Sacred Grove Quotes

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And remember: the flesh is as sacred as it is profane.
Brian McGreevy (Hemlock Grove)
If we are to have a culture as resilient and competent in the face of necessity as it needs to be, then it must somehow involve within itself a ceremonious generosity toward the wilderness of natural force and instinct. The farm must yield a place to the forest, not as a wood lot, or even as a necessary agricultural principle but as a sacred grove - a place where the Creation is let alone, to serve as instruction, example, refuge; a place for people to go, free of work and presumption, to let themselves alone. (pg. 125, The Body and the Earth)
Wendell Berry (The Art of the Commonplace: The Agrarian Essays)
As for Ares's other sacred grove, the one in Colchis, things were run a little differently over there. The king was a guy named Aeetes. (As far as I can figure, that's pronounced "I Eat Tees.") His big claim to fame was that the Golden Fleece - that magical sheepskin rug I'm related to - ended up in his kingdom, which made the place immune to disease, invasion, stock market crashes, visits from Justin Bieber, and pretty much any other natural disaster.
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Gods)
The Buddha said, ‘Gripped by fear, men go to the sacred mountains and sacred groves, sacred trees and shrines.’ I am not afraid of death, my lady. I need no god to comfort me in my fear.
Conn Iggulden (Khan: Empire of Silver (Conqueror, #4))
Since the Goddess always has been honored in sacred groves, it is understandable that patriarchs, then as now, leaned toward deforestation.
Tom Robbins (Skinny Legs and All)
Perhaps you think that there are sacred groves and cities of the gods along the way, temples displaying all the gifts of wealth? Not so: your path is full of lurking perils as well as images of savage beasts. “And if you hold this course unswervingly, you’ll find the horns of Taurus in your way, 110 the Archer and the gaping jaws of Leo, and Scorpio, whose long and curving arms sweep one way, while the curving arms of Cancer sweep broadly in the opposite direction.
Ovid (Metamorphoses)
The feelings which assailed me as I looked up at the summer night sky heavy with rain were not of fury or hatred, nor even of sadness. They were of overpowering fear, not the terror the sight of ghosts in a graveyard might arouse, but rather a fierce ancestral dread that could not be expressed in four or five words, something perhaps like encountering in the sacred grove of a Shinto shrine the white-clothed body of the god. My hair turned prematurely grey from that night. I had now lost all confidence in myself, doubted all men immeasurably, and abandoned all hopes for the things of this world, all joy, all sympathy, eternally. This was truly the decisive incident of my life. I had been split through the forehead between the eyebrows, a wound that was to throb with pain whenever I came in contact with a human being.
Osamu Dazai (No Longer Human)
One person believes in sprites and visits the sacred grove, and another believes in Jesus and goes to the church. It’s just a matter of fashion. There’s no use in getting involved with just one god; they’re more like brooches or pearls, just for decoration. For hanging around your neck, or for playing with.
Andrus Kivirähk (The Man Who Spoke Snakish)
The junk virus is public health problem number one of the world today. Since Naked Lunch treats this health problem, it is necessarily brutal, obscene and disgusting. . . . As always the lunch is naked. If civilized countries want to return to Druid Hanging Rites in the Sacred Grove or to drink blood with the Aztecs and feed their Gods with blood of human sacrifice, let them see what they actually eat and drink. Let them see what is on the end of that long newspaper spoon.
William S. Burroughs (Naked Lunch)
We are all the spirit sons and daughters of a loving God who is our Father. We are part of His family. He is not a father in some allegorical or poetic sense. He is literally the Father of our spirits. He cares for each one of us. Though this world has a way of diminishing and demeaning men and women, the reality is we are all of royal, divine lineage. In that unprecedented appearance of the Father and the Son in the Sacred Grove, the very first word spoken by the Father of us all was the personal name of Joseph. Such is our Father’s personal relationship with each of us. He knows our names and yearns for us to become worthy to return to live with Him.
M. Russell Ballard
The way we see the world shapes the way we treat it. If a mountain is a deity, not a pile of ore; if a river is one of the veins of the land, not potential irrigation water; if a forest is a sacred grove, not timber; if other species are biological kin, not resources; or if the planet is our mother, not an opportunity -- then we will treat each other with greater respect. Thus is the challenge, to look at the world from a different perspective.
David Suzuki
Not a passing phenomenon nor an external force, the companies had become a way of life, a part of society itself, used and joined by its rulers even as they struggled to throw them off. They ate at society from within like Erysichthon, the “tearer up of earth,” who, having destroyed the trees in the sacred grove of Demeter, was cursed by the goddess with an insatiable appetite and finally devoured himself attempting to satisfy his hunger. Discipline
Barbara W. Tuchman (A Distant Mirror: The Calamitous 14th Century)
In the shade of the house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe.
Hermann Hesse (Siddhartha)
They were of overpowering fear, not the terror the sight of ghosts in a graveyard might arouse, but rather a fierce ancestral dread that could not be expressed in four or five words, something perhaps like encountering in the sacred grove of a Shinto shrine the white-clothed body of the god.
Osamu Dazai (No Longer Human)
And you, Tacitus, observe how I make my grove on an old crannog piled by the fearful dead: a desolate peace. Our mother ground in sour with the blood of her faithful, they lie gargling in her sacred heart as the legions stare from the ramparts. Come back to this 'island of the ocean' where nothing will suffice. Read the inhumed faces of casualty and victim; report us fairly, how we slaughter for the common good and shave the heads of the notorious, how the goddess swallows our love and terror. - Kinship
Seamus Heaney (North)
Nearly all human cultures plant gardens, and the garden itself has ancient religious connections. For a long time, I've been interested in pre-Christian European beliefs, and the pagan devotions to sacred groves of trees and sacred springs. My German translator gave me a fascinating book on the archaeology of Old Europe, and in it I discovered ancient artifacts that showed that the Old European cultures once revered snakes, just as we Pueblo Indian people still do. So I decided to take all these elements - orchids, gladiolus, ancient gardens, Victorian gardens, Native American gardens, Old European figures of Snake-bird Goddesses - and write a novel about two young sisters at the turn of the century.
