Stationary Love Quotes

...love is never stationary.

Sometimes, when it is going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationary.

That’s because love is never stationary. In the end, love doesn’t just keep thinking about it or keep planning for it. Simply put: love does.

Speed never killed anyone! It’s suddenly becoming stationary… that’s what gets you.

Sometimes, when it’s going badly, she wonders if what she believes to be a love of the written word is really just a fetish for stationery. The true writer, the born writer, will scribble words on scraps of litter, the back of a bus tickets, on the wall of a cell. Emma is lost on anything less than 120gsm.

As I sit on my island, it becomes clears that we need to stop plotting the course and instead just land the plane on our plans to make a difference by getting to the "do" part of faith. That's because love is never stationary. In the end, love doesn't just keep thinking about it or keep planning for it. Simply put: love does.

If you wanted to come and find me, I've actually been pretty stationary. You know. Nearly dying.

Many children, early on, acquire a love of places they have never been. Often, such wonder is summarily crushed on the crawl through the sludge of murky, confused adolescence on to the flat, cracked pan of adulthood with its airless vistas ever lurking beyond the horizon. Oh, well, sometimes such gifts of curiosity, delight and adventure do indeed survive the stationary trek, said victims ending up as artists, scholars, inventors and other criminals bent on confounding the commonplace and the platitudes of peaceful living. But never mind them for now, since, for all their flailing subversions, nothing really ever changes unless in service to convenience.

love is never stationary. In the end, love doesn’t just keep thinking about it or keep planning for it. Simply put: love does.

You know what I think?” Touching him feels so good, so strangely uncomplicated, like he’s the exception to every rule. “What?” “I think you love your job,” he says softly. “I think you work that hard because you care ten times more than the average person.” “About work,” I say. “About everything.” His arms tighten around me. “Your sister. Your clients. Their books. You don’t do anything you’re not going to do one hundred percent. You don’t start anything you can’t finish. “You’re not the person who buys the stationary bike as part of a New Year’s resolution, then uses it as a coatrack for three years. You’re not the kind of woman who only works hard when it feels good, or only shows up when it’s convenient. If someone insults one of your clients, those fancy kid gloves of yours come off, and you carry your own pen at all times, because if you’re going to have to write anything, it might as well look good. You read the last page of books first—don’t make that face, Stephens.” He cracks a smile in one corner of his mouth. “I’ve seen you—even when you’re shelving, you sometimes check the last page, like you’re constantly looking for all the information, trying to make the absolute best decisions.” “And by you’ve seen me,” I say, “you mean you’ve watched me.” “Of course I fucking do,” he says in a low, rough voice. “I can’t stop. I’m always aware of where you are, even if I don’t look, but it’s impossible not to. I want to see your face get stern when you’re emailing a client’s editor, being a hard-ass, and I want to see your legs when you’re so excited about something you just read that you can’t stop crossing and uncrossing them. And when someone pisses you off, you get these red splotches.” His fingers brush my throat. “Right here.” “You’re a fighter,” he says. “When you care about something, you won’t let anything fucking touch it. I’ve never met anyone who cares as much as you do. Do you know what most people would give to have someone like that in their life?” His eyes are dark, probing, his heartbeat fast. “Do you know how fucking lucky anyone you care about is? You know . . .

The fear of making mistakes and not doing a particular ministry well has paralyzed many believers, and that is a tragedy. They fail to see that perfectionism is religion (form without power). Excellence is Kingdom. Saying yes to the King is the first step in discipleship. And being driven by love makes it impossible to remain stationary.

Just as soon as I meet and learn to love a friend we must part and go our separate ways, never to meet on quite the same ground again. For, disguise the fact as we will, when friends, even the closest-and perhaps the more so on account of that very closeness-meet again after a separation there is always a chill, lesser or greater, of change. Neither finds the other quite the same. This is only natural. Human nature is ever growing or retrograding-never stationary. But still, with all our philosophy who of us can repress a little feeling of bewildered disappointment when we realize that our friend is not and never can be just the same as before-even although the change may be an improvement?

