Leaf Motivational Quotes

When I rise up let me rise up joyful like a bird. When I fall let me fall without regret like a leaf.

It is not enough if you just live life as it comes to you like a floating leaf in a pond. Make use of the powers bestowed in you and soar like an eagle.

Don't give up when dark times come. The more storms you face in life, the stronger you'll be. Hold on. Your greater is coming.

A great tree develops over time and can tell stories not only those of happiness, but also those that contain pain from what it has seen over the years, and as a result is the wise ancient tree that it is today. As the seasons change, the tree naturally goes through changes as well: where the leaves turn yellow and orange in the fall, falling by the Winter, returning in the Spring, and with full set of new leafs by the Summer. Love is no different in that there will be times when we are fully naked in the Winter, and left to wonder about Spring when it seemed so easy to love, yet the wise tree knows that no winter will last forever no matter how cold it may be.

Feelings are real. They often become one’s reality. But they are not always based on truth.

You can be clumsy yet clever. You can be classy yet poor. It's not tearing a leaf off a calendar which will make you a better or a worse man but the attitude that you have from dusk till dawn every day.

Faith motivates us to pursue these goals. Hope leads to expectation, which creates peace, excitement, and health in our minds, thus increasing brain and body health.

When you make a wee wish on a green four-leafed clover, may your belly stay full and your cup runneth over.

The same tree has different shades of green; Each leaf is unique, growing on the same twig. Some veins wiggle too much, Some networks- almost a mush. Blossoming buds of the same branch Do not take the same time to grow. Then how do you think you'd fit in In this strange world, away from home?

That red leaf is so much more than an ordinary leaf; it is a day in my life, and quantities are limited. Whether it be a frantic Monday or a draining Wednesday, each day is a leaf drifting down, down, down. It might not be a vibrant, red leaf that takes my breath away, but it's a leaf that will never be on my tree of life again.

Like a feather in the air,Like a leaf in the sea,I surrender to thee,I surrender to thee.-RVM

A leaf has no power to resist when the wind blows, but when life’s storms rage, you do.

Irish luck, aye, that I’ve got. A four-leaf clover—aye, that too. I’ll tell ye, lassie, what I’ve not, A lucky Irish kiss from you!

Life is a total process, the inner as well as the outer; the outer definitely affects the inner, but the inner invariably overcomes the outer. What you are, you bring about outwardly. The outer and the inner cannot be separated and kept in watertight compartments, for they are constantly interacting upon each other; but the inner craving, the hidden pursuits and motives, are always more powerful. Life is not dependent upon political or economic activity; life is not a mere outward show, any more than a tree is the leaf or the branch. Life is a total process whose beauty is to be discovered only in its integration.

In an era characterized by incessant noise and constant distraction, we often find our minds pulled from one thought to another like a leaf in an October breeze. We are so preoccupied by modern living that we become totally disconnected from our ancient human roots in the natural world.

I must recall the precise feelings that have nurtured the present circumstances, when nothing at all from outside interfered, not even thoughts of time past, present, or time future, when doubts of my own reality have dwindled away. Isn’t there a moment caught between two moods, that space within, separated from life, as well as death, when the sun is faced without blinking, when eternity lies here inside; no division whatsoever, simply a series of circular motivations. But these hands with their veins from a leaf, there is no separation, only a distasteful similarity. Why though search for proof? Surely I’m not philosopher to analyse the value of reality as opposed to idea, and what is gained by delving into such linguistic labyrinths? Definitely the supreme action is to dispose of the mind, bring reality into something vital, felt seen, even smelt.

Why do we wish on faraway stars? Because our desires seem out of reach. Why do we wish on four-leaf clovers? Because our desires seem hard to find. Why do we wish on coins tossed in founts? Because our desires seem worth the cost. Why do we pray our wishes to God? Because then our desires seem possible.

