Sunrise Beach Quotes

There is no place like the beach... where the land meets the sea and the sea meats the sky

Is the sunrise of Mount Fuji more beautiful from the one you see in the countryside a bit closer to home? Are the beaches of Indonesia really that much more serene than those we have in our own countries? The point I make is not to downplay the marvels of the world, but to highlight the notion of the human tendency in our failure to see the beauty in our daily lives when we take off the travel goggles when we are home. It is the preconceived notion of a place that creates the difference in perception of environments rather than the actual geological location.

The world has enough beautiful mountains and meadows, spectacular skies and serene lakes. It has enough lush forests, flowered fields and sandy beaches. It has plenty of stars and the promise of a new sunrise and sunset every day. What the world needs more of is people to appreciate and enjoy it.

At least I want to get up early one more morning, before sunrise. Before the birds, even. I want to throw cold water on my face and be at my work table when the sky lightens and smoke begins to rise from the chimneys of the other houses. I want to see the waves break on this rocky beach, not just hear them break as I did in my sleep. I want to see again the ships that pass through the Strait from every seafaring country in the world - old, dirty freighters just barely moving along, and the swift new cargo vessels painted every color under the sun that cut the water as they pass. I want to keep an eye out for them. And for the little boat that plies the water between the ships and the pilot station near the lighthouse. I want to see them take a man off the ship and put another one up on board. I want to spend the day watching this happen and reach my own conclusions. I hate to seem greedy - I have so much to be thankful for already. But I want to get up early one more morning, at least. And go to my place with some coffee and wait. Just wait, to see what's going to happen.

She touched the pages and remembered each shell and the story of finding it, where it lay on the beach, the season, the sunrise. A family album.

You are music to me,” he said, quietly. “You are a dance, or the whisper of a song. When you are cross, you are Beethoven dreamink of the far seas, and when you are happy you are Saint-Saëns to me, and when you are sad you are Grieg looking on a rainy day, and when you laugh it is Mozart to me. And I would so very much like to make you dance.

Everyone, if they are lucky, loses parents that they love, in the end.

Middle-aged women are supposed to look for the safe harbor, for the port in the storm of life. We are supposed to look for the calm and the comfortable. You are the port in the storm. And you are the storm. And you are the sea. You are the rocks and the beach and the waves. You are the sunrise and the sunset and all of the light in between. I think I have more to say but I can’t. We are holding hands, pressed against each other, holding each other up. I whisper to him, Every day of my life, and he whispers to me, Every day of my life.

Good,” said Anita. “Do you know what you’re not thinking about when you’re slicing zucchini?” “Everything else?” “Correct. You’re not overthinking everything else.

Apparently there is a python magazine that is about computers, and a python magazine that’s about really big snakes and if you get one you don’t really want the other.

I think everyone should take time at least once a week to catch a sunrise, just to feel alive and that there is hope.

Summer Beach … Thunder that is still too far away for us to hear presses down on Ben’s ears and he wakes us and leans hot and chesty first against M., then against me, and listens to our slow, warm words that mean we love him. But when the storm has passed, he is brave again and wants to go out. We open the door and he glides away without a backward glance. It is early, in the blue and grainy air we can just see him running along the edge of the water, into the first pink suggestion of sunrise. And we are caught by the old affinity, a joyfulness - his great and seemly pleasure in the physical world. Because of the dog’s joyfulness, our own is increased. It is no small gift…

But something is going to happen, that's for sure. It depends on how bold we choose to be. We could get out, maybe, or we could die, or we could be badly injured going over a waterfall and end up on a gravel beach only to be found by a young boy who would carve messages in their toes and shove us back out to sea. There are lots of possibilities, and I am happy with all of them." "Do you like mornings?" Tom asked, leaning on his elbow. "Not usually," Reg said. "I'm typically rather sullen over my breakfast, and I'm sure the crawdads notice. But what is truly strange is that I never liked mornings when I could have them with real sunrises and real dew on roses and real paperboys wrecking real bicycles on the sidewalk outside my window. How I ever could have remained asleep and voluntarily missed a sunrise, I can't explain. If you're right and we get out, I don't think I'll miss another one.

