Pond Inspirational Quotes

We can't be afraid of change. You may feel very secure in the pond that you are in, but if you never venture out of it, you will never know that there is such a thing as an ocean, a sea. Holding onto something that is good for you now, may be the very reason why you don't have something better.

THE FOUR HEAVENLY FOUNTAINS Laugh, I tell you And you will turn back The hands of time. Smile, I tell you And you will reflect The face of the divine. Sing, I tell you And all the angels will sing with you! Cry, I tell you And the reflections found in your pool of tears - Will remind you of the lessons of today and yesterday To guide you through the fears of tomorrow.

Do not seek illumination unless you seek it as a man whose hair is on fire seeks a pond.

You might be a big fish in a little pond, Doesn't mean you've won 'Coz along may come a bigger one.

What's the worth of sadness in front of happiness? Like a leaf that's blown away by the wind. What's the worth of despair in front of hope? Like a dirty stone that's thrown in a clean pond. What's the worth of chaos in front of peace? Like a flying kite that's string has been cut down. What's the worth of disunion in front of the union? Like a fish that's breathing but not in water.

God would not bring you through a Red Sea and turn around and allow you to perish in a fish pond.

There were plenty of fishes in the pond, yet i fell in love with a crocodile.

It snows. So I don't even have to go to the pond for fresh water — just reach out the door for a handful of snow. Melt it, and it's sweet as the sky.

The ocean was back in the pond, and the only knowledge I was left with, as if I had woken from a dream on a summer's day, was that it had not been long ago since I had known everything. I looked at Lettie in the moonlight. "Is that how it is for you? I asked. "Is what how it is for me?" "Do you still know everything, all the time?" ...She wrinkled her nose. "Everybody did. I told you. It's nothing special, knowing how things work. And you really do have to give it all up if you want to play." "To play what?" "This," she said. She waved at the house and the sky and the impossible full moon and the skeins and the shawls and clusters of bright stars.

Too many of you are doing great stuff in small ponds, it's time for a stir-up, break limits, break boundaries, breakthrough. Go, make it happen!

Our brains read things, just like the happy squirrel sitting on a pond.

Does a caterpillar sit on the same leaf when it's a butterfly? No! It goes for a little fly and sees something of the world. Does the tadpole stay in the same pond once it's a frog? No! It stretches its legs, goes for a jump, explores other waters. Did Cinderella go back cleaning hearths once she married the prince? ... Transformation means moving forward. If a butterfly stays on the same leaf and a frog stays in the same pond, then they may as well have stayed a caterpillar or a tadpole. There was no point in metamorphosing.

Playing along in the yard, The blue sky sparkles against the earthly green, Creating such harmony! A pond, nearby. Untroubled waters mirrors the ether's dreams. A grand echo of my Divine Heart! I am One

unlike, say, the sun, or the rainbow, or earthquakes, the fascinating world of the very small never came to the notice of primitive peoples. if you think about this for a minute, it's not really surprising.. they had no way of even knowing it was there, and so of course they didn't invent any myths to explain it. it wasn't until the microscope was invented in the sixteenth century that people discovered that ponds and lakes, soil and dust, even our body, teem with tiny living creatures, too small to see, yet too complicated and, in their own way, beautiful, or perhaps frightening, depending on how you think about them. the whole world is made of incredibly tiny things, much too small to be visible to the naked eye - and yet none of the myths or so-called holy books that some people, even now, think were given to us by an all knowing god, mentions them at all. in fact, when you look at those myths and stories, you can see that they don't contain any of the knowledge that science has patiently worked out. they don't tell us how big or how old the universe is; they don't tell us how to treat cancer; they don't explain gravity or the internal combustion engine; they don't tell us about germs, or nuclear fusion, or electricity, or anaesthetics. in fact, unsurprisingly, the stories in holy books don't contain any more information about the world than was known to the primitive people who first started telling them. if these 'holly books' really were written, or dictated, or inspired, by all knowing gods, don't you think it's odd that those gods said nothing about any of these important and useful things?

The pond is clear, but it isn't this beyond the sea blue and has never been. The sky is blue, but it isn't this strikingly bright and vivid nor has it ever been. But together, and in each other's company, they are more beautiful than they could ever have been alone...

The lessons are in the quest. The answers are found in the journey. These are ripples on a pond. They spread outward. And on we walk...

On clear nights, the moon casts a glow on everything uniformly. It doesn’t discriminate by shining on one pond and not on another.

