Meadows Inspirational Quotes

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

On no subject are our ideas more warped and pitiable than on death. ... Let children walk with nature, let them see the beautiful blendings and communions of death and life, their joyous inseparable unity, as taught in woods and meadows, plains and mountains and streams of our blessed star, and they will learn that death is stingless indeed, and as beautiful as life, and that the grave has no victory, for it never fights.

As you walk through forests or the meadows of your mind, Stop and talk to those you fear Good friendships you may find

Perhaps ... To R.A.L. Perhaps some day the sun will shine again, And I shall see that still the skies are blue, And feel one more I do not live in vain, Although bereft of you. Perhaps the golden meadows at my feet, Will make the sunny hours of spring seem gay, And I shall find the white May-blossoms sweet, Though You have passed away. Perhaps the summer woods will shimmer bright, And crimson roses once again be fair, And autumn harvest fields a rich delight, Although You are not there. But though kind Time may many joys renew, There is one greatest joy I shall not know Again, because my heart for loss of You Was broken, long ago.

Imperfections reveal true beauty

I know I can't own a hilltop, a meadow, or a mountainside. But keeping it a secret somehow makes it mine.

Thick is the darkness-- Sunward, O, sunward! Rough is the highway-- Onward, still onward! Dawn harbors surely East of the shadows. Facing us somewhere Spread the sweet meadows. Upward and forward! Time will restore us: Light is above us, Rest is before us.

Even though the bee is small, there she is on the flower, doing something of value. And the value she creates there contributes to a larger ecosystem of value, in that mountain meadow, in that range of mountains, in the world and even the universe. And can’t you just feel how happy she is?

Roads go ever ever on Under cloud and under star Yet feet that wandering have gone Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen And horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green And trees and hills they long have known.

[...] confusing time with its mathematical progression, as the old do, to whom all the past is not a diminishing road but, instead, a huge meadow which no winter ever touches.

Surrounding yourself with empowering books and people on a daily basis will put you into a positive state that will inspire you to raise your standards. Please keep in mind it’s a process of conditioning,

Amateurs think that if they were inspired all the time, they could be professionals. Professionals know that if they relied on inspiration, they’d be amateurs.

... Correspondence, which bears much the same relation to personal intercourse that the books of dried plats I sometimes see do to the living and fresh flowers in the lanes and meadows.

People often ask where I get my ideas from, sometimes as often as eighty-seven times a day. This is a well-known hazard for writers, and the correct response to the question is first to breathe deeply, steady your heartbeat, fill your mind with peaceful, calming images of birdsong and buttercups in spring meadows, and then try to say, "It's very interesting you ask that..." before breaking down and start to whimper uncontrollably.

Roses are picked every day, they are told that they will be better off sold in the flower shoppe. And so they go from the hands of the picker; to the hands of the delivery man; to the hands of the florist; to the hands of the customer; and then often to the hands of the final recipient of the rose. From field, cut by scissors and passed from hand to hand. The world has forgotten that it is okay for roses to be in fields, the world has forgotten the beauty of the rose uncut. The bouquet is praised and given away but the wild roses are forgotten. People have forgotten what “wild” means; they think it means something entirely different. The wild rose remains untouched, with roots and swayed by the meadow winds. And that is wild. I am wild for having roots and for being untouched and for seeing things that people have forgotten. And I will always remember— that it is okay to be uncut, that it is okay to be untouched by darkness, it is okay to be wild.

We're all human beings, when did we change to havings? Living out our life through things. How do we get back to being again?

There’s always the option of deciding for yourself who you are and what you’ll become.

Spring afternoon, beautiful flowery meadow, gentle breeze touching the heart, this is the magic of life.

Opportunity is another word for moving on. And it is a word choice, which is often the wiser. If the well gets poisoned, move to a meadow of merriment, where your hearts will echo the more.

One simple change – replacing news and mass media with books – can produce dramatic changes in your life. No matter what your ambition in life is, you can find books that will inspire you to work on your goals.