Leslie Marmon Silko (Gardens in the Dunes)
Finer feeling, which we now wish to consider, is chiefly of two kinds: the feeling of the *sublime* and that of the *beautiful*. The stirring of each is pleasant, but in different ways. The sight of a mountain whose snow-covered peak rises above the clouds, the description of a raging storm, or Milton's portrayal of the infernal kingdom, arouse enjoyment but with horror; on the other hand, the sight of flower strewn meadows, valleys with winding brooks and covered with grazing flocks, the description of Elysium, or Homer's portrayal of the girdle of Venus, also occasion a pleasant sensation but one that is joyous and smiling. In order that the former impression could occur to us in due strength, we must have *a feeling of the sublime*, and, in order to enjoy the latter well, *a feeling of the beautiful*. Tall oaks and lonely shadows in a sacred grove are sublime; flower beds, low hedges and trees trimmed in figures are beautiful. Night is sublime; day is beautiful. Temperaments that possess a feeling for the sublime are drawn gradually, by the quiet stillness of a summer evening as the shimmering light of the stars breaks through the brown shadows of night and the lonely moon rises into view, into high feelings of friendship, of disdain for the world, of eternity. The shining day stimulates busy fervor and a feeling of gaiety. The sublime *moves*, the beautiful *charms*.
Immanuel Kant (Observations on the Feeling of the Beautiful and Sublime)
In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling, to speak it silently out of himself while exhaling, with all the concentration of his soul, the forehead surrounded by the glow of the clear-thinking spirit. He already knew to feel Atman in the depths of his being, indestructible, one with the universe.
Hermann Hesse (Siddhartha)
...I had spent hours talking with people who had trouble believing. For some, the issue was that they believed less than they thought they should about Jesus. They were not trouble by the idea that he may have had two human parents instead of one or that his real presence with his disciples after his death might have been more metaphysical than physical. The glory they beheld in him had more to do with the nature of his being than with the number of his miracles, but they had suffered enough at the hands of true believers to learn to keep their mouths shut. For others, the issue was that they believed more than Jesus. Having beheld his glory, they found themselves running into God's glory all over the place, including places where Christian doctrine said that it should not be. I knew Christians who had beheld God's glory in a Lakota sweat lodge, in a sacred Celtic grove, and at the edge of a Hawaiian volcano, as well as in dreams and visions that they were afraid to tell anyone else about at all. These people not only feared being shunned for their unorthodox narratives, they also feared sharing some of the most powerful things that had ever happened to them with people who might dismiss them. Given the history of Christians as a people who started out beholding what was beyond belief, this struck me as a lamentable state of affairs, both for those who have learned to see no more than they are supposed to see as well as for those who have excused themselves from traditional churches because they see too little or too much. If it is true that God exceeds all our efforts to contain God, then is it too big a stretch to declare that dumbfoundedness is what all Christians have most in common? Or that coming together to confess all that we do not know is at least as sacred an activity as declaring what we think we do know?
Barbara Brown Taylor (Leaving Church: A Memoir of Faith)
For Hindus, banyan trees are sacred. For Buddhists, bodhi trees; for the Arabs, certain date palms. To be stalwart in a ‘tree-like’ way was to approach goodness, according to Confucius. The Normans built chapels in the trunks of yew trees. Many other cultures attached religious significance to particular trees and groves and forests. Adonis was born of a tree. Daphne turned into one. George Washington confessed to cutting one down and the United States, as a result, was all but immaculately conceived. The tree is the symbol of the male organ and of the female body. The Hebrew kabbalah depicts Creation in the form of a tree. In Genesis, a tree holds the key to immortal life, and it is to the branches and fruit of an olive tree that God’s people are likened in both the Old and New Testaments. To celebrate the birth of Christ his followers place trees in their sitting rooms and palm fronds, a symbol of victory, commemorate his entering Jerusalem. A child noted by Freud had fantasies of wounding a tree that represented his mother. The immortal swagman of Australia sat beneath a coolabah tree. In hundreds of Australian towns the war dead are honoured by avenues of trees.
Don Watson (The Bush)
... they walked to the Mahamega grove in the centre of which was a sacred, thousand-five-hundred-year-old Bodhi tree. Bhikshus, devotees and many others were circumambulating the tree, offering flowers to it and paying it obeisance. The Prince paid his respects to it. He said to the other two, “Kings and kingdoms disappear but this tree is proof that righteousness is eternal.” Looking around, he saw three grooms holding horses that were ready to start out. He went up to them and the grooms greeted him joyfully. He asked them something then turned to Vandiyathevan. “The palace which was burnt down last night was Mahasena's. These people were afraid that we might have been burnt too. They are extremely happy to see us.” “It might be true that a thousand-five-hundred-year-old tree still stands. But righteousness has long been dead,” said Vandiyathevan.