You are the water that flows freely, the most dynamic force on the planet with the ability to change course and outlook at any time. You can be a raging river or a placid pond. A source of nourishment, or a breaker of walls. Part of an ocean or a solitary drop. You are dynamic, you are beauty, you are life.

It's been much harder to forgive myself. My mistake was like a pebble dropped in a pond. The ripple effect has impacted everyone I love.

So death, the most terrifying of ills, is nothing to us, since so long as we exist, death is not with us; but when death comes, then we do not exist.—Epicurus

i would rather be a shark in a small pond with small fishis then a shark with bigger sharks then you

But if you could read my thoughts, you would be welcome to come in and listen to the story of my life. At least, you could slip your arm through the bars and touch me and I will hold out my forepaw to greet you, after retracting my claws, of course. You are carried away by appearances - my claws and fangs and the glowing eyes frighten you no doubt. I don't blame you. I don't know why God has chosen to give us this fierce make-up, the same God who has created the parrot, the peacock, and the deer, which inspire poets and painters. I would not blame you for keeping your distance — I myself shuddered at my own reflection on the still surface of a pond while crouching for a drink of water, not when I was really a wild beast, but after I came under the influence of my Master and learnt to question, 'Who am I?' Don't laugh within yourself to hear me speak thus. I'll tell you about my Master presently.

I agree. To me, it [galloping on horseback] is the essence of freedom—the power of the beast beneath you, the wind in your face, the thundering of the hooves. It is a great elixir for the soul.” “And does your soul need healing, Benjamin?” she asked quietly, gently running her fingertips across his bicep and down his forearm. He turned away from the view of the pond and looked at her with clear, blue eyes, his expression serious. He captured her fingers in the palm of his hand. “My healing started the day I met you. You are my elixir.” “Then perhaps you need another dose,” she whispered, her face upturned as she leaned closer to him.

Remember that when you throw a pebble into any pond, it will disturb the surface. Always be sure of your reason for casting the stone, for those ripples will come back to you eventually. -- Jala, Healer to the Royal House of Soris

When her parents had company over, it wasn’t uncommon to see guests stopping to check out the koi ponds, exotic flowers and rare species of trees that offered plenty of cool shade. This backyard could easily rival the best botanical garden in town.

THE STATE OF SELF REALISATION BEHIND THE MIND The reflection of the Self is like that of the moon in a pond, which is distorted due to the ripples of the restless mind. It is when the mind becomes still in the no-mind state that the Self can experience itself.

The term '20/20 vision' implies good if not perfect sight. May the advent of 2020 - a new year, a new decade - see a lifting of the fog which has recently blurred the edges of what can be described as 'acceptable political discourse', and in the process refocus voter attention on the clear need to demand from elected representatives, a display of basic decency and decorum in public life - both of which have been seriously lacking in the behaviour of some high profile politicians on both sides of the pond, on an eye-watering number of occasions. That indeed would be a sight for sore eyes.

As I walked by a small pond—my reflection was looking back at me. The cloudy sky reflection makes the pond look like dark clouds are underwater. I know how that feels— mentally, it is a prison of dark forces tying your legs together as it refuses to let you kick and swim so that you can breathe. Instead, it drowns your thoughts with darkness and despair.

Please Call Me By My True Names Don’t say that I will depart tomorrow— even today I am still arriving. Look deeply: every second I am arriving to be a bud on a Spring branch, to be a tiny bird, with still-fragile wings, learning to sing in my new nest, to be a caterpillar in the heart of a flower, to be a jewel hiding itself in a stone. I still arrive, in order to laugh and to cry, to fear and to hope. The rhythm of my heart is the birth and death of all that is alive. I am a mayfly metamorphosing on the surface of the river. And I am the bird that swoops down to swallow the mayfly. I am a frog swimming happily in the clear water of a pond. And I am the grass-snake that silently feeds itself on the frog. I am the child in Uganda, all skin and bones, my legs as thin as bamboo sticks. And I am the arms merchant, selling deadly weapons to Uganda. I am the twelve-year-old girl, refugee on a small boat, who throws herself into the ocean after being raped by a sea pirate. And I am also the pirate, my heart not yet capable of seeing and loving. I am a member of the politburo, with plenty of power in my hands. And I am the man who has to pay his “debt of blood” to my people dying slowly in a forced-labor camp. My joy is like Spring, so warm it makes flowers bloom all over the Earth. My pain is like a river of tears, so vast it fills the four oceans. Please call me by my true names, so I can hear all my cries and laughter at once, so I can see that my joy and pain are one. Please call me by my true names, so I can wake up and the door of my heart could be left open, the door of compassion.