Roads go ever ever on, Over rock and under tree, By caves where never sun has shone, By streams that never find the sea; Over snow by winter sown, And through merry flowers of June, Over grass and under stone, And under mountains in the moon. Roads go ever ever on Under cloud and under star Yet feet that wandering have gone Turn at last to home afar. Eyes that fire and sword have seen And horror in the halls of stone Look at last on meadows green And trees and hills they long have known.

I love you, Tanzy Meadows.” His whispered words circled her ear, her heart, her innermost being. Tender kisses tantalized her neck. “Tell me you love me too.

Amateurs sit and wait for inspiration, the rest of us just get up and go to work.

We're comfortable. He knows I love him. He can see it in my eyes, like I can in his. Not everything needs to be as you imagine. Passion can be a calm meadow just as much as a hurricane.

To a Familiar Genius Flying By Reveal yourself, anonymous enchanter! What heaven hastens you to me? Why draw me to that promised land again That I gave up so long ago? Was it not you who in my youth Enchanted me with such sweet dreams, Did you not whisper, long ago, Dear hopes of a guests ethereal? Was it not you through whom all lived In golden days, in happy lands Of fragrant meadows, waters bright, Where days were merry ?neath clear skies? Was it not you who breathed into my vernal breast Some melancholy mysteries Tormenting it with keen desire Exciting it to anxious joy? Was it not you who bore my soul aloft Upon the inspiration of your sacred verse, Who flamed before me like a holy vision, Initiating me into life's beauty? In hours lost, hours of secret grief, Did you not always murmur to my heart, With happy comfort soothe it And nurture it with quiet hope? Did not my soul forever heed you In all the purest moments of my life When'ere it glimpsed fate's sacred essence With only God to witness it? What news bring you, O, my enchantress? Or will you once more call in dreams Awaken futile thoughts of old, Whisper of joy and then fall silent? O spirit, bide with me awhile; O, faithful friend, haste not away; Stay, please become my earthly life, O, Guardian angel of my soul.

At the moment of death, the soul's impressions are similar to those of initiates in the ways of the Great Mysteries. First they rush along blindly, twisting and turning, on an endless, anxious journey through the shadows. Then, just before the end, their fear reaches its height. Bathed in cold sweat, they shiver and tremble, utterly terrified. This phase is almost immediately followed by a return to the light, a sudden illumination. They are surrounded by a marvelous glow and move through pure places and meadows ringing with voices and dancing. Sacred words inspire religious respect. The perfect initiate is free to celebrate the Mysteries.

May the light that reflects on water be this wild prayer. May water lift us with its unexpected strength. May we find comfort in the "repeated refrains of nature," the softly sheltering snow, the changing seasons, the return of blackbirds to the marsh. May we find strength in light that pours in under snow and laughter that breaks through tears. May we go out into the light-filled snow, among meadows in bloom, with gratitude for life that is deep and alive. May Earth's fire burn in our hearts, and may we know ourselves part of this flame--one thing, never alone, never weary of life. So may it be. "Never Alone or Weary

As a fantasist, I well understand the power of escapism, particularly as relates to romance. But when so many stories aimed at the same audience all trumpet the same message – And Lo! There shall be Two Hot Boys, one of them your Heart’s Intended, the other a vain Pretender who is also hot and with whom you shall have guilty makeouts before settling down with your One True Love – I am inclined to stop viewing the situation as benign and start wondering why, for instance, the heroines in these stories are only ever given a powerful, magical destiny of great importance to the entire world so long as fulfilling it requires male protection, guidance and companionship, and which comes to an end just as soon as they settle their inevitable differences with said swain and start kissing. I mean to invoke is something of the danger of mob rule, only applied to narrative and culture. Viz: that the comparative harmlessness of individuals does not prevent them from causing harm en masse. Take any one story with the structure mentioned above, and by itself, there’s no problem. But past a certain point, the numbers begin to tell – and that poses a tricky question. In the case of actual mobs, you’ll frequently find a ringleader, or at least a core set of agitators: belligerent louts who stir up feeling well beyond their ability to contain it. In the case of novels, however, things aren’t so clear cut. Authors tell the stories they want to tell, and even if a number of them choose to write a certain kind of narrative either in isolation or inspired by their fellows, holding any one of them accountable for the total outcome would be like trying to blame an avalanche on a single snowflake. Certainly, we may point at those with the greatest (arguable) influence or expostulate about creative domino effects, but as with the drop that breaks the levee, it is impossible to try and isolate the point at which a cluster of stories became a culture of stories – or, for that matter, to hold one particular narrative accountable for the whole.

