Postcard Inspirational Quotes

Don't ever forget the words on a postcard that my father sent me last year: "If you win the rat race, you're still a rat.

What would happen if you gave yourself permission to do something you’ve never done before? There’s only one way to find out.

Tomorrow is promised to no one. Prioritize today accordingly.

The next time someone tries to make you feel bad about feeling good, respond by continuing to live well.

Experience is a master teacher, even when it’s not our own.

Practice makes comfort. Expand your experiences regularly so every stretch won’t feel like your first.

You have to know your own truth and stick to it. And never despair. Never give up. There's always hope. -from Postcards from No Man's Land

Packy watched her walk away, her perfect heart-shaped rear end testing the confines of her tight black dress. There was a God. Packy was now certain of it. How else could such heart-stopping beauty be accounted for? Such a thing could not be the product of a random universe. A flower, maybe. A rainbow, perhaps. But not Venus Versailles.

Follow your heart. Then root its longing with the facts.

It's tempting to believe that a break from life's routine will only cause chaos. But regimen does not ensure security. The only constant we can count on is change.

The notion of the perfect time is more than myth. It's the ultimate self-delusion.

To commune with your heart and soul, be willing to go out of your mind.

Stand up for yourself by not standing yourself up.

Treasure yourself for being, not doing.

It was a postcard. 'Greetings from the Land of 10,000 Lakes,' it said on the front. Park turned it over and recognized her scratchy handwriting. It filled his head with song lyrics. He sat up. He smiled. Something heavy and winged took off from his chest. Eleanor hadn't written him a letter, it was a postcard. Just three words long.

Take time for yourself. If you feel guilty eating lunch away from your desk or lingering in a bath, let the deprogramming begin.

Each of us has our definition of adventure: ending an unsatisfying relationship, returning to school, parachute jumping or training for a marathon. Go ahead. Get your thrill on.

Adventure, opportunity and reward extend beyond our field of vision, and are made known to us only when we test our wings.

Not for the first time in the history of the universe, someone for whom communication normally came as effortlessly as a dream was stuck for inspiration when faced with a few lines on the back of a card.

If you are feeling constrained by a group that you belong to, ask yourself, “How can I participate in this community and still be who I am?

What do you resist examining up close? How can you ground yourself so you feel safe enough to try?

To believe that we can have what we want is an act of trust – not only of others but also, ourselves.

We can’t script every detail of our lives. But we can solve the riddle of fulfillment when we plan ahead while simultaneously embracing the surprises of each moment.

Much of our lives consists of a series of choices over which we have absolute control.

No moment is too small to claim. Strung together, moments fashion a life.

Much of what we acquire in life isn’t worth dragging to the next leg of our journey. Travel light. You will be better equipped to travel far.

I don't feel entirely alone when I go through the postcards on your website, or rather, I still feel alone, but I feel like there are a lot more people alone with me.

When actors encounter a mishap during a stage performance, they transform it for good purpose by employing a technique called, “use the difficulty.” How can you “use the difficulty” in your life?

Some of the most unrecognized ministries are my favorite kind. Like the ministry of playing video games with awkward adolescent boys. The ministry of bringing takeout food to people whose baby is very sick in the hospital. The ministry of picking up empty chip wrappers at the park. The ministry of sending postcards. The ministry of sitting in silence with someone in the psych ward. The ministry of sending hilarious and inspirational text messages. The ministry of washing dishes without being asked. The ministry of flower gardening. The ministry of not laughing at teenagers when they talk about their relationship crises. The ministry of making an excellent cup of coffee. The ministry of drinking a terrible cup of coffee with a bright smile. The ministry of noticing beauty everywhere - in fabrics, in art, and in the wilderness.

The best way to teach is how you live your life.

One of the best kinds of thrill is defining, honoring, and achieving our goals.

Avoid the temptation to force a moment so you won’t miss the one with your name on it.

Feeling lonely? Wish you had a special someone to help fill the void? Reconsider your definition of romance, reconnect to your passions and be swept away.

Life only plants the seeds. It’s up to us to help them grow.

The study book for life’s tests is the whole of our experience. Though we may feel unprepared, tests appear only when we are truly ready to ace them.

It is not so much the grand dramas of our lives that transform us as it is the tiny one-acts we produce in between.

The cruise was the conduit for what would become my third book. While I was traveling and writing for ctnow.com, women across the United States and from the Caribbean emailed not to ask about my geographic journey but my existential one. “How do you find the courage to travel on your own?” they wondered. “How do you keep from getting lonely? Don’t you feel self-conscious eating out alone?” After the first 30 emails like these I thought, There’s a book here. It would be eight years before I published Postcards and Pearls: Life Lessons from Solo Moments on the Road. But the inspiration for publication came during the cruise.