Sometimes, the youthful Hebe would insist on scattering her father`s seed further afield, & to various places, inside & outside Greece, & even in Italy. And when the seed of the King of the Gods was scattered into the rivers & streams, lakes & ponds, & the springs in the woods, Satyrs of various types were born, & also Nymphs & Naiads, those usually described as "the sons & daughters of Zeus", not those of Oceanus & Tethys, just as the Sea Nymphs, other than the Nereids, were the daughters of Poseidon. And this also accounts for the many cities, villages & places inside & outside Greece, said to be founded by a son or daughter of Zeus.

See that vine?" I said to Tobble. "My siblings and I used to swing out from it, then land in the lake." I gave a small laugh. "Well, they did anyway. I was too afraid." "You? Afraid?" "Always and forever," I said. "I'm beginning to think that's how life works." "Are we stopping here?" Tobble asked. "The horses are well watered." "Yes, but I'm not. Do you know what I need, Tobble? I need a swim." I checked the icy water with a long stick to be sure it was as deep as I recalled. Two silver fish darted past. As I clambered to a low-hanging branch, I felt a familiar shiver of anticipation and dread, and for a moment, I was the old Byx, with all her hopes and fears and longings. Then I kicked off as hard as I could, swung far out over the pond, and let go.

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.

With the news that he would soon be a daddy again, Steve seemed inspired to work even harder. Our zoo continued to get busier, and we had trouble coping with the large numbers. The biggest draw was the crocodiles. Crowds poured in for the croc shows, filling up all the grandstands. The place was packed. Steve came up with a monumental plan. He was a big fan of the Colosseum-type arenas of the Roman gladiator days. He sketched out his idea for me on a piece of paper. “Have a go at this, it’s a coliseum,” he declared, his eyes wide with excitement. He drew an oval, then a series of smaller ovals in back of it. “Then we have crocodile ponds where the crocs could live. Every day a different croc could come out for the show and swim through a canal system”--he sketched rapidly--“then come out in the main area.” “Canals,” I said. “Could you get them to come in on cue?” “Piece of cake!” he said. “And get this! We call it…the Crocoseum!” His enthusiasm was contagious. Never mind that nothing like this had ever been done before. Steve was determined to take the excitement and hype of the ancient Roman gladiators and combine it with the need to show people just how awesome crocs really were. But it was a huge project. There was nothing to compare it to, because nothing even remotely similar had ever been attempted anywhere in the world. I priced it out: The budget to build the arena would have to be somewhere north of eight million dollars, a huge expense. Wes, John, Frank, and I all knew we’d have to rely on Steve’s knowledge of crocodiles to make this work. Steve’s enthusiasm never waned. He was determined. This would become the biggest structure at the zoo. The arena would seat five thousand and have space beneath it for museums, shops, and a food court. The center of the arena would have land areas large enough for people to work around crocodiles safely and water areas large enough for crocs to be able to access them easily. “How is this going to work, Steve?” I asked, after soberly assessing the cost. What if we laid out more than eight million dollars and the crocodiles decided not to cooperate? “How are you going to convince a crocodile to come out exactly at showtime, try to kill and eat the keeper, and then go back home again?” I bit my tongue when I realized what was coming out of my mouth: advice on crocodiles directed at the world’s expert on croc behavior. Steve was right with his philosophy: Build it, and they will come. These were heady times. As the Crocoseum rose into the sky, my tummy got bigger and bigger with our new baby. It felt like I was expanding as rapidly as the new project. The Crocoseum debuted during an Animal Planet live feed, its premiere beamed all over the world. The design was a smashing success. Once again, Steve had confounded the doubters.

It's a poor frog that doesn't praise his own pond! - Donnie McClurkin

Whenever my mind is muddied by fears, longings, and unsolved problems and my body poised to fight or flee, I try to picture that jar of pond water. As I 'quiet myself' my anxieties sink and clarity emerges: there is no place that God is not, no calamity to be faced without Jesus by my side, and nothing in all creation that can separate me from God’s love.

Don’t conform. Don’t live in a small dirty pond when the ocean of life is lovingly inviting you.

Spending accumulated wealth is its protection; just as letting out water protects a pond.

Fear is a learned reaction that we can unlearn with practice and with changing our perceptions. When we don’t know how to swim, we fear jumping in a deep pond. If we know how to swim, we enjoy the jump.

The secret to reality, is stillness of body and mind. Mental clarity is like a pond. Still the pond. Let everything settle. Vision then becomes crystal clear. When we still the body. When we still the mind. When we let all thoughts and emotions settle. When we remove all distractions. Only then, we clearly see reality as it is.