The simultaneity of near and far confused me; I thought it possible to find the past, the present and the future united in one place, giving it all that life can hold; but I had grave doubts that at any given moment life might reign both here and there, on this side and that side of the seas and mountains. And such doubts, demanding resolution, may have inspired earliest journeys: I went forth, not to learn what fear was but to test what the names held and feel their magic in the flesh, just as, at the open window, you feel the miraculous power of the sun you'd long seen reflected on distant hills and spread on dewy meadows.

When English author Anna Sewell wrote Black Beauty, in the late nineteenth century, she said that her aim was to “induce kindness, sympathy, and an understanding treatment of horses.” Though now considered a children’s classic, the book was originally intended for an adult audience. Narrated from the horse’s point of view, the novel describes Black Beauty’s life, from his earliest memory, of “a large pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it” to his wretched existence pulling a heavy load for a cruel peddler. The sentimental and emotionally wrenching book was wildly popular, quickly becoming a bestseller first in England and then in the United States, where it became a favorite of the progressive movement. Sewell’s book was the first to popularize interest in the plight of the horse and to generate widespread concern about the beast of burden’s treatment.

Toward an Organic Philosophy SPRING, COAST RANGE The glow of my campfire is dark red and flameless, The circle of white ash widens around it. I get up and walk off in the moonlight and each time I look back the red is deeper and the light smaller. Scorpio rises late with Mars caught in his claw; The moon has come before them, the light Like a choir of children in the young laurel trees. It is April; the shad, the hot headed fish, Climbs the rivers; there is trillium in the damp canyons; The foetid adder’s tongue lolls by the waterfall. There was a farm at this campsite once, it is almost gone now. There were sheep here after the farm, and fire Long ago burned the redwoods out of the gulch, The Douglas fir off the ridge; today the soil Is stony and incoherent, the small stones lie flat And plate the surface like scales. Twenty years ago the spreading gully Toppled the big oak over onto the house. Now there is nothing left but the foundations Hidden in poison oak, and above on the ridge, Six lonely, ominous fenceposts; The redwood beams of the barn make a footbridge Over the deep waterless creek bed; The hills are covered with wild oats Dry and white by midsummer. I walk in the random survivals of the orchard. In a patch of moonlight a mole Shakes his tunnel like an angry vein; Orion walks waist deep in the fog coming in from the ocean; Leo crouches under the zenith. There are tiny hard fruits already on the plum trees. The purity of the apple blossoms is incredible. As the wind dies down their fragrance Clusters around them like thick smoke. All the day they roared with bees, in the moonlight They are silent and immaculate. SPRING, SIERRA NEVADA Once more golden Scorpio glows over the col Above Deadman Canyon, orderly and brilliant, Like an inspiration in the brain of Archimedes. I have seen its light over the warm sea, Over the coconut beaches, phosphorescent and pulsing; And the living light in the water Shivering away from the swimming hand, Creeping against the lips, filling the floating hair. Here where the glaciers have been and the snow stays late, The stone is clean as light, the light steady as stone. The relationship of stone, ice and stars is systematic and enduring: Novelty emerges after centuries, a rock spalls from the cliffs, The glacier contracts and turns grayer, The stream cuts new sinuosities in the meadow, The sun moves through space and the earth with it, The stars change places. The snow has lasted longer this year, Than anyone can remember. The lowest meadow is a lake, The next two are snowfields, the pass is covered with snow, Only the steepest rocks are bare. Between the pass And the last meadow the snowfield gapes for a hundred feet, In a narrow blue chasm through which a waterfall drops, Spangled with sunset at the top, black and muscular Where it disappears again in the snow. The world is filled with hidden running water That pounds in the ears like ether; The granite needles rise from the snow, pale as steel; Above the copper mine the cliff is blood red, The white snow breaks at the edge of it; The sky comes close to my eyes like the blue eyes Of someone kissed in sleep. I descend to camp, To the young, sticky, wrinkled aspen leaves, To the first violets and wild cyclamen, And cook supper in the blue twilight. All night deer pass over the snow on sharp hooves, In the darkness their cold muzzles find the new grass At the edge of the snow.