Kalki (பொன்னியின் செல்வன், பாகம் 2: சுழற்காற்று)
As we stated, after their initial conquest, the Milesians began assimilating the gnosis of their predecessors. Of course they were no lovers of the Druids. After all, the British Druids were collaborators with their dire enemies, the Amenists. Nevertheless, returning to the ancient homeland was a most important step for the displaced and despised Atonists. Owning and controlling the wellspring of knowledge proved to be exceptionally politically fortunate for them. It was a key move on the grand geopolitical chessboard, so to speak. From their new seats in the garden paradise of Britain they could set about conquering the rest of the world. Their designs for a “New World Order,” to replace one lost, commenced from the Western Isles that had unfortunately fallen into their undeserving hands. But why all this exertion, one might rightly ask? Well, a close study of the Culdees and the Cistercians provides the answer. Indeed, a close study of history reveals that, despite appearances to the contrary, religion is less of a concern to despotic men or regimes than politics and economics. Religion is often instrumental to those secretly attempting to attain material power. This is especially true in the case of the Milesian-Atonists. The chieftains of the Sun Cult did not conceive of Christianity for its own sake or because they were intent on saving the world. They wanted to conquer the world not save it. In short, Atonist Christianity was devised so the Milesian nobility could have unrestricted access to the many rich mines of minerals and ore existing throughout the British Isles. It is no accident the great seats of early British Christianity - the many famous churches, chapels, cathedrals and monasteries, as well as forts, castles and private estates - happen to be situated in close proximity to rich underground mines. Of course the Milesian nobility were not going to have access to these precious territories as a matter of course. After all, these sites were often located beside groves and earthworks considered sacred by natives not as irreverent or apathetic as their unfortunate descendants. The Atonists realized that their materialist objectives could be achieved if they manufactured a religion that appeared to be a satisfactory carry on of Druidism. If they could devise a theology which assimilated enough Druidic elements, then perhaps the people would permit the erection of new religious sites over those which stood in ruins. And so the Order of the Culdees was born. So, Christianity was born. In the early days the religion was actually known as Culdeanism or Jessaeanism. Early Christians were known as Culdeans, Therapeuts or suggestively as Galileans. Although they would later spread throughout Europe and the Middle East, their birthplace was Britain.
Michael Tsarion (The Irish Origins of Civilization, Volume One: The Servants of Truth: Druidic Traditions & Influence Explored)
The early breeze sighing among the foliage, that waved high over the path, and the hollow dashing of distant waters, he listened to with complacency, for these were sounds which soothed yet promoted his melancholy mood; and he some times rested to gaze upon the scenery around him, for this too was in harmony with the temper of his mind. Disappointment had subdued the wilder energy of the passions, and produced a solemn and lofty state of feeling; he viewed with pleasing sadness the dark rocks and precipices, the gloomy mountains and vast solitudes, that spread around him; nor was the convent he was approaching a less sacred feature of the scene, as its gray walks and pinnacles appeared beyond the dusky groves.
Ann Radcliffe (Complete Works of Ann Radcliffe)
When you enter a grove peopled with ancient trees, higher than the ordinary, and shutting out the sky with their thickly intertwining branches, do not the stately shadows of the wood, the stillness of the place, and the awful gloom of this domed cavern then strike you as with the presence of a deity? Or when you see a cave penetrating into the rock at the foot of an overhanging mountain, not made by human hands, but hollowed out to a great depth by nature, is not your soul suffused with a religious fear? We worship the sources of great rivers, we erect altars at the place where a sudden rush of water bursts from the bowels of the earth, warm springs we adore, and certain pools we hold sacred on account of their sombre darkness or their immense depth.64
C.G. Jung (Collected Works of C. G. Jung, Volume 5: Symbols of Transformation (The Collected Works of C. G. Jung Book 7))
If you have ever come upon a grove that is thick with ancient trees rising far above their usual height and blocking the view of the sky with their cover of intertwining branches, the loftiness of the forest, the seclusion of the spot, and your wonder at the unbroken shade in the midst of open space will create in you a sense of the divine (numen). Or, if a cave made by the deep erosion of rocks supports a mountain with its arch, a place not made by hands but hollowed out by natural causes into spaciousness, then your mind will be aroused by a feeling of religious awe (religio). We venerate the sources of mighty rivers, we build an altar where a great stream suddenly bursts forth from a hidden source, we worship hot springs, and we deem lakes sacred because of their darkness or immeasurable depth. (Seneca the Younger, Letters 41.3)
Valerie M. Warrior (Roman Religion (Cambridge Introduction to Roman Civilization))
In Gotama’s time, it was impossible to wander through the countryside of north India during the three months of monsoon because the rivers flooded and the paths and roads became muddy torrents. The Buddha and his followers would settle in a park or grove, dedicating themselves to discussion and contemplation. Inevitably, people became curious as to what this man did during these retreats. “Why,” they may have asked, “did this person known as the ‘Awakened One’ have to practice meditation at all?” Here is the answer Gotama told his followers to give such people: “During the Rains’ residence, friend, the Teacher generally dwells in concentration through mindfulness of breathing. . . . [For] if one could say of anything: ‘this is a noble dwelling, this is a sacred dwelling, this is a tathāgata’s dwelling,’ it is of concentration through mindfulness of breathing that one could truly say this.