People who were normally very organized and in control could fight extremely hard to preserve that control, including reducing their world to a tiny space which could not harm them.

IV REVEILLE Wake: the silver dusk returning Up the beach of darkness brims, And the ship of sunrise burning Strands upon the eastern rims. Wake: the vaulted shadow shaatters, Trampled to the floor it spanned, And the tent of night in tatters Straws the sky-pavilioned land. Up, lad, up, 'tis late for lying: Hear the drums of morning play; Hark, the empty highways crying "Who'll beyond the hills away?" Towns and countries woo together, Forelands beacon, belfries call; Never lad that trod on leather Lived to feast his heart with all. Up, lad: thews that lie and cumber Sunlit pallets never thrive; Morns abed and daylight slumber Were not meant for man alive. Clay lies still, but blood's a rover; Breath's a ware that will not keep Up, lad: when the journey's over There'll be time enough to sleep.

Mom, listen to me. Big things like this are scary. They make us think about change, and opportunity. But like you've always told me, that's when we need to put on our big girl panties and meet the moment.

January snow lay thick on the ground—crusty, pitted, and hardened, some of it like the bubbly honeycomb of air-dried sea foam in the tide wrack down at the beach, the sort of snow that stays so long you get used to the intrusion of that world of uninvited white, a hooded subverted landscape, sparkling in the low flame of a sallow sunrise on a winter morning.

Something happened that day. When she speaks again, her voice is almost a whisper. “It was still early when I got there. I sat down on the beach, watching the morning waves roll in.” A wistful look fills her eyes. “It was so beautiful. People love looking at the ocean at sunrise or sunset, but I love looking at it right before the sun is up or right after sundown.

Stretch before bed. Go to bed earlier. Stretch at sunrise. Juice. Run. Go to yoga class. Offer help. Eat plenty of fresh, whole foods. Feel sunshine on my skin. Splash around at the beach. Picnic in the park. Keep a gratitude journal. Meditate. Write. Create. Eat dinner by candlelight. Choose quality over quantity. Phone friends and family. Listen. Practice random acts of kindness.

I paused for a minute to witness the sunrise over Waikiki Beach. As the orange sun spread its rays over the island, the warm breeze wrapped me in its embrace, assuring me everything happened for a reason. With outstretched arms, I breathed in the kaleidoscope of colors that reflected the sky, the sun, the sea. For the first time, I knew what I wanted. I wanted to live my life in color.

If I had three lives, I’d marry you in two. And the other? That life over there at Starbucks, sitting alone, writing — a memoir, maybe a novel or this poem. No kids, probably, a small apartment with a view of the river, and books — lots of books and time to read. Friends to laugh with; a man sometimes, for a weekend, to remember what skin feels like when it’s alive. I’m thinner in that life, vegan, practice yoga. I go to art films, farmers markets, drink martinis in swingy skirts and big jewelry. I vacation on the Maine coast and wear a flannel shirt weekend guy left behind, loving the smell of sweat and aftershave more than I do him. I walk the beach at sunrise, find perfect shell spirals and study pockmarks water makes in sand. And I wonder sometimes if I’ll ever find you.

My dear little big Marianne, ... I hope that you will grow up to be a healthy, happy and strong human being. I hope you will experience the most beautiful things the world has to give... And then you must have children... And think of our evenings of discussion in bed, about all the important things of life... And think of our beautiful three weeks at the seashore - of the sunrise, and when we walked barefoot along the beach from Bansin to Uckeritz, and when I pushed you before me on the rubber float, and when we read books together. We had so many beautiful things together, my child, and you must experience them all over again, and much more besides... And be happy as often as you can - every day is precious. My love for you shall accompany you your whole life long. (From Rose Schlosinger to her daughter, 1943)

Now in her hands, the final copy- every brushstroke, every carefully thought-out color, every word of the natural histories, printed in a book. There were also drawings of the creatures who live inside- how they eat, how they move, how they mate- because people forget about creatures who live in shells. She touched the pages and remembered each shell and the story of finding it, where it lay on the beach, the season, the sunrise. A family album.