Many of us have forgotten how we used to be bedazzled by such everyday wonders as marveling at a spider web, finding an animal shape in the clouds, exploring the delicate intricacy of the pistils and stamens of a flower. It is time to rediscover the emotional vitality of the child within us. Our inner child can find enduring satisfaction in simple pleasures because s/he does not pursue them purely to escape inner emotional turmoil. Perhaps the vision of the emotionally vital poet Walt Whitman will motivate you to reconnect with the ardor of your abandoned inner child: I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars, And the running blackberry would adorn the parlours of heaven, And a mouse is miracle enough to stagger sextillions of infidels . . . And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth, And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the learning of all times . . .

You don’t believe in leprechauns. A myth you say they be. You don’t believe in pots-o-gold, or four-leaf-clover tea. You don’t believe the rainbow’s end alights on treasured finds. They are illusions meant for fools you say ‘ave lost their minds. You don’t believe in whispering your wishes to the wind, where on St. Patrick’s holiday they blow t’wards Ireland. You don’t believe in magic spells or longings coming true. Yet, head-to-toe you dress in green on Patty’s Day, you do.

Pieces of my self. I have come to realise that our soul is not a static element or something that we can ever put in words. It is something that we find and embrace in bits and pieces flowing through an endless journey of life. Sometimes we find a halo of it in the setting sun while sometimes we chase its harmony in a distant sunrise. We have moments in Life, defining our traits, when some incident or some part of our Life changes forever rather takes shape forever but that too is not entirely rigid, they too flow with our soul and may be years or even moments later they change shape into something that twinkles more with our soul. It is a process of learning, unlearning and relearning where everything that we assemble in this Lifetime is like a free flowing river which meanders its way onto an ocean. And the ocean is Love. Not the Love that we often imagine it be, it is something beyond any imagination or definition. It is an air that absorbs every other force of Nature and releases them through the filter of Wisdom. It is about understanding our innermost fear and fighting it out with the indomitable courage that is always lurking in the deepest part of our heart. It is about knowing how contagious kindness can be and becoming the reflector of grace through our very existence. It is about embracing every chapter of our life with gratitude for the path that our spirit has chosen beyond boundaries and limits. It is about growing and healing. Growing through a voyage that is endless in this Cosmic ocean and healing through the balm of connections. I have realised that every connection that we make even if it is for a fraction of a second stays on within our soul and every alley that we explore leads us to a place that is closer to our destination. Sometimes the Destination gets blurred through the noises of all that is tangible in our surroundings and we often grow exhausted on this journey, it is then that we grow, trying to walk over a pyre of our failures, lost bonds, detours and everything that are capable of pulling us down they become stars, like the fireflies that show us the path to bring us closer to our soul, to put back the pieces of our self. They make us all that we stand as a whole. So especially when we run out of our strength somewhere in some hidden alley of our soul, something burns in our soul, a flicker of our passion guiding us home, where the pieces of our soul dance in a mad harmony to awaken the flame that lights our way onto a destination, wandering along the edge of a purpose that breathes through scattered pieces of our self, basking in the halo of eternity.

Like a Feather in the Air, like a Leaf in the Sea, I surrender to Thee, I surrender to Thee. #Inspiration #Motivation #RVM #Quotes

The scars are written ...in the stars...and from it flowers.... the unrhymed poems ....and somewhere out there...a leaf trembles...a bird cries....for it breaks ....through the frigid ground....as the rain falls....and the earth makes music again..... .....Jayita Bhattacharjee

You have no soul," he teased her. "You're right," she answered soberly. "I didn't think it showed." "You're only playing word games now." "No," she said, "what proof have I of a soul?" "How can you have a conscience if you don't have soul?" he asked despite himself - he wanted to keep things light, to get back onto a better footing after their last episode of moral wrestling and estrangement. "How can a bird feed its young if it has no consciousness of before and after? A conscience, Yero my hero, is only consciousness in another dimension, the dimension of time. What you call conscience I prefer to call instinct. Birds feed their young without understanding why, without weeping about how al that is born must die, sob, sob. I do my work with a similar motivation: the movement in the gut toward food, fairness, and safety. I am a pack animal wheeling with the herd, that's all. I'm a forgettable leaf on a tree." "Since your work is terrorism, that's the most extreme argument for crime I've ever heard. You're eschewing all personal responsibility. It's as bad as those who sacrifice their personal will into the gloomy morasses of the unknowable will of some unnamable god. If you suppress the idea of personhood then you suppress the notion of individual culpability.