In 1853, Haussmann began the incredible transformation of Paris, reconfiguring the city into 20 manageable arrondissements, all linked with grand, gas-lit boulevards and new arteries of running water to feed large public parks and beautiful gardens influenced greatly by London’s Kew Gardens. In every quarter, the indefatigable prefect, in concert with engineer Jean-Charles Alphand, refurbished neglected estates such as Parc Monceau and the Jardin du Luxembourg, and transformed royal hunting enclaves into new parks such as enormous Bois de Boulogne and Bois de Vincennes. They added romantic Parc des Buttes Chaumont and Parc Montsouris in areas that were formerly inhospitable quarries, as well as dozens of smaller neighborhood gardens that Alphand described as "green and flowering salons." Thanks to hothouses that sprang up in Paris, inspired by England’s prefabricated cast iron and glass factory buildings and huge exhibition halls such as the Crystal Palace, exotic blooms became readily available for small Parisian gardens. For example, nineteenth-century metal and glass conservatories added by Charles Rohault de Fleury to the Jardin des Plantes, Louis XIII’s 1626 royal botanical garden for medicinal plants, provided ideal conditions for orchids, tulips, and other plant species from around the globe. Other steel structures, such as Victor Baltard’s 12 metal and glass market stalls at Les Halles in the 1850s, also heralded the coming of Paris’s most enduring symbol, Gustave Eiffel’s 1889 Universal Exposition tower, and the installation of steel viaducts for trains to all parts of France. Word of this new Paris brought about emulative City Beautiful movements in most European capitals, and in the United States, Bois de Boulogne and Parc des Buttes Chaumont became models for Frederick Law Olmsted’s Central Park in New York. Meanwhile, for Parisians fascinated by the lakes, cascades, grottoes, lawns, flowerbeds, and trees that transformed their city from just another ancient capital into a lyrical, magical garden city, the new Paris became a textbook for cross-pollinating garden ideas at any scale. Royal gardens and exotic public pleasure grounds of the Second Empire became springboards for gardens such as Bernard Tschumi’s vast, conceptual Parc de La Villette, with its modern follies, and “wild” jardins en mouvement at the Fondation Cartier and the Musée du Quai Branly. In turn, allées of trees in some classic formal gardens were allowed to grow freely or were interleaved with wildflower meadows and wild grasses for their unsung beauty. Private gardens hidden behind hôtel particulier walls, gardens in spacious suburbs, city courtyards, and minuscule rooftop terraces, became expressions of old and very new gardens that synthesized nature, art, and outdoors living.

These Moments Cascade Upon One Another "Here at shepherd's dusk, in a valley without echo, I listen for you. With a frayed longing, I hear your shadow voice whispering within me from far away. I grasp at what is left of this husky sun lying golden upon the upper meadows of lodge pole and bear grass. I gather the last remnants of the evening's breeze, so cool and lazy within my arms, feeling it curl up like a small and innocent kitten. And I see that behind a cloak of clouds, dalliance suits the canting moon. Suddenly I do not wish to lose another moment, And I covet all pristine light.