Let me tell you, there is no other way than to live like this – Love with abandon Laugh uncontrollably Write your heart out Dance in the rain (try it!) Sit and try hatching ideas Fall madly in love with someone Move to the drumbeats of your heart Feel the earth beneath your bare feet Go cloud watching, star gazing and moonbaths Have walks along the beach during sunset or sunrise Overnight with fireflies, savor the evening breeze Find at least one snowflake or a miracle Excite your senses, taste everything Indulge in higher pleasures Smell the morning mist Travel. Travel. Travel. Take a leap of faith Live with Passion Bare your soul Why not? Be bold Revel LIVE

What I didn’t want: a low-octane life of draining jobs, counting the days till I’d have time to mow the lawn again, counting the weeks till I could afford some plastic, beach-chair vacation, counting the years till retirement when I’d be too old to enjoy it. I was from a place built off those blueprints, where sprinklers went off in the morning and whole neighborhoods became ghost towns during work hours. I’d look out at all those empty houses, the exhausted adults returning home, the whole sorry bunch living at low throttle, and it seemed like death. I wanted to see the stars over Kilimanjaro, the sunrise after sleeping at the base of a killer range, to breathe powder. You can stand on the peak of the world, knowing you’re about to drop into the mouth of a canyon sculpted by wind, and if you die, at least you die by your own rules. That’s why I gave my life to extreme sports.

He opened her door, grabbed a quilt from the back of the truck, and pulled her toward the beach. When he found a spot covered with thick sand, he stopped and spread out the blanket. “It’s a little early for sunbathing,” she said. “I don’t remember you being so grumpy in the morning,” he teased. “I didn’t have time for coffee.” He lowered himself to the blanket and pulled her down in front of him. She settled against his chest, his warmth driving away the chill in the air. “Madam . . .” He handed her a thermos she hadn’t noticed before. “Oh, bless you.” She poured the hot brew into the lid, took a sip, and shared with him. Much better. The smell of the brew mingled with the tangy scent of sea air. The cool breeze fanned her skin, pushing her hair from her face, and the water lapped the pebbled shore. The clouds on the horizon were beginning to brighten, the black fading to dark hues of blue. A couple months ago she’d mentioned that she’d never watched a sunrise. He seemed intent on being there for all her firsts. The first time she rented a house. The first time she opened her own bank account. The first time she swam in the ocean. She embraced her freedom, and Beau was there, supporting her however he could.