In the dance of the elements, a stone's weight becomes a guardian's embrace, sheltering a delicate leaf from the tumultuous winds of life.

The fall of a leaf is not the end of its journey, but the beginning of something greater.

Roland Bainton in his effort to make the best of Luther declared that Luther's view of the Jews "was entirely religious and by no means racial."'`' True; the crackpot version of social Darwinism that gave rise to "racial" anti-Semitism was a creation of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Luther hated the Jews because they rejected Christ. But his fury was no less cruel and vicious because its underlying motives were different or because his suggestions for carrying his cruelty to some final solution were less comprehensive and efficient. His fury culminated in his vicious book of 1543, On the Jews and Their Lies. In late 1542 Pope Paul III had issued a call for the great reforming council to assemble at Trent beginning in 1545. It was to become a Catholic and papal triumph. What Trent would become was unclear in 1542, but Luther could see clearly enough that it represented a defeat for the evangelical cause. Through these years his attacks on foes of all kinds became even more vulgar and inflammatory because, as Heiko Oberman has said, he felt his work threatened on every Personal issues may also have been an influence. His beloved daughter Magdalena died in his arms on September 20, 1542. Afterward his grief was intense, and he spoke feelingly of the terror before death while affirming his trust in Christ.-'' This combination of woes may have driven him to lash out at someone, and the Jews were there, testifying to his worst fear, that Jesus had not risen from the dead, and that Chrisitians would enjoy no victory over the grave. Whatever the cause, his outrageous attack in On the Jews and Their Lies represents one of those rhetorical horrors that may be explained in the various ways that we explain the cruelties that human beings inflict on others when the tormentors feel their own place in the universe threatened with annihilation. Yet explanation cannot finally excuse the horror. After raging against the Jews for dozens of pages of tedious vehemence, Luther recommended what should be done with them: Their synagogues should be burned down; their books should be taken from them, "not leaving them one leaf"; they should be "forbidden on pain of death to praise God, to give thanks, to pray, and to teach publicly among us and in our country"; and they should "be forbidden to utter the name of God within our hearing."22 Christians were guilty for not taking vengeance against the Jews for having killed Christ and for having killed innocent Christians for three hundred years after the Crucifixion, for not "striking them to death."23

Mind without heart The leaf had fallen, The branch still stood there intact, It was a gradual event and not at all sudden, The fallen leaf, the still existing branch was an undeniable fact, But why did the branch still hang on, waiting for something? As the leaf from the floor looked at it while time consumed it, Maybe the branch wanted to see the leaf on the floor dying, And with its shadow touch it, and feel it; and whisper to it, “There where you grew you shall grow again next season, I will wait for you here throughout the winter, And to do so, I need no motivation because I have my reason, I have loved you and I do not wish to be a quitter,” And finally there was nothing left of the leaf, the fallen and dead leaf, There was only its trace, a faint impression on the soil, This added to the branch’s anguish and grief, For time had robbed her of its every moment of toil, People passed by and trampled the leaf’s almost fossilised impression, Until there was nothing left of the leaf neither on the branch nor on the soil, The branch chided the fate’s paucity and time’s baseless aggression, For they even erased the leaf’s last impression that was as thin as silver foil, By the time winter entered its prime, The branch stood there waiting for it to pass, Not because it wanted to feel the joys of summer time, But it wanted the leaf to re-appear and re-grow so that it could undo time’s act so crass, Time passed by, spring arrived, the branch was filled with leaves, But that leaf never grew again, the same leaf, the fallen one, So the branch misses him and it continuously grieves, But she shows it to no one, because no leaf compares to her dear leaf, the fallen one, Maybe that is why it is beginning to bend, Though it is converted in thousands of fresh leaves, The branch has been unable to cope with the dear leaf’s premature end, So she keeps peeping into time’s graves, To find the grave of the leaf that she lost prematurely, And lie there beside him, and finally fall, Then be together with him timelessly, And say, “For you I too had to fall afterall!” Today the sun has risen but the branch has fallen forever, Exactly where the leaf had fallen, It is a love of different kind, and the branch is a special lover, Who would never let go of what time from her had stolen, After a year the branch too disappeared from the floor, Now there is neither the branch nor the leaf, Time knows it, fate planned it, but I witnessed it; and this I cannot ignore, But knowing they are somewhere together now, even if that be the graveyard of time, is a relief, Time and fate are never obsequious, Because they neither love nor hate, But they are masquerading and pretentious, And they never know how it feels when the branch lies naked in a leafless state, That is time’s and fate’s irony of which they may never know, But you and I who have minds and hearts, Yet become part of a fake and grotesque show, Where either mind thinks without the heart or the heart from mind’s innocence departs!

