in your vase, While breathing the not-so-fresh air In your room, As you sit down at your table And write your vain words. (8) Under authoritarian regimes, 99.9% of the population vote for the dictator. Under capitalist ‘democratic’ regimes, 99.9% of people love buying and consuming products Made and sold by the same few corporations. Awe to those societies where both regimes meet to create a united vicious alliance against the people! To create a ‘nation’ Of customers, not citizens! (9) The post-revolution leaders are scavengers not hunters. They master the art of eating up The dead bodies and achievements Of the fools who sacrificed themselves For the ‘revolution’ and its ideals. Is this the paradox and the irony of all revolutions? (10) Every person is ugly if you take a close look at them, And beautiful, if you take a closer look. (11) Just as wheat fields can’t thrive Under the shadow of other trees, Intellectuals, too, can’t thrive under the shadow Of any power or authority. (12) We waste so much time trying to change others. Others waste so much time thinking they are changing. What a waste! October 20, 2015

The Vase The bouquet of flowers in the vase is two weeks old, Or maybe a little older? They are all wilted and dead now. The scene is much like a mass grave, Each flower has died in its own way. The first flower—the biggest in the bunch— Opened as widely as it could. Each of its petals dried up. The second one seemed as though it had tried To bend itself towards the end of her life, It broke her neck as she dried in silence. The third flower tried to close after opening, As she felt her life was coming to an end. She died closed. The fourth flower looked like she had started to sacrifice herself For the sake of everyone else around her. She, too, dropped most of her petals, And died naked, except for one or two petals. The fifth flower didn’t have time to open, Or perhaps she realized the futility of opening up in such a tight vase. She also wilted and dried prematurely and half-opened. The sixth flower died very young, Before having a chance to bloom. The colorless water in the vase is now yellowish and dead. Yes, waters die too. For colorless waters, death can be colorful. April 12, 2013

Believing that everything happens for a reason does not invalidate tragedy, nor does it justify rough times. If life were a broken vase, the pieces would not be disqualified from being parts of a whole for being incomplete. Trust the journey, and you will eventually find peace in the pieces. Find peace in the pieces.

La playlist qui résonne dans les haut-parleurs mal calibrés de Lucette a un air de déni. Ni Sébastien ni moi n’avons reparlé de mon compliment à l’allure de déclaration d’amour (suivi d’une insulte) depuis que nous avons bouclé nos ceintures. Après un interminable trente minutes de route, passé à échanger des banalités sur la météo, la monotonie du paysage et le prix de l’essence, on tombe sur un motel qui nous inspire confiance, proche de la municipalité de Saint-Marcel (j’ai persuadé Seb que c’était un signe !). Contrairement à la nuit précédente, notre chambre est un brin coquette. Le couvre-lit fleuri des deux lits doubles s’agence parfaitement avec le tapis et les rideaux. Sur chaque table de chevet trône un vase argenté qui contient de fausses fleurs en plastique. Malgré ce décor enchanteur, le malaise persiste. — Tu veux une bière à température valise de char ? J’interromps l’observation de mon bronzage d’épaule dans le miroir pour agripper la bouteille que mon ami me tend à bout

Inspired by the works of Homer—and armed with a vase decoration technique that allowed the clay’s natural color to shine through to represent the tanned bodies of gods and warriors in more realistic colors—Euphronios and his cohorts established history’s earliest known “school” of art. They worked together in a part of Athens called the Kerameikos—a name taken from the word keramos, or clay, from which our “ceramic” is derived. Euphronios and his coterie of painters are known today as the Pioneers for the mark they made by popularizing the red-figure style.

Product that I Like." By Aron Micko H.B Arena, the most intense place; Belittle doers doing old space. Aroma smell now is embrace; Believable inspiration does race. Behavior no show cyberspace; Aurora lights direction to trace. Bottle available I thought vase; Athena the woman no replace. Area of insects fly every place; Breakable walls, now staircase. Aurora of an old do showcase; Bumble yellow shirt suitcase. Beatle seeing nope workplace; Armilla thing shines misplace. Bicycle rides the commonplace; Antenna sales I avail outpace.

I had the feeling that all the “still lifes,” the ikebanas, the “installations”—even the simple window decoration of a cheap Ikea vase housing an inspired two-guilder Xeno “shipwreck”—bore witness to the inhabitants’ subconscious fear of evanescence.