My dear Marwan, in the long summers of childhood, when I was a boy the age you are now, your uncles and I spread our mattress on the roof of your grandfathers’ farmhouse outside of Hom. We woke in the mornings to the stirring of olive trees in the breeze, to the bleating of your grandmother's goat, the clanking of her cooking pots, the air cool and the sun a pale rim of persimmon to the east. We took you there when you were a toddler. I have a sharply etched memory of your mother from that trip. I wish you hadn’t been so young. You wouldn't have forgotten the farmhouse, the soot of its stone walls, the creek where your uncles and I built a thousand boyhood dams. I wish you remembered Homs as I do, Marwan. In its bustling Old City, a mosque for us Muslims, a church for our Christian neighbours, and a grand souk for us all to haggle over gold pendants and fresh produce and bridal dresses. I wish you remembered the crowded lanes smelling of fried kibbeh and the evening walks we took with your mother around Clock Tower Square. But that life, that time, seems like a dream now, even to me, like some long-dissolved rumour. First came the protests. Then the siege. The skies spitting bombs. Starvation. Burials. These are the things you know You know a bomb crater can be made into a swimming hole. You have learned dark blood is better news than bright. You have learned that mothers and sisters and classmates can be found in narrow gaps between concrete, bricks and exposed beams, little patches of sunlit skin shining in the dark. Your mother is here tonight, Marwan, with us, on this cold and moonlit beach, among the crying babies and the women worrying in tongues we don’t speak. Afghans and Somalis and Iraqis and Eritreans and Syrians. All of us impatient for sunrise, all of us in dread of it. All of us in search of home. I have heard it said we are the uninvited. We are the unwelcome. We should take our misfortune elsewhere. But I hear your mother's voice, over the tide, and she whispers in my ear, ‘Oh, but if they saw, my darling. Even half of what you have. If only they saw. They would say kinder things, surely.' In the glow of this three-quarter moon, my boy, your eyelashes like calligraphy, closed in guileless sleep. I said to you, ‘Hold my hand. Nothing bad will happen.' These are only words. A father's tricks. It slays your father, your faith in him. Because all I can think tonight is how deep the sea, and how powerless I am to protect you from it. Pray God steers the vessel true, when the shores slip out of eyeshot and we are in the heaving waters, pitching and tilting, easily swallowed. Because you, you are precious cargo, Marwan, the most precious there ever was. I pray the sea knows this. Inshallah. How I pray the sea knows this.

When I was a little girl I always wondered if sunrises looked the same everywhere else. Like on a beach in Fiji, or someplace else I’d never see...would this look just the same?

I think everyone should take time, at least once a week, to catch a sunrise. Just to feel alive and that there’s hope.

The beach never has a sunrise or sunset, does it?” she asked him. “No. No, it does not. The sun has to rise out of darkness to create a sunrise and set into the darkness to create a sunset. There is no darkness here, Samantha, not in The Land of Good Dreams. There is only light.” - Excerpt from The Land of Good Dreams

Are we almost there?” I asked. “You won’t be sleeping on the beach tonight,” he replied. “Not unless you’re fool enough to insist on it.” “I don’t mind sleeping under the stars.” “Well, isn’t that what a legendary huntress always does?” He winked at me. “Or have you become someone else already?” He kept his teasing to a whisper. “Very funny.” “Put your quills down, little hedgehog, I’m not your enemy,” Argus replied. “I owe you plenty for what you’ve brought to this voyage. Thanks to you, I only felt like throttling Jason every second day. I wish I knew your true name so when I die, I can tell Hades, ‘See that girl? She’s sharp as a shark’s tooth, brave enough to battle the worst storm Poseidon could throw at her, and one of these days she’ll be as beautiful as a sunrise on a summer sea. So you tell the Fates to spin the thread of her life good and long, or you’ll have Argus to answer to!’” He chuckled. I placed my hand over his on the prow. “I hope the Pythia was wrong,” I told him. “Not because I like you, but so Hades doesn’t have to put up with you too soon.

5. not-so-magic hour The most flattering light for vacation photos is the golden glow just before sunset or right after sunrise, and the most unflattering is, undoubtedly, the full-strength glaring sun. Make the best of a bright situation by seeking the softer light created by the shade of a beach umbrella, cabana, lifeguard tower, or tall lifeguard. If there's no shade in sight and you're truly committed, ask your subject to face their own shadow, and angle a boogie board to bounce light on their face. Or just ask everyone to close their eyes and look down, then, on the count of three, look up and say "Pina colada." Smiles, guaranteed.

Now in her hands, the final copy - every brushstroke, every carefully thought-out color, every word of the natural histories, printed in a book. There were also drawings of the creatures who live inside-how they eat, how they move, how they mate-because people forget about creatures who live in shells. She touched the pages and remembered each shell and the story of finding it, where it lay on the beach, the season, the sunrise. A family album.