Stephen Batchelor (After Buddhism: Rethinking the Dharma for a Secular Age)
IN THE SHADE OF THE house, in the sunshine of the riverbank near the boats, in the shade of the Sal-wood forest, in the shade of the fig tree is where Siddhartha grew up, the handsome son of the Brahman, the young falcon, together with his friend Govinda, son of a Brahman. The sun tanned his light shoulders by the banks of the river when bathing, performing the sacred ablutions, the sacred offerings. In the mango grove, shade poured into his black eyes, when playing as a boy, when his mother sang, when the sacred offerings were made, when his father, the scholar, taught him, when the wise men talked. For a long time, Siddhartha had been partaking in the discussions of the wise men, practising debate with Govinda, practising with Govinda the art of reflection, the service of meditation. He already knew how to speak the Om silently, the word of words, to speak it silently into himself while inhaling,
Hermann Hesse (Siddhartha)
there is no such thing as "magic" Daoism, "daojia" and "daojiao" had different meanings way back then, and now. The priginal term dao jia 道家was counterposed to rujia,儒家 the folks who swore by Confucius, and fajia 法家realists who (legalists), like modern day republicans equated money, weapons w political power. Daojia was the category for every one else, ie those who were neither.Confucian or Legalist. Daoism, “the way that never parted,” is a great river flowing thru all of China's history, fed by many streams. Many of the "modern" "western" people such as "sex hygiene" 房中 and other "Dao for $$$" folk (eg a multi-millionaire in Pacific Grove - 17 Mile Drive) have made fortunes by claiming to teach "Daoist Secrets", in a system that forbids taking recompense of any kind for receiving true Daoist teachings. So much more to say, the writings of the late Anna Seidel show how what we call "Dao Jiao" 道教(Dao teaching), which includes liturgy as well as inner alchemy meditation, derives from the Guweishu 古緯書, ie the ancient "wei" (parallel threads or "woof" thread), human compassion for each other and oneness with change in nature, as opposed to the "jing" 經 vertical (Confucian, political up-down) threads that support the Imperial governing power. Buddhism appears as sacred art painted on the surface of the Chinese cultural fabric, which is eventually accepted because it won the hearts of the people by praying for the deceased, something that was not a part of the original Buddhist teachings from India, but essential in China." [Saso FB Post May 4th 2015]
Michael Saso
Prince Wen Hui’s cook Was cutting up an ox. Out went a hand, Down went a shoulder, He planted a foot, He pressed with a knee, The ox fell apart With a whisper, The bright cleaver murmured Like a gentle wind. Rhythm! Timing! Like a sacred dance, Like “The Mulberry Grove,” Like ancient harmonies! “Good work!” the Prince exclaimed, “Your method is faultless!” “Method?” said the cook Laying aside his cleaver, “What I follow is Tao Beyond all methods!” “When I first began To cut up an oxen I would see before me The whole ox All in one mass. “After three years I no longer saw this mass. I saw the distinctions. “But now, I see nothing With the eye. My whole being Apprehends. My senses are idle. The spirit Free to work without plan Follows its own instinct Guided by natural line, By the secret opening, the hidden space, My cleaver finds its own way. I cut through no joint, chop no bone. A good cook needs a new chopper Once a year–he cuts. A poor cook needs a new one Every month–he hacks! “I have used this same cleaver Nineteen years. It has cut up A thousand oxen. Its edge is as keen As if newly sharpened. “There are spaces in the joints; The blade is thin and keen: When this thinness Finds that space There is all the room you need! It goes like a breeze! Hence I have this cleaver nineteen years As if newly sharpened! “True, there are sometimes Tough joints. I feel them coming, I slow down, I watch closely, Hold back, barely move the blade, And whump! the part falls away Landing like a clod of earth. “Then I withdraw the blade, I stand still And let the joy of the work Sink in. I clean the blade And put it away.” Prince Wan Hui said, “This is it! My cook has shown me How I ought to live My own life!” Chuang Tzu, The Way of Chuang Tzu, translated by Thomas Merton
Thomas Merton (The Way of Chuang Tzu (Shambhala Library))
Nor is Osiris seen       In Memphian grove or green,     Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud;     Nor can he be at rest       Within his sacred chest;     Nought but profoundest Hell can be his shroud;   In vain, with timbreled anthems dark,   The sable-stolèd Sorcerers bear his worshiped ark.
Charles Eliot (The Harvard Classics in a Year: A Liberal Education in 365 Days)
Sylvan didn’t know what in the seven hells was happening to him. First his fangs had come out—not once, but twice. And the second time he hadn’t even noticed. Thankfully he’d been able to force them to retract, though the feeling was akin to having his erect cock bound in a too-tight pair of pants. But now his mating scent was apparently emanating from every pore. He could barely smell it himself—it was too much a part of him. But why else would Sophia have rubbed herself against him like that? Her soft, curvy body. The fullness of her breasts against my chest. Her warm secret scent… She even seemed to like the press of my shaft against her—at least she didn’t move away. He shook his head. No, there was no way the shy, obviously inexperienced Sophia would have made such a wanton display if his mating scent wasn’t out in full force. But it shouldn’t be! I have sworn never to call a bride. Sworn it in the sacred grove before the statue of the Mother herself. Why is this happening to me? He didn’t know. His boots clicked and echoed as he strode along the endless lines of docked vehicles, looking for the shuttle that he and Baird shared. Finally, he found it at the end of a short row of similar craft. It was long and sleek and silver—with a very small enclosed space inside. He threw a glance back at Sophia who was nearly running to keep up with his long strides. What if his mating scent filled the cabin of the shuttle as it had the compartment of the transport tube? Was there any way to suppress it? Sylvan wished he knew but he had never heard of a warrior with his problem before. Usually when a Blood Kindred’s fangs came out and his mating scent began exuding, he was mentally and emotionally ready to claim his bride. But I’m not ready. I’ll never be ready. And even if I was, even if I would dream of breaking my vow, Sophia would never have me. He
Evangeline Anderson (Hunted (Brides of the Kindred, #2))
Sophia…” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to push back the tension headache that was pulsing in his temples. “I don’t know why it happened either. I don’t know why my fangs have suddenly come out twice in the past—” “Three times,” she said faintly. “What?” He opened his eyes and stared at her. “You…they came out in the sacred grove, too. When you were, um, rescuing me from that priestess.” Sylvan nearly groaned. This is not good. The fact that his fangs were coming out in response to his lust for her was one thing. But to know that they were also coming out when his protective instincts were aroused was something else again. I’m acting like we’re already mated and I have to protect her! What in the seven hells is wrong with me? “I’m
Evangeline Anderson (Hunted (Brides of the Kindred, #2))
Please.” He struggled to keep his voice even. “Please, Mother L’rin, I’ll do anything. Anything. Look…” He tore off his shirt, baring his back for her. “Use the whip. Lash me until my skin peals from my body—I don’t care. Only please heal her.” She spread her wrinkled hands. “I have already told you—I cannot.” Deep wanted to tear his hair in frustration. “Please don’t punish Kat for my arrogance. I know I have been disrespectful and rude and foolish…” “You have been all those things.” Mother L’rin nodded gravely. “But worse than anything else, you have blasphemed against the Goddess. It was she who put you and your brother together with the lady Kat. It was her will you broke when you cut the bond she had forged between the three of you.” “Then I’ll go to the sacred grove,” Deep began pacing wildly. “I’ll get on my knees and I’ll pray for forgiveness.” “You may do that if you wish and I am certain that the Goddess will forgive you—she is merciful in all things,” the old healer said quietly. “However, that does not mean she will heal your lady. Some things cannot be undone, Deep.” “But there has to be a way. There has to.” He fell to his knees before her. “Please, Mother L’rin—you healed her before. I know you can heal her again. I am begging you.