I want a house that’s mobile but stationary, situated in a safe place without borders, where the people are peace-loving.

true love cannot be stationary; it must either decline or grow. Despite

Side by side, their faces blurred, The earl and countess lie in stone, Their proper habits vaguely shown As jointed armour, stiffened pleat, And that faint hint of the absurd - The little dogs under their feet. Such plainness of the pre-Baroque Hardly involves the eye, until It meets his left-hand gauntlett, still Clasped empty in the other, and One sees with a sharp tender shock His hand withdrawn, holding her hand. They would not think to lie so long, Such faithfulness in effigy Was just a detail friends would see, A sculptor's sweet commissioned grace Thrown off in helping to prolong The Latin names around the base. They would not guess how early in Their supine stationary voyage The air would change to soundless damage, Turn the old tenantry away; How soon succeeding eyes being To look, not read. Rigidly, they Persisted, linked, through lengths and breadths Of time. Snow fell, undated. Light Each summer thronged the grass. A bright Litter of birdcalls strewed the same Bone-littered ground. And up the paths The endless altered people came Washing at their identity. Now helpless in the hollow Of an unarmorial age, a trough Of smoke in slow suspended skeins Above their scrap of history, Only an attitude remains. Time has transfigured them into Untruth. The stone fidelity They hardly meant has come to be Their final blazon and to prove Our almost-instinct almost-true: What will survive of us is love. - An Arundel Tomb

These stories at times to be stories of a long-lost world when the city of New York was still filled with a river light, when you heard Benny Goodman quartets from a radio in the corner stationary store, when almost everybody wore a hat. Here is the last of that generation of chain smokers who woke to the world in the morning with their coughing, who used to get stoned at cocktail parties and perform obsolete dance steps like 'the Cleveland Chicken,' sail for Europe on ships, who were nostalgic for love and happiness, and whose gods were as ancient as yours and mine, whoever you are.

The deceitful character of the world comes out in the following ways. In the first place, it pretends that it will always remain with you, while, as a matter of fact, it is slipping away from you, moment by moment, and bidding you farewell, like a shadow which seems stationary, but is actually always moving. Again, the world presents itself under the guise of a radiant but immoral sorceress, pretends to be in love with you, fondles you, and then goes off to your enemies, leaving you to die of chagrin and despair. Jesus (upon whom be peace!) saw the world revealed in the form of an ugly old hag. He asked her how many husbands she had possessed; she replied that they were countless. He asked whether they had died or been divorced; she said that she had slain them all. "I marvel", he said, "at the fools who see, what you have done to others, and still desire you." This

Democracy wasn't a set of dry documents nicely laid out on office stationary - it brimmed in the lips of thousands of souls and debated in dozens of accents as it crossed the street from one neighborhood to the next. It was the smell of stale coffee and bodies packed into an old community center. It was the typos in the fliers. It was exasperation, realization, illumination - a knockdown, drag out, sweaty, tearful, impassioned process of people making decisions together.

Then there is the butterfly-or is it a moth? Humbert's inability to differentiate between the two,his indifference, implies a moral carelessness. This blind indifference echoes his callous attitude towards Lolita's nightly sobs. Those who tell us Lolita is a little vixen who deserved what she got should remember her nightly sobs in the arms of her rapist and jailer, because you see, as Humbert reminds us with a mixture of relish and pathos, "she had absolutely nowhere else to go." This came to mind when we were discussing in our class Humbert's confiscation of Lolita's life. The first thing that struck us in reading Lolita-in fact it was on the very first page-was how Lolita was given to us as Humbert's creature. We only see her in passing glimpses. "What I had madly possessed," he informs us, "was not she, but my own creation, another fanciful Lolita-perhaps, more real than Lolita . . . having no will, no consciousness-indeed no real life of her own." Humbert pins Lolita by first naming her, a name that becomes the echo of his desires. To reinvent her, Humbert must take from Lolita her own real history and replace it with his own, turning Lolita into a reincarnation of his lost, unfulfilled young love. Humbert's solipsization of Lolita. Yet she does have a past. Despite Humbert's attempts to orphan Lolita by robbing her of her history. Lolita has a tragic past, with a dead father and a dead two-year-old brother. And now also a dead mother. Like my students, Lolita's past comes to her not so much as a loss but as a lack, and like my students, she becomes a figment in someone else's dream. When I think of Lolita, I think of that half-alive butterfly pinned to the wall. The butterfly is not an obvious symbol, but it does suggest that Humbert fixes Lolita in the same manner that the butterfly is fixed; he wants her, a living breathing human being, to become stationary, to give up her life for the still life he offers her in return. Lolita's image is forever associated in the minds of her readers with that of her jailer. Lolita on her own has no meaning; she can only come to life through her prison bars. This is how I read Lolita. Again and again as we discussed Lolita in that class. And more and more I thought of that butterfly; what linked us so closely was this perverse intimacy of victim and jailer.