I am persuaded that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor lords, nor leaders, nor the present, nor the future, nor the heights, the depths and no other creature can separate you from the love of God, from Jesus Christ our Lord. They were pretty verses, whatever you believed; and comforting too, the concept of a huge blanket of love that could never let you down.

There’s laughing, music, and waves. I must be a toddler, because Mom’s holding my hands, leading me to the water’s edge. The ocean’s foam kisses my chubby knees. I’ve remembered bits of the dream through the years. I see a bonfire on the beach. My Mom is there, and a man playing a guitar, singing. Even though the man doesn’t look like my dad, I know it is him. It must be him. People sometimes look different in dreams. In this one, he has a head of curly hair. It’s a good dream, because every time I think about it I feel warm all over.

Do what you like with your one beautiful life.

In a panic, Less’s mind races to put this man before a series of backgrounds—blue sky and beach, tall tree and river, lobster and wineglass, disco ball and drugs, bedsheets and sunrise—but nothing is coming to mind.

How many nights and sunrises came to caress our hearts. Then, as often happens, I see I'm just lonely in living the poetry of these moments, and I'm throwing away my magic. I can find refuge in my songs, they surround me like a mother, but then I realize that this hug is becoming a cage, I'm prisoner in my dreams, and I wonder: "may I be condemned to dream forever?" ... I wish I could watch again beauty of the moon, creating a big heart made of shells on the beach, as a castaway's signal ... hoping to be seen by someone who's flying up there ... and loudly saying .. "Hey .. I'm here ! please help me to escape

Life as a private investigator, slash bounty hunter wasn’t all Gary Beck wanted it to be. There weren’t any big mansions on a palm beach owned by an affluent writer generous enough to let him live rent-free and use his spare Ferrari. But then you have to ask yourself, what could you expect living on a planet like Deanna? As a third-rate colony in the Terran Empire, Deanna had more than its fair share of dull moments. It orbits a star called Ramalama. If you think that’s funny, Deanna’s two moons are called Ding and Dong, respectively (this is a local joke) and one of them falls down occasionally.

I think it's hard for most people to wrap their heads around the idea that there are enormous creatures below the surface that they're unable to see. They'd rather sit on the beach and admire the sunrise and pretend there's nothing lurking under the waves.

But when it came, all I felt was fear. Fear that he wouldn't be who I'd imagined. Fear that I wasn't ready. Fear that I wouldn't feel the way I was supposed to. Fear that I'd fuck up even this, this thing I was meant for. But what I was not afraid of, maybe, was that it was over. It's hard to be single, but it's also something you can get good at. And I was good at it. It's easy to love the things we are good at. Yes, I wanted epic love. Weak-in-the-knees, movie-kiss-in-the-rain epic love. What I never realized, not up until this very moment, is that I got it - everything I'd been asking for. I'd been on the back of a motorcycle in Paris and across the Golden Gate Bridge at sunrise. I'd been on the beach in Santa Monica at sunset. My life has been filled with magical moments, I was just so busy waiting I didn't see them when they were here.

Do what you like with your one beautiful life. You can never make all of them happy. If you can make yourself happy, you’re well ahead of the curve.” “And Lovie.

Each member of the family shipwrecked on their own island of grief.

We are two survivors clinging to a life raft.