Evangeline Anderson (Sought (Brides of the Kindred, #3))
The farm must yield a place to the forest, not as a wood lot, or even as a necessary agricultural principle, but as a sacred grove-a place where the Creation is let alone, to serve as instruction, example, refuge. -WENDELL BERRY, "The Body and the Earth
Kennedy Warne (Let Them Eat Shrimp: The Tragic Disappearance of the Rainforests of the Sea)
You really believe that? You think your feelings for her—the need to claim her and bond her to you—will just disappear the minute we hit the ship?” “They have to.” There was something like desperation in Sylvan’s eyes now. “Because I can’t have her. Can’t claim her, no matter how much I want to.” Baird frowned. “Stop this foolishness, Sylvan. Go to the priestess in the sacred grove. Ask to be released of your vow.” Sylvan shook his head. “I can’t.” “You must!” Baird stabbed a finger at him. “Don’t let pride break you. There is no shame in bowing to your body’s demands—just look at you, you’re so deep in need for her you’re not even the same person. You look like hell, Brother. You can’t go on like this.” “I have to.” Slowly, Sylvan began to march forward again. Baird could see his arms trembling with fatigue but he moved with a single-minded determination, a stubbornness that trumped his wounds and weariness. “I have to,” he said again. “Have to go on, no matter what. Go on without her.” “Why?” Baird demanded. “You’ve found the woman you love—now claim her before the need inside you eats you alive.” Sylvan looked at him and there was such a depth of pain in his eyes that Baird ached to see it. “I can’t claim her because she doesn’t want me. She’s rejected my bite over and over again.” “Gods.” Baird didn’t know what to say. The hope, the need, the desire…and then the rejection. The pain worse than death. It’s Feenah all over again. But Sylvan had never been like this the one time he’d tried and failed to call a bride before. He’d never looked this bad, this ragged. It was clear the need to claim Sophia was riding him like a cruel master, spurring him to take her, to bond her. And it was just as clear that Sylvan was determined to fight it. Baird knew his brother—a more honorable male did not exist. So it was no wonder Sylvan refused to bond her against her will. Baird
Evangeline Anderson (Hunted (Brides of the Kindred, #2))
Let me show you something.” Baird caught him by the arm and stopped his frantic pacing. “What?” Reluctantly, Sylvan allowed himself to be dragged down the hallway to the far bedroom. “What is it?” “This.” Baird threw open the door to the room and pulled Sylvan in. “What?” Sylvan asked again. “Look,” Baird said quietly. “Just look.” Taking a deep breath, Sylvan forced himself to do as his half brother asked. The room had one long window with no shades on it. Sunshine poured through it in a brilliant flood. There was no furniture anywhere—just an artist’s easel in the center of the room. Finished and half-finished canvases were stacked against the walls. “Paintings,” Sylvan said, frowning. “Yes, Sophia’s an artist. She told me so.” “Look,” Baird said again. “All these paintings are of you, Brother.” Sylvan looked around in wonder. It was true—from every painting and canvas, he saw a piece of himself. Ice blue eyes, blond hair, stern mouth…Does she really see me this way? “She told me she had painted me,” he said aloud, still looking. “And I saw it in a dream, too. I just didn’t know she’d done so many.” “There’s enough to fill a museum in here.” Baird sounded amused. “The Sylvan Vii museum of fine art. We could sell tickets.” “Very funny,” Sylvan said sourly. “I don’t see your point.” “The point is that the female who painted these pictures, cares for you,” Baird said earnestly. “Cares very much, I believe. And I can see you care for her as well. Just give her time to collect herself and tell her so, Sylvan. Apologize for frightening her and declare your love. Then when you get back to the ship, go to the sacred grove and ask to be released of your vow.” “I’m
Evangeline Anderson (Hunted (Brides of the Kindred, #2))
Yet ’midst her towering fanes in ruin laid, The pilgrim saint his murmuring vespers paid; ’Twas his to mount the tufted rocks, and rove The chequer’d twilight of the olive-grove: ’Twas his to bend beneath the sacred gloom, And wear with many a kiss Messiah’s tomb.
Charles G. Addison (The History of the Knights Templar)
I’d heard rumors and whisperings of the woodcutters. Heralded almost as the villains in old legends, the woodcutters' reputation preceded them. Many said they were dangerous wanderers, magicians, thieves, and murderers who worshipped trees and killed anyone who trespassed near their sacred groves.
Davonna Juroe (Scarlette: A Gothic Folktale)
The river is not a passageway for lifeless water molecules but a life-form. I hear the Amazonian Sarayaku activist’s words: Rivers are alive and sing; this is our politics. Humans are part of this multitude. Do dams and manipulations by humans tame the river, somehow draining it of its wild nature? No. The hand that writes water-management plans, the page or screen on which words appear, the engineers who devised dams, and the flow of the South Platte in the city are as wild, natural, and at home in this world as the waters upstream. We too are nature. Unsunderable. To believe otherwise is to impose a duality on the world. The South Platte runs through a land created by this fissured imagination. The river gathers its first waters from mountains national parks, forests, and wilderness areas. For some people these areas are places for a grand escape, sacred groves in which to visit Nature, and the last refuge of imperiled ecosystems. For the indigenous and other peoples who were removed and barred from reentry, the same areas are postapocalyptic landscapes...the Sarayaku oppose national parks in Ecuador, knowing the endgame of the idea. They prefer the term “living forests” where Life is understood to include people and the knowledge that swells within people’s many relationships with other species.