Though I have not lived in New York City for more than two decades, these storytellers – from the United States, Britain and Canada – have touched my heart with their openness, inspired me with their joie de vivre and deepened my appreciation for my hometown as a worldwide phenomenon. Welcome to our New York.

The goal of this book is do for you what Greg did for me: reframe 26.2 miles as accessible and inspire your first marathon journey, one mile at a time.

I’d like to share with you a parable: the parable of Bob the Angel. A girl was walking down a darkly lit city street late at night. A man jumped out from the shadows and attacked her, suddenly she was suffocating and disoriented as hands clasped around her neck and the force of his attack started to push her down. She tried to yell as she struggled to pull his arms from her neck while she crumpled backwards to the ground, “God . . . help me!” The next thing she remembers—just as the fear consumed her, and right as she disappeared into the misery and despair of helplessness—was a loud crash and an explosion of glass which rained down upon her and her attacker. The assailant’s lifeless body was suspended above her, held from collapsing on her by an unknown force, and then pulled away from hovering over her and dropped onto the pavement beside her. She opened her eyes in the faint shadowy light, to see black matted hair and a long, black beard framing the eyes of a man. The smell of alcohol on his breath would have knocked her out if the adrenaline was not still trilling through her veins. There he stood, God’s angel, off-kilter and drunk, with a broken whiskey bottle in his hand. “You probably shouldn’t be walking through here this late at night,” was all he said as he turned away. “Wait! What’s your name?” she asked, still stunned half sitting up on the ground. All she heard as he walked away was his trailing voice calling, “Bob’s as good as any. . . .” An angel is a messenger, and sometimes we only want letters sent in white envelopes with beautiful gold print, when sometimes a simple “no” on the back of a gum wrapper is what we are offered. Every postcard from heaven does not come with a picture of the sunset there, nor should it. If it is an answer we want, an answer we will get. As far as pretty postcards, there are many others willing to send us that. If not harps and gold-tipped wings, what then is the mark of an angel? An answer which pierces your soul, and which inspires a question that invites you to look outside of yourself and up to God.

The only language you need is the language of the heart - love.

My heart is with you always! (Hamara dil aapke paas hai.)

She seemed out of place at the Fairweather. Too posh, as Susan said. Too well dressed. She never strolled along the shore or went bathing or brought a picture postcard. She just sat on the veranda all day with a book she never read, gazing out to sea. Probably wondering why on earth she came here. Susan had said. She looks as if she'd be more at home in Monte Carlo. I know- she's lost all her money gambling and she's waiting for the sea to warm up before she throws herself in. I hope she remembers to pay her bill first.

I’d like to share with you a parable: the parable of Bob the Angel. A girl was walking down a darkly lit city street late at night. A man jumped out from the shadows and attacked her, suddenly she was suffocating and disoriented as hands clasped around her neck and the force of his attack started to push her down. She tried to yell as she struggled to pull his arms from her neck while she crumpled backwards to the ground, “God . . . help me!” The next thing she remembers—just as the fear consumed her, and right as she disappeared into the misery and despair of helplessness—was a loud crash and an explosion of glass which rained down upon her and her attacker. The assailant’s lifeless body was suspended above her, held from collapsing on her by an unknown force, and then pulled away from hovering over her and dropped onto the pavement beside her. She opened her eyes in the faint shadowy light, to see black matted hair and a long, black beard framing the eyes of a man. The smell of alcohol on his breath would have knocked her out if the adrenaline was not still trilling through her veins. There he stood, God’s angel, off-kilter and drunk, with a broken whiskey bottle in his hand. “You probably shouldn’t be walking through here this late at night,” was all he said as he turned away. “Wait! What’s your name?” she asked, still stunned half sitting up on the ground. All she heard as he walked away was his trailing voice calling, “Bob’s as good as any. . . .” An angel is a messenger, and sometimes we only want letters sent in white envelopes with beautiful gold print, when sometimes a simple “no” on the back of a gum wrapper is what we are offered. Every postcard from heaven does not come with a picture of the sunset there, nor should it. If it is an answer we want, an answer we will get. As far as pretty postcards, there are many others willing to send us that. If not harps and gold-tipped wings, what then is the mark of an angel? An answer which pierces your soul, and which inspires a question that invites you to look outside of yourself and up to God. God is very objective; He wants to make us think, to engage the faculties we have been given, and to learn from the messengers he sends us. He wants us in the ark before the flood; he could come himself—or send a Noah—but most of the time he sends Bob. Bob is in you, Bob is in me, Bob is in the emotionalized, sarcastic, mocking, patronizing, proud or foolish person which points out meaningful things to us in the worst possible moments, or in the worst possible way.