Sunset Stroll Quotes

Why, aren’t you just about as sweet as syrup on a sundae? I sure would appreciate that, ma’am.” He winked. “How’d you like ta stroll the deck of this fine ship with me and watch the sunset? I need a purty girl to put her arm around me and steady this bow-legged cowboy as he finds his sea legs.” I raised an eyebrow and affected a southern accent. “Why, I think you’re a pullin’ my leg there, Texas. You’ve had your sea legs a lot longer than I have.” He rubbed the stubble on his face. “You might be right at that. Well then, how about you taggin’ along to keep me warm?” “It’s about eighty degrees.” “Shoot, you’re a smart one, you are. Then how ‘bout I jes say that a feller can get pretty lonesome by hisself in a strange country and he’d like to keep compn’y with you fer a while longer.

Bundled in my shawl and uniform, I might have been partaking in any one of Mrs. Westcliffe’s permitted after-supper al fresco activities, like: Strolling to the edge of the rose garden to admire the sunset. Strolling to the edge of the orchard to admire the sunset. Strolling to the edge of the bridge to admire the sunset. At England’s foremost educational opportunity for young women, strolling to the brink of things was allowed. Leaving the green-plunging beyond brinks-was not.

A stroll by the silent shores watching the sunset-Every bookaholic's dream.

omen of a golden holiday. Towards sunset they strolled quietly back, their shadows stretching out before them, a long way over the sands.

Where shall I find a style to catch a stroll, Chablis on ice, a crisply toasted roll, The agate succulence of cherries ripe? The sunset's far, the ocean's splashing cool Can offer solace to a sunburned nape.

And how was my time? Truth be told, not so great. At least, not as good as I’d been secretly hoping for. If possible, I was hoping to be able to wind up this book with a powerful statement like, “Thanks to all the hard training I did, I was able to post a great time at the New York City Marathon. When I finished I was really moved,” and casually stroll off into the sunset with the theme song from Rocky blaring in the background.

The Men’s Central Jail is an anonymous building behind Central Station, less than ten minutes from the Criminal Courts Building in downtown L.A. I parked in a neat, modern underground parking structure, then walked up steps to a very nice plaza. Nicely dressed people were sipping lattes and strolling about the plaza, and no one seemed to mind that the plaza adjoined a place housing felons and gangbangers and the wild men of an otherwise civil society. Perhaps because this is L.A. and the jail is so nice. There’s a fountain in the plaza, and it’s very nice, too.

Sunset’s the best time to take a stroll down Mouffetard, the ancient Via Mons Cetardus. The buildings along it are only two or three stories high. Many are crowned with conical dovecotes. Nowhere in Paris is the connection, the obscure kinship, between houses very close to each other more perceptible to the pedestrian than in this street. Close in age, not location. If one of them should show signs of decrepitude, if its face should sag, or it should lose a tooth, as it were, a bit of cornicing, within hours its sibling a hundred metres away, but designed according to the same plans and built by the same men, will also feel it’s on its last legs. The houses vibrate in sympathy like the chords of a viola d’amore. Like cheddite charges giving each other the signal to explode simultaneously.

In 1714, Gottfried Wilhelm Leibniz argued that matter alone could never produce a mind. Leibniz was a German philosopher, mathematician, and scientist who is sometimes called “the last man who knew everything”. To Leibniz, brain tissue alone could not have an interior life. He suggested a thought experiment, known today as Leibniz’s Mill. Imagine a large mill. If you were to walk around inside of it, you would see its cogs and struts and levers all moving, but it would be preposterous to suggest that the mill is thinking or feeling or perceiving. How could a mill fall in love or enjoy a sunset? A mill is just made of pieces and parts. And so it is with the brain, Leibniz asserted. If you could expand the brain to the size of a mill and stroll around inside it, you would only see pieces and parts. Nothing would obviously correspond to perception. Everything would simply be acting on everything else. If you wrote down every interaction, it wouldn’t be obvious where thinking and feeling and perceiving reside.

Over the last thirty years, I don't think I have ever visited Ottawa and not taken a stroll around the buildings for a gawk. If you find yourself in the nation's capital on a fine, brisk day, I recommend you walk across the Alexandria Bridge over the Ottawa River to Quebec. From there, you will get the greatest view: the back of the buildings, even more magnificent than the front, and they jut out dramatically over the river's escarpment. Also, from this angle you see the beauty that is the Parliamentary Library. I feel about these buildings the way some people feel about sunsets. The way Justin Trudeau feels about mirrors. I can gaze at them all day.