David George Haskell (The Songs of Trees: Stories from Nature's Great Connectors)
Constantine was faced with an intransigent population who insisted on worshipping idols at the expense of the risen Lord. He realized that conversion would be more ‘easily accomplished if he could get them to despise their temples and the images contained therein’. And what better way to teach wayward pagans the vanity of their gods than by cracking open their statues and showing that they were, quite literally, empty? Moreover, a religious system in which sacrifice was central would struggle to survive if there was nothing to sacrifice to. There was good biblical precedent for his actions. In Deuteronomy, God had commanded that His chosen people should overthrow altars, burn sacred groves and hew down the graven images of the gods. If Constantine attacked the temples then he was not being a vandal. He was doing God’s good work.
Catherine Nixey (The Darkening Age: The Christian Destruction of the Classical World)
The crescent moon goddess (and virgin warrior Goddess of the morning star), Al-Uzza, was known to the pre-Islamic Arabs as "The Mighty". Some scholars believe that in very ancient times, it was she who was considered enshrined in the black stone of Makkah, where she was served by priestesses. Her sacred grove of acacia trees once stood just south of Makkah, at Nakla. The Acacia tree was sacred to the Arabs who made the idol of Al-Uzza from its wood.
Laurence Galian (Jesus, Muhammad and the Goddess)
The Druids left no monuments: they preferred nature to buildings and taught in groves and caves where they also conducted rituals. The French cathedral of Chartres was built over a sacred Druid site.
Judika Illes (Encyclopedia of Witchcraft: The Complete A-Z for the Entire Magical World (Witchcraft & Spells))
The grove is one of the sacred spaces left where the Underground and the world above overlap.
S. Jae-Jones (Wintersong (Wintersong, #1))
Goddess of: • sacred and mundane partnership • patron deity of yoginis, discipleship, and esoteric study • marriage and motherhood • asceticism, commitment to practice, power to practice intensely in yoga, meditation, or athletics • homemaking known for civilizing the wild aspects of the ascetic masculine Recognize Parvati in: • forest groves and mountains • yoga studios • partnerships between self-actualized individuals • unusual domestic situations • working mothers
Sally Kempton (Awakening Shakti: The Transformative Power of the Goddesses of Yoga)
That evening was the beginning. It was then that my partner and I discovered the sacred ‘Grove of Love’; through the Zentologist technique, I had eased into an enchanted sensuality, prolonging our foreplay without any orgasmic interlude. TransZendental Introspection had worked its magic.
Young (Turpitude (A Harem Boy's Saga Book 4))
Failures lay the foundation from which to build a new level of understanding.
Auburn Tempest (Chronicles of an Urban Druid Boxed Set One (Books 1-3): A Gilded Cage, A Sacred Grove, and A Family Oath (Chronicles of an Urban Druid Boxed Sets Book 1))
This is what magic is: singing in caves, lighting candles, meditating in groves of trees, taking care of each other. Rituals heal us because they honor our experiences; they help us to remember that the earth, and our lives, are sacred. And in fact, by doing these rituals, we make them sacred. We consecrate them.
Amanda Yates Garcia (Initiated: Memoir of a Witch)
The Collapse of Society 21Look how the once faithful city has become as unfaithful as a prostitute! She who was once the “Center of Justice,” where righteousness made its home, is now the dwelling place of murderers!ap 22She was once like sterling silver, now only mixture; once so pure, now diluted like watered-down wine.aq 23Your rulers are rebellious and companions of crooks. They are self-centered racketeers who love a bribe and who chase after payoffs. They don’t defend the fatherless or consider the rights of a helpless widow. 24Therefore, here is what the Sovereign One decrees, the Lord God of Angel Armies, the Mighty One of Israel: “Ah,ar I will get relief from my adversaries and avenge myself on my foes!as 25I will bring my fiery hand upon you and burn you and purify you into something clean.”at God Promises Deliverers 26“I will restore deliverers as in former times and your wise counselors as at the beginning.au Only then will you be called the Righteous City and the Faithful City!”av 27Yes, Zion will be redeemed with justice and her repentant converts with righteousness.aw 28There will be a shattering of rebels and sinners together, and those who forsake the Lord will be consumed. 29You will reap shame from the idols you once delighted in and you will be humiliated by your cultic sacred groves,ax where you chose to worship. 30You will be like an oak tree with faded, fallen leaves and like a withered, waterless garden. 31The “powerful elite” will become like kindling and their evil deeds like sparks—both will burn together and no one will be able to put out the fire. a 1:1 Or “prophecy.
Brian Simmons (The Book of Isaiah: The Vision (The Passion Translation (TPT)))
If all of creation is holy, if one power flows everywhere--through psyche and cyclotron, through grass and granite--then why do we identify certain groves, mountains, or springs as sacred? Because they concentrate our experiences of the land. We cannot hold the entire earth or even a forest or river in our minds at once; we need smaller places to apprehend and visit. We go to such places in thought of flesh to dream, to renew strength, to remind ourselves of the source of all things . . .
Scott Russell Sanders, Telling the Holy
Tough times never last. Tough people do.
Auburn Tempest (A Sacred Grove (Chronicles of an Urban Druid, #2))
I shrug. “I am me, and I refuse to apologize for it. I don’t conform well, but I also don’t play games. If I have something on my mind, you’ll always know it. I don’t mince words, and I often offend people who prefer social graces and subtext.