Grampa says the grass is not greener on the other side. All grass changes with the seasons, it grows, it browns, and it can die if you do not nurture it. You must accept the changes, yet the grass is as green as you make it right here and now! Going from one meadow to another does not change the season! Or the meadow!" Deetkatu, Meet the Little People…An Enchanting Adventure

Grampa says the grass is not greener on the other side. All grass changes with the seasons, it grows, it browns, and it can die if you do not nurture it. You must accept the changes, yet the grass is as green as you make it right here and now! Going from one meadow to another does not change the season! Or the meadow! Deetkatu, See the Little People…An Enchanting Adventure

Wonder is all around us, when we know how to look. It's often in the simple spaces; a meadow, a stream, an unturned rock.

Beyond thorns are blooming meadows, beyond grief are smiles. Numb is the world, but why must you be? Anchor feet on the shore of melodies, in dance, all stress shall release.

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

Spring brings the earth's tender trills...as the meadows bathed in sunlight...burst with tender greens.... There comes the song of awakening for the impossible becomes possible ...What seemed so dull, becomes a fragrant charm....and you fall in love with this earth again...What stayed colorless finds its color...and the pale roots are pale no more for the universe sings of an awakening....

Meadows would bore without greenery, and woods would be silent without birds and insects. There would have been no thrill had the stream or brook not babbled or trickled.

Suffered and writhed, shrieked and tumbled, bones snapping, skin splitting-a sight inspiring the very worst memories of those who had been turned into such an abomination. The difference became stark, bloated bodies writhing, eight legs becoming two. In short order, nine drow, not nine drider abominations, sat on the meadow, confused

Bring me the sunrise of a faraway land where the soul sings of the memories of night and the sleeping dark leaps into light.....Tell me the story of torment and delight how distant moors turn into meadows of blooms and my sobbing deeps become the prairie soul.

To those who think it’s not a good thing to have the men give up their dogs and be heartbroken, Jacobs-Meadows says: “Life carries with it unexpected happenings that involve tragedy and loss. And the lesson here is that if you keep doing the next right thing and making the next right decision, the next great joy is right around the corner.” In the case of Canine CellMates, that joy is getting another dog and falling in love all over again.

As the earth smiles in the memories of unremembered flowers, poetry breaks loose from the meadows for the blooms that have gone to sleep. Celebrating their stories, let it be a festival of memories, of somebody's last words, those last moments with untold goodbye...

Love, if it is true, will awaken you to a festival of seasons. You walk through a desert and it becomes a meadow of roses. You behold the sunset and there you fall in love with the sky. You come to the sea to drink into it for there you find the wine of ecstasy...

Avery was gone from his arms again, pulling him forward. "Oh, and you're hot. I mean, you were a good-looking older man, but this is just how I remember you the first night I met you. Damn, I'm a lucky soul. And don't look at me like that. I'm working on the language, but apparently that's my cross to bear, it's what I brought forward with me." The light and the meadow faded and a heavenly realm opened into something Kane again had no words for. Never could he have even imagined something so awe-inspiring and stunning. And his Avery was right there beside him, wrapping an arm around him. "See? It's so much better here. We're completely accepted and loved.

There’s no other way but work, work and work. Read widely, live wildly, plumb the depths of your­self, turn your­self inside out until you find your voice

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being and dance are one.

O wayfarer! Yearn finds quench, not in meadows, seashores or altitude of mountain peaks; but when being becomes dance.

We should be listening to the stars in the heavens and the sun and the moon, to the mountains and the plains, to the forest and rives and seas that surround us, to the meadows and the flowering grasses, to the songbirds and the insects and to their music especially in the evening and the early hours of the night. We ned to experience, to feel, and to see these myriad creatures all caught up in the celebration of life. [...] We have lost sight of the fact that these myriad creatures are revelations of the divine and inspirations to our spiritual life. Our inner spiritual world cannot be activated without experience of the outer world of wonder for the mind, beauty for the imagination, and intimacy for the emotions.