For our part, we thought we would be following her path from a distance in the press. Our friends called to tell us when the photo of Diana pushing Patrick in his stroller appeared in Newsweek, or when our name was mentioned in a news magazine or paper. We were generally mislabeled as the Robinsons. Everyone asked if we would be going to the wedding, and we would reply, “Us? No, of course not.” We truly never expected to hear from Diana again, so her January letter became especially precious to us. We were stunned when a letter from Diana on Buckingham Palace stationary arrived in late March. She was clearly happy, writing, “I am on a cloud.” She missed Patrick “dreadfully.” She hoped that we were all “settled down by now, including your cat too--.” Diana had never even seen our cat. We’d left him with my brother because England requires a six-month quarantine for cats and dogs. How did she ever remember we had one? Then, “I will be sending you an invitation to the wedding, naturally. . . .” The wedding . . . naturally . . . God bless her. Maybe we weren’t going to lose her after all. She even asked me to send a picture of Patrick to show to “her intended(!), since I’m always talking about him.” As for her engagement, she could never even have imagined it the year before. She closed with her typical and appealing modesty: “I do hope you don’t mind me writing to you but just had to let you know what was going on.” Mind? I was thrilled and touched and amazed by her fondness and thoughtfulness, as I have been every single time she has written to us and seen us. This was always to be the Diana we knew and loved—kind, affectionate, unpretentious. I wrote back write away and sent her the two photographs I’d taken of her holding Patrick in our living room the previous fall. After Diana received the photographs, she wrote back on March 31 to thank me and sent us their official engagement picture. She said I should throw the photograph away if it was of no use. She added, “You said some lovely things which I don’t feel I deserve . . . .” Surely, she knew from the previous year that we would be her devoted friends forever.

Love’s space In the distance, not too far but far enough, I had once seen her walking with someone, And that single, casual visual encounter was enough, To think of her always and that mysterious someone, They walked for a while and then sat under a tree, There they spoke of past while they were still discovering the present, And I wondered of my own future under the tree, Long after they had left, when I was dealing with my own present, I had somehow anchored my likings on her, My thoughts always felt her presence, She was there under the tree and I was with her, Although in reality she was exploring her own present in that someone’s presence, Yet I loved to return to the tree and be there for hours, Thinking of her and the future that could be, Her and mine, just ours, and then it would create for us unending hours, I so deeply wished if it could be, only if it could be, The tree is there, the stream too, I am always there between the stream and the tree, They both know it too, But what I wish for the girl and myself, the stream wishes for the tree, So whenever I am under the tree thinking of her, The stream flows by looking at the motionless and stationary tree, And then both remind me of her, Both the stream and the tree, Now it is winter and the stream has frozen, Just like the tree, motionless and anchored in eternity of nowhere, And in me, just like the stream, her thoughts and feelings are frozen, Because she now is the everywhere and everything in my emotional state called nowhere, Like the stream that to express her feelings of love towards the never moving tree, Froze itself completely and turned still, To feel the feelings of her darling and ever still tree, That even in her frozen state she loves still, in ways silent and still, So I share the stream’s irony or maybe I share the trees stillness, Its silence, where it quietly discloses that it never moves anywhere because it loves the stream, That always flows through its roots of love, and when the tree feels this romantic stillness, It decides to lie anchored on the banks of the stream, to enjoy his love’s accessible stream, And I feel the same for her whenever I am under the tree, Or with the stream that flows beside it, For she still exists there, frozen for my sake by the always still tree, And her reflection too is frozen in the running water of the stream, and I love feeling the wonder of it, All of it, the stream, the tree, she; and her frozen reflection in the stream’s water, And whenever I am here, the tree bends a bit, the stream slows her pace, And I see her beautiful face in the flowing water, the stream’s clear water, And then I too slow down my life’s pace, in this love’s own space, where time always loses its pace!