Auburn Tempest (A Sacred Grove (Chronicles of an Urban Druid, #2))
I’m not makin’ a play, Cumhaill. I’m simply sayin’ Ciara’s not the one for me. The girl I have my sights set on is going through a lot. She needs time to find her balance. I respect the hell outta that. No rush. No expectations. But she needs to know, while I may step back to give her the space to grow, I’m never far away. With one text, I’ll cross the ocean and be at her side. All she has to do is say the word.” I swallow, my bedroom suddenly feeling very small and warm. “And what’s the word the girl is supposed to say?” “Lady’s choice. Yes. Come. It’s time. S’all good. I need ye. I’m horny.” He shrugs. “I honestly don’t care what the word is. Someday, she’ll tell me it’s that day. She’ll look around and realize we’re a great team and she’s stronger with me at her side. When that day comes, things will truly start to get interesting.
Auburn Tempest (A Sacred Grove (Chronicles of an Urban Druid, #2))
life, as does nature, demands a balance to all things. If we’re the good guys, there have to be bad guys.
Auburn Tempest (A Sacred Grove (Chronicles of an Urban Druid, #2))
hand to help me get back on my feet. “You know what they say. ‘A well-behaved woman rarely makes history.’” “They also say, ‘The one who is crazy enough to think she can change the world is the one who will.
Auburn Tempest (A Sacred Grove (Chronicles of an Urban Druid, #2))
But we will need courage to get through these times. To live what we know, to walk the ancient path, to stand up for those for whom we must be the voice.’ She paused. ‘To lead the world back again into that sacred balance. To lead by example, by inexhaustable integrity, by compassion, kindness, community.
Katherine Genet (The Gathering (Wilde Grove #1))
these poor defenseless trees?” “I need the lumber!” Eric bellowed. “I’m going to make the greatest mansion in the world!” His friends cheered and waved their axes menacingly. “You should choose other trees,” Demeter said, trying to keep her cool. “This grove is sacred to Demeter.” “Bah!” Eric said. “These are the tallest trees in the land. I need tall trees for my great hall. My friends and I intend to feast there every night. We will have such excellent feasts, I will be famous throughout Greece!” His friends shouted, “Yum!” and made lip-smacking noises. “But this is the home of many innocent dryads,” Demeter persisted. “If the dryads try to stop me,” Eric said, “I will cut them down too!” Demeter clenched her jaw. “And if Demeter tries to stop you?
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Gods)
The forest belonged to the gods. To the ancients it gave that frisson of the supernatural, even when traditional religion was tending to collapse. 'Faced with an ancient stand of tall trees (. . .) the grandeur of the trees, the mystery of the place, the impressive view of such dense shade (. . .) you are inspired with faith in a divine presence,' wrote Seneca (Ep., 41, 3), who quotes a line of Virgil (Aen., 8, 352) on a sacred grove that formerly crowned the Capitol: 'A god lives there: who? A god, anyway.
Robert Turcan (The Gods of Ancient Rome: Religion in Everyday Life from Archaic to Imperial Times)
before being stabbed, strangled and cremated; men hanged with dogs and horses in sacred groves.
Marc Morris (The Anglo-Saxons A History of the Beginnings of England: 400–1066)
In this choice of trivial, ‘unpoetic’ motifs the same democratic spirit is expressed as in the choice of the human types of Courbet, Millet and Daumier— with the sole difference that the landscape painters seem to say: nature is beautiful at all times and in all places, no ‘ideal’ motifs are necessary to do justice to its beauty, whereas the figure painters want to prove that man is ugly and pitiable no matter whether he is oppressing others or being oppressed himself. But, in spite of its sincerity and simplicity, the naturalistic landscape soon becomes just as conventional as the romantic had been. The romantics painted the poetry of the sacred grove, the naturalists paint the prose of rural life—the clearing with the grazing cattle, the river with the ferry, the field with the hayrick.
Arnold Hauser (The Social History of Art: Volume 4: Naturalism, Impressionism, The Film Age)
When reading this unusual novel, then, with its oddly unsettling and sometimes strained combination of Christian and pagan, sacred and profane attributes—its earthiness and surreality, violence and pastoralism, pantheism and anthropomorphism, naturalism and lyricism—it is helpful to remember that Steinbeck invested his essential self in it, which is to say, he wrote it more like an extensive poem, or extended dream sequence, than like a traditionally mimetic or realistic novel. “I have the instincts of a minstrel rather than those of a scrivener,” he informed Grove Day in late 1929. Thus, while To a God Unknown has an urgent, breathless fairy-tale quality, and is, as critic Howard Levant asserts, more “a series of detached... scenes” than “a unified... organic whole,” it is not an incoherent concoction—“a rambling and improbable history,” as Warren French calls It—that flies in the face of all sensible literary convention. During its long gestation through different versions and multiple drafts, Steinbeck worked hard to create a palpable factual dimension that gives this otherwise arcane book a recognizable texture in regard to its geographical setting and landmarks (the moss-covered rock actually existed in the northern California town of Laytonville), its unusual characters (some of whom, such as the seer, Steinbeck claimed were based on living persons), and in its feel for telling details of nature and social life in Monterey County in the early part of this century.
John Steinbeck (To a God Unknown)
Because the rest of our day has been a bubbling cauldron of monkey shit. As Calum would say, we’re due for some fast cars and orgasms.
Auburn Tempest (A Sacred Grove (Chronicles of an Urban Druid, #2))
O’ Nine of Sacred Woods... When nine of magic woods combine, they create a spell, divine. To use to conjure up the best of all the forest’s great defense. To keep protected and ensure that light and life indeed endures. From Alder, Rowen, Willow, Birch to Hazel, Holly, Hawthorne’s perch. And then there’s Ash, the forest’s Queen, accompanied by the Oak, it’s King. They come together in glen and grove, to grow in such a treasure trove. So, use their force, their strength, and grain, to ensure your powers never wane.