How the roses of meadows..the red stretches of beauty open into a laughing sky along the walk.!... Into ecstatic oblivion, I fall as the flowers shoot from tender buds and gone is the rush of life, for I settle into a deep blooming.

That moment when you desperately needed someone...but the world pushed you aside. That moment when you desperately wanted an understanding shoulder...but remained left aside....For those caught up in the fog of wanting and forsakenness...For them are these words of mine....Gaze at the dawn that makes you halt in the middle of racing thoughts....Be bewildered ...at how the meadows hold so many flowers...Delve into a book that takes you to another world....for they will come with arms around your shoulder when it is shaky...My friends...they are the bringers of light...

Once Upon a Starless Night by Maisie Aletha Smikle One starless night The dish flew away And left the spoon The spoon looked for the moon But the moon was not in tune It decided to come at noon The midnight sky wondered why The moon and the stars were not in the sky O what a moonless starless night Nothing was in sight Except the night owls and alley cats Their eyes casting shadows on the meadows Why O why moans the midnight sky Are the moon and stars gone from the sky Why O why cries the spoon Is the dish gone when there is no moon Shadows drift And the spoon makes a wish O starless night I wish For a flying dish To rest my spoon And find the moon That's out of tune And wants to come at noon An angel heard the wish And brought the dish The stars and the moon Back to the spoon

Things seemed truly wild out here where some men had no respect for civility, the sanctity of human life, and the law. Now he understood why they called it the Wild West, and today he felt trapped in it. —Jake Hunter, "Cherry Crossing" by Lisa M. Prysock.

For a moment, he wondered if reading the Bible, immersing herself in prayer, or holiness contained the secret to her glow, but he had a feeling all three contributed to her appeal and wellbeing. —Jake Hunter, "Cherry Crossing" by Lisa M. Prysock.

Jake acknowledged her remarks with raised brows, an emphatic and knowing nod, and a peculiar smile while a coughing fit escaped Hugh. He’d heard all about Josie and could barely contain his amusement with the nun’s remarks. Jake tried to temper his reply. “Yes, we’ve experienced the determination of Miss Hayes.” —Jake Hunter, "Cherry Crossing" by Lisa M. Prysock.

Those who do not join us in the fight—and especially at the dinner table since it’s where we shall win this battle—are against us.” —Josie Hayes, "Sparrow’s Hope" by Lisa M. Prysock.

Women of the west are determined for life to be different and better for us out here,” Jill pointed out. “It takes some time for newcomers to catch on to what it means to us to carve out a new life here in this wilderness. Think how long it has taken for Honey River Canyon to grow. When we arrived, barely anything was here.” —Jillian Hayes, "Sparrow’s Hope" by Lisa M. Prysock.

Ah, I had no idea the ladies are marking certain gentleman targets as their territory." —Jake Hunter, "Sparrow’s Hope" by Lisa M. Prysock.

Josie, if I didn’t know better, I’d say that’s Jake driving his buggy like a madman up our drive.” Jill’s eyes widened as she dropped her fork. —Jillian Hayes, "Sparrow’s Hope" by Lisa M. Prysock.

Jackie laughed and shook her head. “I never could fool you, Jill. I see you are feeling better. Perhaps your presence would have helped me, but I do not blame you for what I have managed to do of my own reprehensible free will and accord.” —Jacqueline Hayes, Sparrow’s Hope

A perfect traveller who, as it flows, overcomes all obstacles. It cuts through the rock, flows through the meadows, crosses the dense forest, clears all the dirt in its path, and sets off on its own wonderful adventure.