How can a bird feed its young if it has no consciousness of before and after? A conscience, Yero my hero, is only consciousness in another dimension, the dimension of time. What you call conscience I prefer to call instinct. Birds feed their young without understanding why, without weeping about how all that is born must die, sob sob. I do my work with a similar motivation: the movement in the gut toward food, fairness, and safety. I am a pack animal wheeling with the herd, that’s all. I’m a forgettable leaf on a tree.” “Since your work is terrorism, that’s the most extreme argument for crime I’ve ever heard. You’re eschewing all personal responsibility. It’s as bad as those who sacrifice their personal will into the gloomy morasses of the unknowable will of some unnameable god. If you suppress the idea of personhood then you suppress the notion of individual culpability.” “What is worse, Fiyero? Suppressing the idea of personhood or suppressing, through torture and incarceration and starvation, real living persons? Look: Would you worry about saving one precious sentimental portrait in a museum of fine arts when the city around you is on fire and real people are burning to death? Keep some proportion in all this!” “But even some innocent bystander—say an annoying society dame—is a real person, not a portrait. Your metaphor is distracting and belittling, it’s a blind excuse for crime.

progression goes like this: the amygdala provides input to the mind about the emotions—gather; the thalamus and hypothalamus provide input on motivation; and the memory networks provide information on the existing memories—reflect; the central hub in the brain mixes and integrates this all together—write; and the heart acts as the checking station, and you make the decision—revisit.

Like a feather in the air, like a leaf in the sea, I surrender to Thee, I surrender to Thee.-RVM

Like a feather in the air, like a leaf in the sea, I surrender to Thee, I surrender to Thee.

The Ascending Eagle by Stewart Stafford I shall not stray down spurious alleys, In pursuit of such desiccated husks, To be a leaf adrift in vacuous air, Bewildered on my windswept path. Past the labyrinth of rustling choices, Swirl fragments of doubt and error. Life's force is a finite magic spark, Some squander before they depart, When climbing into our grave pits, Twisted wreckage we leave behind. Yet, in regret's deepening shades, Lie orphans of our broken dreams. The eagle, in cerulean-skied flight, Took wing as a frightened chick, Victory plucked from disaster's beak, Trial and error are brick-tough fellows. Guided by shimmering thermals below, Soaring to its future beyond the horizon. © 2024, Stewart Stafford. All rights reserved.

But then when am I not a fool?" - as her heart took a leap, her perpetual over sensitivity shrieked out loud with a twinkle in her eye, the spark of naive honesty. "But then again I would rather be a fool than befooled with the illusionary intelligence of them around." - a smile caressed her as the voice of her soul clutched her with a thousand memories of days gone by, the leaf of fooled wisdom.

changes are occurring beneath the surface, on a nonconscious level, can be a powerful motivator, because it brings with it a sense of autonomy, encouraging someone to persist with therapy and mind-management techniques even if they don’t feel different for some time.