Andrew Pacholyk (Pearls of Light: passion, poetry & positive affirmations)
A FEW MONTHS later, all of them as cool and gray-skied as ever, in a grove of birch trees on the edge of her woodland, Dusha spoke to me. “There are places on this Earth that are sacred—hills, mountains, groves of trees like this one. They are called svetiye mesta, wells of spiritual energy where earth magic is at its strongest.
Olesya Salnikova Gilmore (The Witch and the Tsar)
What are you making?” asked Felix, wrapping himself in a brown blanket and lying on his side, his temple propped up by his curled fist. “Is this another of your secret talents?” “Another?” “I mean, besides talking to the spirits of the sacred grove?” “You ridicule me, you toy with me,” said Dirk in a sudden heat. “For certain I’m a superstitious dummkpof, but why must you mock me?” “You’re anything but that. How many ways do I have to think of to say it? You’re an oddity among young men, Dirkie. Your thoughts are already knitted into your skull, while other lads I know haven’t yet learned that a passing observation is preamble to thought. I admire you. I’m lying here wishing I had a ‘cello to play some composer’s heart out, but I don’t. Here you are, all on your own, and you? You set about to find a knife and a piece of wood and begin to make something out of nothing. If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is. Don’t you see I’m envious as hell? You destroy me.
Gregory Maguire (Hiddensee: A Tale of the Once and Future Nutcracker)
What are you making?” asked Felix, wrapping himself in a brown blanket and lying on his side, his temple propped up by his curled fist. “Is this another of your secret talents?” “Another?” “I mean, besides talking to the spirits of the sacred grove?” “You ridicule me, you toy with me,” said Dirk in a sudden heat. “For certain I’m a superstitious dummkopf, but why must you mock me?” “You’re anything but that. How many ways do I have to think of to say it? You’re an oddity among young men, Dirkie. Your thoughts are already knitted into your skull, while other lads I know haven’t yet learned that a passing observation is preamble to thought. I admire you. I’m lying here wishing I had a ‘cello to play some composer’s heart out, but I don’t. Here you are, all on your own, and you? You set about to find a knife and a piece of wood and begin to make something out of nothing. If that isn’t magic, I don’t know what is. Don’t you see I’m envious as hell? You destroy me.
Gregory Maguire (Hiddensee: A Tale of the Once and Future Nutcracker)
Meanwhile, Renoir was hard at work on his vast painting, The Large Bathers (1884–1887), painstakingly sketching, reworking and perfecting a voluptuous Maria as she reclined naked to treat viewers to the sight of her radiant skin, firm breasts and sun-kissed hair. But of all Maria’s dramatic incarnations, one of the most talked about at that year’s Salon was undoubtedly Puvis de Chavannes’s The Sacred Grove of the Arts and Muses (1884).
Catherine Hewitt (Renoir's Dancer: The Secret Life of Suzanne Valadon)
What the sacred grove was missing was a population. Not of gods, but of the ambassadors of gods. Those who, through need, call the deities into being. The
Gregory Maguire (Hiddensee: A Tale of the Once and Future Nutcracker)
At the back of the crowd, a priest cleared his throat. ‘Um, sir? This grove sounds very much like a sacred place of Ares. If you kill the war god’s dragon –’ ‘I have to kill it!’ Cadmus said. ‘The cow told me to build a city here, and I can’t have a dragon living next door! Would you deny the wisdom of the dead cow, old man?
Rick Riordan (Percy Jackson's Greek Gods)
I who have been at the mercy of the cider-press / have also been known to trifle / with the affections of a dryad in a sacred grove, / a judge’s daughter and a between-maid to Lord Mountbatten / among others from beyond my clan
Paul Muldoon (Frolic and Detour: Poems)
The effects of the mescalin were already on the decline: but the flowers in the gardens still trembled on the brink of being supernatural, the pepper trees and carobs along the side streets still manifestly belonged to some sacred grove. Eden alternated with Dodona. Yggdrasil with the mystic Rose.
Aldous Huxley (The Doors of Perception / Heaven and Hell)
I'm a scientist who thinks it wise to enter the doors of creation not with a lion tamer's whip and chair, but with the reverence humankind has traditionally summoned for entering places of worship: a temple, a mosque, or a cathedral. A sacred grove, as ancient as time.
Barbara Kingsolver (Small Wonder)
The Germanic tribes were thought particularly partial to tree worship. According to the Roman chronicler Tacitus (AD 56–117), they rejected the notion of housing their idols in built structures or temples, and believed that trees in their natural environment provided the closest link between humans and the gods. The Celts too worshipped trees in sacred groves, though apparently they could be artificial creations.
Owen Davies (Paganism: A Very Short Introduction (Very Short Introductions))
Past the woodshed, past the creek that ran behind our inn, deep in the wild heart of the forest, was a circle of alder trees we called the Goblin Grove. The trees grew in such a way as to suggest twisted arms and monstrous limbs frozen in an eternal dance, and Constanze liked to tell us that the trees had once been humans- naughty young women- who displeased Der Erlkönig. As children we had played here, Josef and me, played and sang and danced, offering our music to the Lord of Mischief. The Goblin King was the silhouette around which my music was composed, and the Goblin Grove was the place my shadows came to life. I spied a scarlet shape in the woods ahead of me. Käthe in my cloak, walking to my sacred space. An irrational, petty slash of irritation cut through my dread and unease. The Goblin Grove was my haunt, my refuge, my sanctuary. Why must she take everything that was mine? My sister had a gift for turning the extraordinary into the ordinary. Unlike my brother and me- who lived in the ether of magic and music- Käthe lived in the world of the real, the tangible, the mundane. Unlike us, she never had faith.
S. Jae-Jones (Wintersong (Wintersong, #1))