The natural world benevolently embraces all who show it care and respect. The rivers, forests and meadows love to hear our laughter. The birds, butterflies and flowers appreciate our admiration. The fire gladly transforms our pain, while the ocean blithely supports our rebirth

Close your eyes and imagine a vast, open space, perhaps a meadow or a clearing in a forest. In the center of this space stands a young tree, still delicate and small. This tree represents you at the beginning of your smoking journey. Its brown and withered leaves symbolize the harmful effects of smoking on your health and life. With each cigarette you’ve smoked, the tree has suffered another blow. Its leaves have turned browner, its bark has become more cracked, and its branches more brittle. But then, you make the decision to quit smoking. As soon as you make this decision, the tree begins to change. With each smoke-free day, new green leaves sprout. Its bark becomes smoother, its branches sturdier. It grows and extends its roots deep into the earth, absorbing nutrients and reaching for the sky. With each passing day, the tree becomes larger, stronger, and more vibrant. Months and years go by, and the tree becomes a monumental testament to your determination and willpower. Its dense foliage offers shelter and shade, and its sturdy trunk withstands the fiercest storms. It is a symbol of health, growth, and longevity. This tree represents your life without cigarettes. It shows that from a decision, from a first step, powerful change can arise. Every time you feel the urge to smoke, remember your Tree of Life and see how it continues to evolve, bloom, and thrive. Use this image as inspiration and a reminder that you have the power to change yourself and your life for the better.

Suffered and writhed, shrieked and tumbled, bones snapping, skin splitting-a sight inspiring the very worst memories of those who had been turned into such an abomination. The difference became stark, bloated bodies withering, eight legs becoming two. In short order, nine drow, not nine drider abominations, sat on the meadow, confused

Every soul is madly moved by the swell of seas....the endlessness of sandy stretches....the limitless freedom of heaven....for in the immensity of grandeur, you pause in awe and there you realize your insignificance. Your eyes though catch the range of mountains and the forests so thick, and the stars strewn in a night sky....though you feel the frozen expanse and dismal heath...the wild peonies laughing on the meadows...still, there is a maze, so powerful it seems....for boundless, countless, unending it is. That which you feel within is powerful and the more you slip into your feelings...the more it has its hold over you. The layer of emotions you have in multitudes might seem in conflict at times...but remain in awe by what is yet to be seen...for what is unseen is even more powerful than what is already seen. This is called madness....an inviting, enticing, overpowering madness to which you need to surrender...for this is the pathway to freedom it seems....

Nature Thou Art Beautiful Tiny waterfalls tumbling down elegant slopes of smoothly eroded treacherous rocks..... Trees magnificently and beautifully displayed. Their branches sheltering little springs that sprout from beneath. Soft clouds beckon from above. Like wool blankets, hovering over trees, mountains, hills, cliffs, caves and plains. Moistening hilltops, freshly fallen leaves, trees, grass, valleys and meadows with their heavenly dew. Wind hearkens it's ears, to the voice of the One who speaks the language of the winds. The winds obey and swaying breeze gently rock nature sweetly, to slumber..... The stars shine, the moon is bright and it's a starry night. O slumber thou art indeed sweet. O nature's lullabies have rocked me to sleep... Zzzz... and the night is spent.... "Hello!" greets the Sun. "I'm here to start all over again!

One promising way of redefining the meaning of ‘economist’ is to look to those who have gone beyond new economic thinking to new economic doing: the innovators who are evolving the economy one experiment at a time. Their impact is already reflected in the take-off of new business models, in the proven dynamism of the collaborative commons, in the vast potential of digital currencies and in the inspiring possibilities of regenerative design. As Donella Meadows made clear, the power of self-organisation—the ability of a system to add, change and evolve its own structure—is a high leverage point for whole system change. And that unleashes a revolutionary thought: it makes economists of us all. If economies change by evolving, then every experiment—be it a new enterprise model, complementary currency or open-source collaboration —helps to diversify, select and amplify a new economic future.