Leibniz imagined the mind as a large machine, a processing unit, a factory, a mechanism — which seems fair enough. Leibniz imagined walking around a large mill. You would see cogs and levers moving, but, as David Eagleman says: "It would be preposterous to suggest that the mill is thinking or feeling or perceiving. How could a mill fall in love or enjoy a sunset? A mill is just made of pieces and parts. And so it is with the brain, Leibniz asserted. If you could expand the brain to the size of a mill and stroll around inside it, you would only see pieces and parts. When we look inside the brain, we see neurons, synapses, chemical transmitters, electrical activity. We see billions of active, chattering cells. Where are you? Where are your thoughts? Your emotions? To Leibniz, the mind seemed inexplicable by mechanical causes.

Maté The moon was simply dying to tread the earth. She wanted to sample the fruit and to bathe in some river. Thanks to the clouds, she was able to come down. From sunset until dawn, clouds covered the sky so that no one could see the moon was missing. Nighttime on the earth was marvelous. The moon strolled through the forest of the high Paranà, caught mysterious aromas and flavors, and had a long swim in the river. Twice an old peasant rescued her. When the jaguar was about to sink his teeth into the moon’s neck, the old man cut the beasts throat with his knife; and when the moon got hungry, he took her to his house. “We offer you our poverty,” said the peasant’s wife, and gave her some corn tortillas. On the next night the moon looked down from the sky at her friends’ house. The old peasant had built his hut in a forest clearing very far from the villages. He lived there like an exile with his wife and daughter. The moon found that the house had nothing left in it to eat. The last corn tortillas had been for her. Then she turned on her brightest light and asked the clouds to shed a very special drizzle around the hut. In the morning some unknown trees had sprung up there. Amid their dark green leaves appeared white flowers. The old peasant’s daughter never died. She is the queen of the maté and goes about the world offering it to others. The tea of the maté awakens sleepers, activates the lazy, and makes brothers and sisters of people who don’t know each other. (86

Ritual characterizes every aspect of life here, and even mundane, daily activities take on an ageless quality. The daily rhythm begins at dawn, as the fishermen launch boats from countless harbors, an event that has taken place for centuries. The women go to market, exchanging greetings and comments. Ritual rules the care and time taken with every detail of the midday meal, from the hearty seafood appetizers to the strong, syrupy coffee that marks the end of the feast. The day winds down with the evening stroll, a tradition thoroughly ingrained in the culture of the Greek Isles. In villages and towns throughout the islands, sunset brings cooler air and draws people from their homes and the beaches for an enjoyable evening walk through town squares, portside promenades, and narrow streets. Ancient crafts still flourish in the artisans’ studios and in tidy homes of countless mountain villages and ports. Embroidery--traditionally the province of Greek women--is created by hand to adorn the regional costumes worn during festivals. Artists craft delicate silver utensils, engraved gems, blown glass, and gold jewelry. Potters create ceramic pieces featuring some of the same decorative patterns and mythological subjects that captured their ancestors’ imagination. Weddings, festivals, saints’ days. And other celebrations with family and friends provide a backdrop for grave and energetic Greek dancing. For centuries--probably ever since people have lived on the islands--Greek islanders have seized every opportunity to play music, sing, and dance. Dancing in Greece is always a group activity, a way to create and reinforce bonds among families, friends, and communities, and island men have been dancing circle dances like the Kalamatianos and the Tsamikos since antiquity. Musicians accompany revelers on stringed instruments like the bouzouki--the modern equivalent of the lyre. While traditional attire is reserved mainly for festive occasions, on some islands people still sport these garments daily. On Lefkada and Crete, it is not unusual to find men wearing vraka, or baggy trousers, and vests, along with the high boots known as stivania. Women wear long, dark, pleated skirts woven on a traditional loom, and long silk scarves or kerchiefs adorn their heads. All the garments are ornamented by hand with rich brocades and elaborate embroidery. All over the Greek Isles, Orthodox priests dress in long black robes, their shadowy figures contrasting with the bright whites, blues, and greens of Greek village architecture.