He’s a practical joker. He just can’t help it. He’ll put prudish guys on mailing lists for girlie magazines. Or right wingers for liberal causes. He thinks it’s a hoot. A guy in his office was climbing too fast, using everybody around him, so my husband and his pals made up letterhead stationary and sent him notification that he’d won a national award for professional achievement from some fake organization. They all congratulated him and made a big deal out of it—and even the guy’s secretary believed it and made reservations for him to go to Dallas to accept it.” —Ellen, Cleveland, OH

The only lovers! When you seek nothing, When the world seems still and silent, When the Sun shines bright yet darkness is lurking behind everything, When there is stillness with no movement, Then let me confess, “I love you Irma for all known and unknown reasons” And as we gradually progress, Let me admit, “I would love you the same in life’s all seasons!” In the fears of today, in the uncertainties of tomorrow, You will be the certain joy of everyday, In the moments of joy and during the times of sorrow, To strengthen our faith and feelings of love, I shall always invent a new way, Then as we flow being a part of river of life, Everything will be stationary while we shall have attained a happy flow, And in this paramount moment of my, and your life, Like the sparkling atoms of joy we shall now over the surface of the river of life glow! And as we pour ourselves into the sea of naked feelings, We shall drift as waves always chasing each other, To end our journeys at the shore of our naked feelings, And sink deep into the sand as a single feeling of love, where now you are my and I am your only lover!

Being different is difficult in a world that tells us there is a "normal". Many of us have oriented our entire lives around an effort to be "normal", never realizing that "normal" is not a stationary goal.

I never had any intention Or tendency For intimacies Outside of the extent Of being unavoidably affected By the chaotic emotions That were brainstorming me From various environments In nature And artificially But somehow I retained A stationary stance

I never want to be stationary again, I will never plant roots in a person, unless I can physically feel them breaking through the dirt and implanting deep within. Leeching on to the blood supply of the human formation, while simultaneously becoming entangled in the edges of forever. I will not give permit placement of my soul to anyone that has an underdeveloped heart with a wondering eye. The roots must have nurturing soil with space to spread.

Usually, she existed for him as a celestial body hanging from the heavens, bright but stationary, too distant to truly be known. But all at once she was burning across the frame. He watched her approach with a reverent awe. Her hair, still cosmic black, looked like a waterfall poured from the night sky.

Now the pillars of dust were about a mile from the multitude. They rose till they were about a mile above the hilltop. Then they gradually formed themselves into the shape of a huge mushroom. It remained stationary for an hour, and then it gradually descended toward the hill-top. The eagle-hawk jumped down from his place on the rock, and joined the multitude. The stem gradually came down until it touched the spot on the rock where the eagle-hawk had stood. Suddenly the mushroom-like cloud began to take the shape of a water-spout, curving over and over the top, and dropping spray-like water earthward, and dwindling in length until it measured only about twenty feet. Then a thunderbolt shot out of the clear sky down into the centre of the spout, causing a flame of fire. Within this flame of fire there became visible the perfect form of man as he is to-day. The flame gradually faded away, and left the figure standing in all its perfection, crowned with the glory of intelligence. The Sun Goddess remained for one day midway between the zenith and the western horizon, gazing with a satisfied smile upon her work of conception. This was the only occasion on which the Sun Goddess rested on her journey through the sky. She did this in order to shed a smiling beam of love and approval upon her work, and to show that man should rule the earth and all that remained upon the earth and sea. Then man stepped down from the rock and mingled with the creatures, and conversed with the kangaroo, the emu, the goanna, the eagle-hawk, and that most