In 1900, Kramrath had earned modest fame locally, as one of just four people in Albany to own an automobile. Two years later he was one of fifteen motorists to set out on a driving expedition for Petersburg, New York, about twenty-eight miles away; just four of them made it to their destination, Kramrath among them. In celebration they feasted at the home of the mother of Kramrath’s good friend Chauncey D. Hakes, a prominent motorist and charter member of the Albany Automobile Club who fraternized with Henry Ford, Thomas Edison, Harvey S. Firestone, and James R. Watt, who would be Albany’s Republican mayor from 1918 to 1921.

The Wonders of the Invisible World,

What they’ve produced here is a meticulous reconstruction of a sensational, forgotten crime, the investigation that followed, and its aftermath on the Capital region—over a century later—all rendered as gripping and immediate as an episode of Law and Order: SVU. It is also a relentless search for answers and justice, not only for Hazel Drew but for all the women who continue to fall victim to this monstrous plague of violence. It is, we now know, a crime as old as time. I think of her whenever I pass Teal’s Pond. The ripples this murder created in that still water have continued to radiate around the world for a hundred years. For all of our Hazels and Susans and Lauras, this book is a monument of remembrance to their lost and stolen lives. Mark Frost, cocreator of Twin Peaks

1 am green. A lotus flower in full-bloom residing in the lushness of the heart. Reaching, embracing, nourishing all in need. Fragile as the morning dew, as expansive as the depth offragrant forests. Ultimate unconditional acceptance, like the Mother Earth's love for her children. I am blue. Calm and cool, a reflection in a mirrored pond. Diamond stars married to the nighttime sky. The ocean waves curling back to their source. Kind, compassionate words serving as our guide, teacher, and mentor. Father Sky carries truth in the celestial music of his voice. I am purple. The richness of velvet and the elegance of silk. Diamonds of intuition embedded in the space of all-knowingness. Imagination running through the vastness of the dreamscape, playing in afield of swaying lavender, swirling in the energy of dimensions. Insight radiates softly into the mind's eye. I am white. Living within us like the innocence of a child. Sitting quietly, still with peace and patience, ready to serve. Every sparkling, dazzling particle on our planet shining forth universal light. The phenomenal beauty of pure Spirit. I am many colors. NOTE TO READERS This book is intended as an informational guide and is not meant to treat, diagnose, or prescribe. For any medical condition, physical conditions, or symptoms, always consult with a qualified physician or appropriate health care professional. Neither the author nor the publisher accepts any responsibility for your health or how you choose to use the information contained in this book. Names and identifying details have

So death, the most terrifying of ills, is nothing to us, since so long as we exist, death is not with us; but when death comes, then we do not exist. —Epicurus

Wendell Minor: I believe that children's books are the last pond in the Serengeti. They are the only place we go to drink for inspiration. All of us can still go - and do....

De boeddhisten zeggen dat een les zoiets is als 'een vinger die naar de maan wijst'. De maan (verlichting) is het ding waar het om gaat en de wijzende vinger probeert ons die kant op te krijgen, maar het is zaak niet de vinger met de maan te verwarren. Voor de schrijvers onder ons die ervan dromen ooit net zo'n verhaal te schrijven als de verhalen waarvan we hielden, waardoor we op aangename wijze werden opgeslokt en die eventjes werkelijker leken dan de zogenaamde werkelijkheid, is het doel ('de maan') de geestelijkheid te bereiken die ons in staat stelt zo'n verhaal te schrijven. Alle workshop-praat en verhalentheorie en aforistische, slimme, ambacht bevorderende slogans zijn slechts vingers die wijzen naar die maan en ons proberen te dirigeren naar die geestelijkheid.

We are not silt at the bottom of a river. We are the water that is flowing. There is no way they can confine us.

✿´´¯`•.¸¸. ི♥ The still, deep pond of what is familiar only bothers us when our personal spirit is ready for more.•¸.•♥•.¸¸.•♥ •¸..•*¨*•