When they left the hotel to find a restaurant, the weather had improved and a magnificent sunset was visible. Palm trees swayed in a gentle breeze and the chatter of myna birds and parrots could be heard. As the group strolled along, Chet gazed at the first seafood restaurant they came to with such a hungry expression that the others permitted him to lead them into it. After a hearty meal they walked back to the hotel. Chet, burdened down by the two large lobsters he had devoured, trailed behind the others at a snail’s pace.

identify those practices that best ground you in the present moment. Some of these might include: Music—Whether you dance to a hit song, find nostalgia in an old tune, or attend a concert, music cuts through the web of anxiety and takes you to the present moment, as long as you disengage from the “wandering mind” and actively listen. Exercise—A hike in nature, a stroll with your canine companion, yoga, sports, or other forms of exercise provide the right conditions for presence to thrive, particularly when you take time to appreciate the scenery, feel the breeze, and smell the air. Pay attention to your body and lungs as you walk, jog, swim, cycle, or lift weights. Creative arts—From painting and drawing to sculpting, writing poetry, and coloring, art powerfully disengages the default mode network to soothe an anxious mind. Cooking—Baking, grilling, or sauteing are effective ways to engage the senses and turn off your negative thought patterns. You cannot control the future, but by following a recipe, you can craft a delicious meal and provide satisfaction for yourself and your loved ones. Social connection—Calling an old friend, dining with loved ones, and connecting with colleagues over coffee will brighten your spirits and grant reprieve from anxiety. Countless other possibilities—Reading, gardening, watching the sunrise or sunset, and keeping a journal are just a few other ways to stay present in the moment. The key is to make a conscious effort to identify those activities that best anchor you in the now.

Accepting and living by sufficiency rather than excess offers a return to what is, culturally speaking, the human home: to the ancient order of family, community, good work, and the good life; to a reverence for skill, creativity, and creation; to a daily cadence slow enough to let us watch the sunset and stroll by the water’s edge; to communities worth spending a lifetime in; and to local places pregnant with the memories of generations.

At her school on a road traversed all day by hulking trucks and double-decker buses, Anna’s lungs are likely getting an even bigger dose of exhaust. Spikes like that, on and near the busy streets where so many of us spend much of our time—strolling to work, driving, sitting in our living rooms—make pollution a threat even in places where overall air quality is good. As afternoon turns to evening and a pickup basketball game heats up outside the conference room, McConnell tells me about the Colorado hospital where his mom was treated after a heart attack. It sat beside a major highway, and he couldn’t help thinking when he visited about the evidence suggesting air pollution causes arrhythmias, clotting problems, and other changes dangerous for heart patients. Even putting the parking lot between the road and the hospital would have made a difference, he says. The building’s designers probably didn’t know that, but zoning officials should, and they can make rules to reduce unnecessary exposure. “If you’re building a new school, why would you build it next to a freeway?” he asks. Exercise greatly increases the amount of air—and thus, the pollution—our lungs take in, so McConnell wishes the runners he sees along L.A.’s Sunset Boulevard knew how much better off they’d be on one of the quieter roads that parallels it. Those who do, he believes, ought to nudge them in that direction.

She was pleasantly surprised at how much remained. Her parents had abandoned a heap of old Caltreyan clothes. Selecting one of the island dresses, Kiela shook it out. Dust plumed in the air. The skirt was a quilt of blue--- sky blue, sapphire blue, sea blue--- all stitched together with silvery thread and hemmed with silver ribbon, and the bodice was a soft white blouse. Not at all a city style, but it was perfect for a picnic in a garden or a stroll on a shore. With a few repairs, she could wear a lot of her mother's abandoned clothes, and she could use her father's for... She wasn't sure what, but they were nice to have. She'd find a use for them. If nothing else, she could chop the fabric up into cleaning rags. Or perhaps learn to quilt? There was a moth-eaten blanket in one closet, in addition to the old quilts on the daybed and her parents' bed. Each quilt had its own pattern--- one was comprised of colors of the sunset and sewn in strips like rays of light, while another was the brown and pale green of a spring garden with pieces cut like petals and sewn like abstract flowers. We left so many beautiful things behind. She'd had no idea. She'd been too little to help much with the packing, though she remembered she'd tried. Carrying an armful of clothes into the kitchen, Kiela dumped them into the sink to soak in water. She planned to use the excess line from the boat to hang them out in the sun to dry. They'll be even more beautiful once they're clean. The kitchen cabinet produced more treasures: a few plates, bowls, and cups. Each bowl was painted with pictures of strawberries and raspberries, and the plates were painted with tomatoes and asparagus. The teacups bore delicate pictures of flowers.

The sun was setting on the horizon. Mother Nature had painted the sky in hues of pink, purple and orange. Our feet slipped and slid as we walked on the sand, breathing salt air. Waves crashed against the shore rhythmically and gusts of wind howled around us. Families could be seen strolling along the beach despite the frigid winter wind that was blowing. In the distance, a group of orphaned children could be seen flying a kite, unaware of the cruelty that exists in the world.

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