I wish you were going home with me tomorrow.” “I know.” She nearly added Me too, then realized she didn’t. Where would that leave the children? Stephen turned her hand over and ran his thumb across the ring. The wind tugged her hair. A lone seagull cried overhead, floating on the wind, almost stationary. “There was a part of me that hoped you would,” he said. “You know I can’t.” Hadn’t they been through this before? “It won’t be much longer. School will be out in a little over a month. And if the Goldmans buy the property, that’ll expedite things.” “And then what?” “The property would close thirty days from the signing. Maybe you could come for another visit between now and then.” “That’s not what I mean, Meridith.” She knew he referred to the children coming home with her, to their being a family, and she wished so desperately the day had gone better. “Today was a bad day. They’re not normally so quarrelsome, and Ben’s vomiting . . .” The memory was such a horrific end to the day, it was almost funny. She felt a laugh bubbling up inside. “Well, you have to keep your sense of humor around here, that’s for sure.” “I don’t find it funny in the least.” The bubble of laughter burst, unfulfilled. “I appreciate that you want to give them a chance. I’m just trying to say it isn’t always like this.” He looked at her, his eyes intent with purpose. “I didn’t come to bond with the kids, Meridith. I came to remind you what we have together.” He pressed another kiss to her palm. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Her breath caught, but not because he’d repeated the words he’d spoken when he’d proposed. The other words made a far stronger impression. I didn’t come to bond with the kids. She’d misread the reason for his visit. She’d taken her own wish and transferred it onto him. “We have plans, good ones,” he said. “Save for a home in Lindenwood Park while we focus on our careers for three to five years. By then we’ll have enough to buy that dream home and start a family.” Meridith knotted the quilt material in her fist with the daffodil, clutching the stem against her chest. “I already have a family, Stephen.” His face fell. “They’re not your kids, Meridith. And they’re not mine.” “They’re my siblings. And they have no one else.” “That wasn’t our plan when I asked you to marry me. When you said yes.” “Life doesn’t always go according to plan, Stephen. Things happen. Change happens. I didn’t ask for this.” “I didn’t either. And I’m asking you to put me first. To put us first.” His grip tightened on her hand. “I love you. The future I want for us doesn’t include someone else’s children.” Meridith eased away from him, pulled her hand from his, and stood, even as he tightened his grip. If Stephen’s future didn’t include her siblings, then it didn’t include her either. She

I wish you were going home with me tomorrow.” “I know.” She nearly added Me too, then realized she didn’t. Where would that leave the children? Stephen turned her hand over and ran his thumb across the ring. The wind tugged her hair. A lone seagull cried overhead, floating on the wind, almost stationary. “There was a part of me that hoped you would,” he said. “You know I can’t.” Hadn’t they been through this before? “It won’t be much longer. School will be out in a little over a month. And if the Goldmans buy the property, that’ll expedite things.” “And then what?” “The property would close thirty days from the signing. Maybe you could come for another visit between now and then.” “That’s not what I mean, Meridith.” She knew he referred to the children coming home with her, to their being a family, and she wished so desperately the day had gone better. “Today was a bad day. They’re not normally so quarrelsome, and Ben’s vomiting . . .” The memory was such a horrific end to the day, it was almost funny. She felt a laugh bubbling up inside. “Well, you have to keep your sense of humor around here, that’s for sure.” “I don’t find it funny in the least.” The bubble of laughter burst, unfulfilled. “I appreciate that you want to give them a chance. I’m just trying to say it isn’t always like this.” He looked at her, his eyes intent with purpose. “I didn’t come to bond with the kids, Meridith. I came to remind you what we have together.” He pressed another kiss to her palm. “I love you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you.” Her breath caught, but not because he’d repeated the words he’d spoken when he’d proposed. The other words made a far stronger impression. I didn’t come to bond with the kids. She’d misread the reason for his visit. She’d taken her own wish and transferred it onto him. “We have plans, good ones,” he said. “Save for a home in Lindenwood Park while we focus on our careers for three to five years. By then we’ll have enough to buy that dream home and start a family.” Meridith knotted the quilt material in her fist with the daffodil, clutching the stem against her chest. “I already have a family, Stephen.” His face fell. “They’re not your kids, Meridith. And they’re not mine.” “They’re my siblings. And they have no one else.” “That wasn’t our plan when I asked you to marry me. When you said yes.” “Life doesn’t always go according to plan, Stephen. Things happen. Change happens. I didn’t ask for this.” “I didn’t either. And I’m asking you to put me first. To put us first.” His grip tightened on her hand. “I love you. The future I want for us doesn’t include someone else’s children.” Meridith