A hundred miles beyond the point, the farthest point, the most distant point on the horizon. Out past the alkali flats and sinks; Misfit and Stillwater, Humboldt and Carson. Out over the mountains, ice age islands and archipelagos, Ichthyosaur, Columbian Mastodon boned talus slopes and scree fields. Beyond the Saltbrush, Bitterbrush, Creosote Plants and Rabbitbrush, petrified Redwood forests and Mount Mazama blowouts. Out over the playas, hoodos and springs, koi ponds and basins. Beyond the mustangs, horned lizards, whiptails and rattlers and over the abandoned mines; silver and gold, copper, bornite and cinnabar. Out past the hematite and jasper, chert and agate. Out over Lovelock, Spirit Cave and Wizard's Beach. Beyond the grinding rocks, diorite and granitic boulders cast adrift in a sea of sand, dust and wind. Beyond the Rye Grass, Ricegrass and Bunchgrass. Out over the land and into the distance and beyond. The distance of a thousand years, a million years, a century, a lifetime. A distance of roads forgotten and graves abandoned, misplaced Iris and Lilac the only indication of a person's passing. Out past Bonneville, Daggett, Donner and Walker. The two tracks, the single tracks, the deer tracks, coyote tracks, lizard tracks and no tracks at all. Out over the land.....

A hundred miles beyond the point, the farthest point, the most distant point on the horizon. Out past the alkali flats and sinks; Misfit and Stillwater, Humboldt and Carson. Out over the mountains, ice age islands and archipelagos, Ichthyosaur, Columbian Mastodon boned talus slopes and scree fields. Beyond the Saltbrush, Bitterbrush, Creosote Plants and Rabbitbrush, petrified Redwood forests and Mount Mazama blowouts. Out over the playas, hoodos and springs, koi ponds and basins. Beyond the mustangs, horned lizards, whiptails and rattlers and over the abandoned mines; silver and gold, copper, bornite and cinnabar. Out past the hematite and jasper, chert and agate. Out over Lovelock, Spirit Cave and Wizard's Beach. Beyond the grinding rocks, diorite and granitic boulders cast adrift in a sea of sand, dust and wind. Beyond the Rye Grass, Rice Grass and Bunchgrass. Out over the land into the distance and beyond. The distance of a thousand years, a million years, a century, a lifetime. A distance of roads forgotten and graves abandoned, misplaced Iris and Lilac the only indication of a person's passing. Out past Bonneville, Daggett, Donner and Walker. The two tracks, the single tracks, the deer and coyote tracks, lizard tracks and no tracks at all. Out over the land.....

When we're together, I'm a leaf floating on a pond. Weightlessly in love.

During the rainy seasons, life sprang up all over the place, and in the ponds and rivers life was abundant. Hoppy was born on a day in May in what was considered to be spring rain. Early in his froghood, Hoppy's identity was like all others, and what he wanted most was to have his own identity.

There was a pond right next to the house I grew up in. One afternoon while playing by the pond, I accidentally fell in it. There was nobody around at that time as it was afternoon and everybody was sleeping, and I was yet to learn swimming. So, I prayed to all the gods and goddesses like all the adult kids did in that culture. But no god or deity came to my rescue. So, I struggled under the murky water and finally managed to survive by pulling myself to the bank. Perhaps that was the first sign I received from Nature about the true helplessness of life. While you are drowning, no god is going to come to your rescue, so learn to swim my friend, because it is only you, the living god on earth, who can save yourself and nobody else. The only god there is, is your will to live - so, be aware of that Himalayan will and make it as conscientious as possible, for then only, can your godliness have any impact upon your life as well as the lives of others.

The fresco on one large wall was indeed the marvel Julian had promised. It was a Pre-Raphaelite portrayal of the Children of Lir, those four siblings cursed to remain swans for nine hundred years. Despite a ragged crack that was making its way down the plaster, the fresco was as pulsing with life as though one was actually looking out on a placid freshwater lake. When Marjan turned away from the painted wall, she saw its real-life inspiration outside the window. There, through floor-length panes, stood a pond complete with a flock of those gracious birds, the white-necked swans.

We could talk all about water. Rivers, waterfalls, ponds, lakes, and oceans. The different forms water takes. Fog, clouds, rain, and snow. What it looks like. How it tastes and smells. What it feels like. Yes, we could talk all about water. And we still wouldn’t be wet. There is only one way to experience water. Get into the water. We can think about water all we want. But that is not the same as experiencing water.

Only such witnessing could have inspired the mildly epiphanic passage in Seeds of Man, in which the clear air of the mountainous borderland all too briefly serves as an antidote to the industrial poisons that had choked the life out of both Okemah and Pampa. As Guthrie recalled it: “The feel and the breath of the air was all different, new, high, clear, clean, and light. None of the smokes and carbons, none of the charcoal smells of the oil fields. None of the sooty oil-field fires, none of the blackening slush-pond blazes, none of those big sheet-iron petroleum refineries, none of those big smoky carbon-black plants. No smells of the wild oil gusher on the breeze. No smells from that wild gas well blowing off twenty million feet into the good air every day.”30