They say when one door closes, another opens or there's a window open somewhere. But what if I keep the door closed for sometime, freeze the moment for a while, and look inside the closets of my heart and take a gentle stroll outside without walking inside of any door, or peeping inside of a window? What if the door I have been looking for has always been the lock of my mind, the key being Silence resonating in my heart only audible when the pelting of doors and windows are hushed for a while?

Around me, trees let go of their leaves, and I let go of my tears, In every fallen leaf, I see the end of trust, it sears.

Keep on going. Don’t be discouraged. Borrow a leaf from a determined tourist who must get to their destination despite not being conversant with the routes to it.

In hindu tradition, before removing the herb or root from the original plant, they will do rituals called mooligai prana pratishtha, meaning any curse or impurities on that herb, the prana pratishtha will be done in such a way that even after the root is removed, it will continue to have life in it. A dead leaf cannot heal you. Only herbs with life can heal you.

Constantly keeping your seeking alive makes you grasp the Truth, you will not try to grab them. Understand, for example you see somebody melting down, overflowing, with that melting devotion offers a Bilva leaf to Mahadeva and he is liberated. You see that and then you also decide, Yes, if I pluck that tree, leaf and put it on this statue I will have liberation. That is what is grabbing the Truth. Understand, you are not grasping it, you are grabbing it. You only see the action. ~ KAILASA's SPH JGM Nithyananda Paramashivam

Wow! How can this simple act - he goes and plucks one Bilva leaf from a tree, Bilva tree and offers it on a statue, how can such a simple act liberate him? Why is he so blissful? Why is he in ecstasy? If you approach the happening with tremendous love, you will grasp the Truth. You will grasp the Truth. You will understand something more than the action is happening. ~KAILASA's SPH JGM Nithyananda Paramashivam

I will go and I will turn every twig and leaf to find the smallest act of you, I'll dive to deepest reef For who am I and why all this if I were to lose my faith that you're my father holding me, that in your arms I bathe If I surrender to this world it can only be in you for there is no will or want if I'm just passing through Hold me, Father, act through me, never let me go I don't want the ego mind I don't want control I know I'm here to make a change, to sing a song that's you, from the dawn and till the night That's all I wish to do I am but a tiny drop, a little drop of sea, and when I've served my time down here, shine your light on me Like a drop of ocean life I'll return to you, all I wish to leave behind is memory of You

You know, you just kind of do the best you can and hold on to moments that feel a little better than others. You fall asleep and try not to think about the pressing time of past and future, compressing you from both ways, but you can’t let yourself get worried about it. You just have to try to fall asleep. And you put both feet on the ground when you wake up, seeing the sun that rose once again, despite it all, knowing that this is one of very few limited mornings that you will get to experience and you just have to stop carrying life like a burden. Life is not a burden. It’s not heavy to be alive. It’s weightless. It’s light as air. You’re just floating, a leaf through space, for a little while. You just have to learn to close your eyes more, or open them, when you can. You just have to learn to float with the current more, not fight against things. Change, movement, transitions ... you have to become one with the current. So what if you find yourself homeless and aimless, broke to the bones with no one to hold or call or care for? Go climb a mountain and sit above the world for an hour or two. Breathe in cleaner air and drink water falling through the cracks of the stones. Don’t take the photo and don’t share it with anyone. It’s still beautiful even if only you know about it. You hold this moment in your heart and you go forward for here, one step at a time, and you try to get moments like this, even with other people, down on the ground, and maybe sometimes you will find yourself crying at 4am by yourself but that’s all good. It’s all okay. Just soak up whatever life offers and don’t think too much about it. It’s all beautiful. Stop seeing life as a burden. Something heavy to carry. Life is not heavy. Life is weightless and you can dance through it like a thin fog a summer’s morning. It’s all beautiful.

Pieces of my self

If you look for the leaf you cannot see the flower, if you look for the flower you cannot see the tree, but if you look for nothing then you can see the tree, the flower and the leaf.