The stars, are they not confetti? There is a direct relation between the number of them and the triviality of you. Squint your eyes. The constellation of a long slender hound appears, marking the heavens more objectively than dippers or crabs or bowmen. Trace it with your finger. The dog glares as if perturbed by your discovery. Heaven is not a Rorschach after all. Perhaps the ancients didn’t name him for a reason, or only spoke the name during ceremonies where his guidance was sought, his wrath placated. They looked to the stars and the stars looked back. What became of them? Survival was not among the blessings from this deity. His ferocity makes him more humanlike than one of love. Close your eyes and seize the earth. So solid. So flat and stationary. Your senses are liars and fools. “What about those other universes he was talking about?” you whisper, assuming the fetal position. It worked once. “Screw it. All politics is local. As long as they aren’t connected they don’t dilute the significance of this one.” The hound in the sky continues to scowl, as he did before you were born, before all men were born.

it takes no more than ten grown men to prevent a stationary car from getting away—

Autumn rolls against us― outside the morning chorus― you roll over― held in ivory sheets― looking― dawning tenderness in sleepy auroras sermon― animation paved the simplest rule― along those stationary moments― and I fell for you in those words― it's so hard to get out of bed with you there―

A long river fell in love with a deep well. River expects the well to flow and well expects the river to become stationary. Both suffer. But both feel a connection that can't be explained. Why?

The Divine Dance Christianity, alone among the world faiths, teaches that God is triune. The doctrine of the Trinity is that God is one being who exists eternally in three persons: Father, Son and Holy Spirit. The Trinity means that God is, in essence, relational. The Gospel writer John describes the Son as living from all eternity in the ‘bosom of the Father’ (John 1:18), an ancient metaphor for love and intimacy. Later in John’s Gospel, Jesus, the Son, describes the Spirit as living to ‘glorify’ him (John 16:14). In turn, the Son glorifies the Father (17:4) and the Father, the Son (17:5). This has been going on for all eternity (17:5b). What does the term ‘glorify’ mean? To glorify something or someone is to praise, enjoy and delight in them. When something is useful you are attracted to it for what it can bring you or do for you. But if it is beautiful, then you enjoy it simply for what it is. Just being in its presence is its own reward. To glorify someone is also to serve or defer to him or her. Instead of sacrificing their interests to make yourself happy, you sacrifice your interests to make them happy. Why? Your ultimate joy is to see them in joy. What does it mean, then, that the Father, Son and Holy Spirit glorify one another? If we think of it graphically, we could say that self-centredness is to be stationary, static. In self-centredness we demand that others orbit around us. We will do things and give affection to others, as long as it helps us meet our personal goals and fulfils us. The inner life of the triune God, however, is utterly different. The life of the Trinity is characterised not by self-centredness but by mutually self-giving love. When we delight and serve someone else, we enter into a dynamic orbit around him or her, we centre on the interests and desires of the other. That creates a dance, particularly if there are three persons, each of whom moves around the other two. So it is, the Bible tells us. Each of the divine persons centres upon the others. None demands that the others revolve around him. Each voluntarily circles the other two, pouring love, delight and adoration into them. Each person of the Trinity loves, adores, defers to and rejoices in the others. That creates a dynamic, pulsating dance of joy and love. The early leaders of the Greek church had a word for this – perichoresis. Notice the root of our word ‘choreography’ within it. It means literally to ‘dance or flow around’.1 The Father. . . Son . . . and Holy Spirit glorify each other. . . . At the center of the universe, self-giving love is the dynamic currency of the Trinitarian life of God. The persons within God exalt, commune with, and defer to one another. . . . When early Greek Christians spoke of perichoresis in God they meant that each divine person harbors the others at the center of his being. In constant movement of overture and acceptance each person envelops and encircles the others.2 In Christianity God is not an impersonal thing nor a static thing – not even just one person – but a dynamic pulsating activity, a life, a kind of drama, almost, if you will not think me irreverent, a kind of dance. . . . [The] pattern of this three-personal life is . . . the great fountain of energy and beauty spurting up at the very centre of reality.3 The doctrine of the Trinity overloads our mental circuits. Despite its cognitive difficulty, however, this astonishing, dynamic conception of the triune God is bristling with profound, wonderful, life-shaping, world-changing implications.4