When I tell an inspiring story or when writing a verse, some days my thoughts are just like cocoons hanging from the saturated branches of creativity in the grey woods of my mind’s eye. In time, through the spectacular metamorphous of imagery and innovation those thoughts become butterflies which enter the world in different colors and sizes out of the meadows of printed pages. Excerpt From Resiliency The Spirit With In

Why Do the Silent Winds Howl? by Maisie Aletha Smikle Winds gallop In velocity Velocity you can detect Velocity which other than the object being moved by the force of the air You cannot see neither can you touch Knots faster than the speed of light Churn in unified force To push everything except Mountains and lands out of sight The silent air of the wind moves Forcing and gushing through holes and crevices And hastens to vacuum plateaus Plains valleys meadows and sandy deserts Taking chattels fossils Structures and trees Anything its forces can carry Upon the wind arrival and contact with land and objects Nature sends off a howl or whistle Bringing all species to full attention As the silent wind moves With forces stronger than a million battalion No force can withstand such a force Neither air force space force Land force sea force or nuclear force All forces flee from the forces of this force Nature whistles Nature howls Nature pleads Stay away species stay away Else you'll be carried like fossils and pieces of species by the silent wind That says neither hello nor goodbye

Dear Secrets of the Earth, You are a place beyond belief. You are home to many, but only a few are able to understand you. When the wind is whooshing, it sounds like wind chimes. When the breeze offers its sweet gestures, it opens my heart and soul to be still and let everything—just be. The sky looks like a painting. It is a limitless portrait! When the streams collide, you can see the reflection of the sea of clouds. When the wind is whistling, it calms the meadow of the thoughts that form in my mind. The night air has such a deep definition of the earthbound because everything is asleep as it is firmly attached to the earth without movement—just resting to prepare for the next day. I always wondered how a wildflower can be so soft when it is stepped on and covered by weeds. It is because the earth has covered it in boundless, endless love. I am a wildflower; there is no such thing as being tamed; we take what is given and somehow find our way. I’ve been to thirteen homes in all. Yet, I still somehow and somewhere let love shine through the darkest hours, which lead to days. However, just like the wildflower, I am still here. Dear Secrets of the Earth, what are your golden rules? Is it to just go with the flow? Love endlessly without regret? Live and learn from your mistakes? Or is it something simple, such as continue to have faith while we reach for the stars? If so, could you give me a boost? Thank you for your company.

When the wind is whistling, it calms the meadow of the thoughts that form in my mind.

Waterfall by Maisie Aletha Smikle Soothing water gushing from the rocks Hastens to meet the rivers and streams That meet in the ocean deep Never to reach a mountain peak Soft mist rises from the lunging gush As crystal water plunges down in a rush Carried by the gentle breeze Like a balm it calms the soul with ease It dims the heat and cools the air Trickles on the grassy meadow And on the sand beneath Cooling pebbles for your feet As you walk the sandy shore Inhaling cool mist as you tour And watch the little birds soar Chirping and singing like never before Beautiful waterfall So splendid and so tall Climb to the top And view the backdrop Mountains elegantly towering Over hills and plains beneath Casting shadows On lush green meadows Crystal clear water drops Naturally pure to the very last drop Nature is kind nature is fine Nature is undoubtedly divine

I am the wing of the angels and the scent of the flowers on Earth. I am the palm comforting you, and the lips kissing you. I am the petals of love, and the One who sent me is love itself. I am the longing that you feel and the voice shouting to you. I am the meadow and the rainbow, the eagle and the pigeon. I am the light of the world which descended in the swamp of lie and cleaned it. I am the hair of the woman washing Your feet and the eyes crying for Your wounds.

Have you noticed when you get impractical and let yourself get dreamy and playful, wonderful things happen? It’s like stepping off your path and finding a hidden meadow of sunflowers.

we miss the joy of new seasons when we continue grieving the old ones.

The Kingdom of the Meadows (G)oldenrod C(o)smos Re(d)-hot poker Bea(r)dtongue Marg(u)erite Beeba(l)m Speedw(e)ll Blazing (s)tar ="s God Rules

And remember, following Christ is a lifelong journey. Christians are foot soldiers, so to speak. Always learning. Always growing stronger.