Silent morning Quiet nature in dim light It is almost peaceless of the chirping of birds Waiting for the sunrise Feeling satisfied with pure breath Busy life- in pursuit of livelihood, running people In the intensity of the wood-burning sun, astray finch Sometimes the advent of north-wester I’m scared The calamitous heartache of the falling Caesalpinia pulcherrima! Listen to get ears Surprisingly I saw the unadulterated green weald Vernal, yellow and crimson colors are the glorious beauty of the unique nature An amazing reflection of Bengal The housewife’s fringe of azure color sari fly in the gentle breeze The cashew forest on the bank of flowing rivers white egret couple peep-bo The kite crookedly flies get lost in the far unknown The footstep of blustery childhood on the zigzag path Standing on a head-high hill touches the fog Beckoning with the hand of the magical horizon The liveliness of a rainy-soaked juvenile Momentary fascinated visibility of Ethnic group’s pineapple, tea, banana and jhum cultivation at the foot of the hill Trailer- shrub, algae and pebble-stone come back to life in the cleanly stream of the fountain Bumble bee is rudderless in the drunken smell of mountain wild flower The heart of the most beloved is touched by pure love In the distant sea water, pearl glow in the sunlight Rarely, the howl of a hungry tiger float in the air from a deep forest The needy fisherman’s ​​hope and aspiration are mortgaged to the infinite sea The waves come rushing on the beach delete the footprint to the beat of the dancing The white cotton cloud is invisible in the bluey The mew flies at impetuous speed to an unknown destination A slice of happy smile at the bend of the wave The western sky covered with the crimson glow of twilight Irritated by the cricket’s endless acrid sound The evening lamp is lit to flickering light of the firefly The red crabs tittup wildly on the beach Steadfast seeing Sunset A beautiful dream Next sunrise.

on the metro so far :P” 2. Her bio says, “sunrise > sunset.” Your first message: “So you’re either a party girl who stays up all night or a good girl who wakes up before the crack of dawn. I think I know which.” 3. Her bio says, “I’m a blue-eyed, beer-loving and cocktail-making gal.” Your first message: “So what kind of drink will you make us on the first date? (This may or may not be a deal-breaker)”. 4. She’s got a picture at a famous tourist attraction, like Machu Picchu. Your first message: “I dig your Machu Picchu photo. I hope the llamas went easy on you out there.” 5. She’s got a picture by the beach. Your first message: “I dig your beach photo. I’m guessing you’re the type of girl that likes to swim more than sit on the beach chair and tan.

Take a trip to a local park; map a bike ride through a scenic trail; plan a trip to a local beach and stroll the shore at sunrise.

Ocean and horizon are like trust and rest. Inseparable. If we don’t learn to trust God, we won’t experience true rest. Rest is a constant craving of our hearts, in the moments of our hardest days, in the weeks of our longest waits, in the months that bring more questions than answers. Physical rest is planned but spiritual rest is priority. When we trust God, we are teaching our souls to rest in Him no matter what happens. He’s here and He sees. What we need. Where we’re going. When is best. In the same way there’s a steady, refreshing breeze at the ocean’s edge, there’s a steadfast, reassuring purpose at the heart of God’s plan for our lives. Trust and rest come by believing His plans for us are always driven by perfect love. How do we keep our face toward our purpose and the love guiding it? We keep our focus on hope as ceaseless as the waves. We keep our confidence in faithfulness as sure as the sunrise. We keep our prayers grateful for God’s goodness and honest for our growth. He knows us and sees us with cloudless clarity. That should inspire us to trust Him with fearless courage. When we move through our days brave and hopeful, our souls find rest in a world that’s fighting to reel our minds and spirits in the opposite direction. Trusting God is the divine tug that will win us the battle. Today is another chance to remind ourselves that we need to give it all to God—the pain, the why-did-this-happen, the humanness of our doubt, the reality of our fears. He’ll take it all in one fell swoop of love, leaving in its place a lighter spirit, a brighter hope, and a deeper trust. The rest that follows will be like sunshine to our souls and as soothing as sand between our toes.

Moonlight cool of all-enwrapping blue at sunrise fractures to a rainbow of flavors…. *** It was on a diet of nerve alone when finally I did approach her — like shot-fire fracturing the field— I bore witness to a floating world of midnight— cool and blue-purple, fluid, rainswept and windswept, like the ocean beautifully silent without stiffen down to plain daylight— a beached limb bleaches in the sun… now what was that gross flesh? what that show of knobby knees? what was that taste and preference? that personality to swallow?