Ties That Bind Love Quotes

...love is the sum of our choices, the strength of our commitments, the ties that bind us together.

For you, and for any dear to you, I would do anything. If my career were of that better kind that there was any opportunity or capacity of sacrifice in it, I would embrace any sacrifice for you and for those dear to you. Try to hold me in your mind, at some quiet times, as ardent and sincere in this one thing. The time will come, the time will not be long in coming, when new ties will be formed about you--ties that will bind you yet more tenderly and strongly to the home you so adorn--the dearest ties that will ever grace and gladden you. O Miss Manette, when the little picture of a happy father's face looks up in yours, when you see your own bright beauty springing up anew at your feet, think now and then that there is a man who would give his life, to keep a life you love beside you!

In this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don't love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face 'cause they don't love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don't love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I'm talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. and all your inside parts that they'd just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver--love it, love it and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life-holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.

For a wonderful physical tie binds the parents to the children; and—by some sad, strange irony—it does not bind us children to our parents. For if it did, if we could answer their love not with gratitude but with equal love, life would lose much of its pathos and much of its squalor, and we might be wonderfully happy.

The child destined to be a writer is vulnerable to every wind that blows. Now warm, now chill, next joyous, then despairing, the essence of his nature is to escape the atmosphere about him, no matter how stable, even loving. No ties, no binding chains, save those he forges for himself. Or so he thinks. But escape can be delusion, and what he is running from is not the enclosing world and its inhabitants, but his own inadequate self that fears to meet the demands which life makes upon it. Therefore create. Act God. Fashion men and women as Prometheus fashioned them from clay, and, by doing this, work out the unconscious strife within and be reconciled. While in others, imbued with a desire to mold, to instruct, to spread a message that will inspire the reader and so change his world, though the motive may be humane and even noble--many great works have done just this--the source is the same dissatisfaction, a yearning to escape.

Love is the sum of our choices, the strength of our commitments, the ties that bind us together.

They were all true—and still are—but were better left unsaid, just as I decided never to confess to Andy how close I came to losing everything. Instead, I hold that day deep within myself, as a reminder that love is the sum of our choices, the strength of our commitments, the ties that bind us together.

There are many ties that bind, and as many walls that divide. Music and madness. Love and unending time. Race and war. Strum weaves together each element into a larger human tapestry of light and shadow, where a combination of fate and decision can define a family's legacy.

- bind your hair with lovely crowns, tying stems of anise together in your soft hands. For the blesses Graces prefer to look on one who wears flowers and turn away from those without a crown.

Why do men stay together? It is easy to understand why they fuck, but why do they stay together, what is the answer? Why do they live in the same house, share meals together, argue about money and parents, why do they have pets, plant begonias, bring home birthday cakes? Where are the children, where is the sense of permanence, what is the tie that binds? Yet they slept peacefully, side by side, and the body of one became adjusted to the rhythm of the other, and the breathing of one slowed the breathing of the other, and they dreamed in tandem and shared fragments of each other's dreams, and they grew more like each other day by day, not in personality, but in the fissures of the brain, because, seeing the same things every day, day after day, they laid down crevices in themselves that were the same shape, that were the same events written into memory, and this was enough, without words, to keep them silent about the fact of their hates and their fears, their deep concerns about each other, and the certainty that one of them would die first and neither of them knew which one it would be. The certainty that one of them would leave first, and that only by waiting could they learn which of the two.

We formed an impromptu circle just so we could look at each other and memorize faces. We hardly noticed the waiting officials. We hardly noticed anything but our little family whose ties weren’t loosening at all. In fact, this impending separation only seemed to be binding us together with a double overhand knot, hard to untie and unfailing.

Gavin, I never thought you’d be the irrational one in this relationship, but I’m happy to report that you’ve just thoroughly shocked me.” He rolled to his side to lean on his arm, keeping my hand resting on his chest, buried underneath his shirt. “I know. My timing is impeccable.” He smirked, letting his hungry gaze drift over my body. “But I’m sorry, love. I cannot take seeing you all tucked up in this sexy corset anymore. The ties are so tight, they’re just begging me to undo them.” His fingers trailed over the top of my chest and down over the corset’s binding, tugging at the edges of the lace as he went. “Forcefully,” he winked.

She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they could not see it, they would not have it. "Here," she said, "in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don’t love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face 'cause they don't love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don't love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I'm talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they'd just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver--love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet.More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize." Saying no more, she stood up then and danced with her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while the others opened heir mouths and gave her the music.

The wise do not consider the chains and shackles of jail to be the toughest restraints. The chains of attachment are the strongest of the ties that bind.

Instead, I hold that day deep within myself, as a reminder that love is the sum of our choices, the strength of our commitments, the ties that bind us together.

I am speaking of something deeper. I am speaking of everything a being can give another. This is what I offer you. I offer myself.

I've loved her since the moment I laid eyes on her. I've been tortured to the point of death in her name. I would journey across the world to see her smile, to make her happy. When she becomes yours, dragon, and binds the threads of her Scarf around your heart, I will probably wither and die, for I am as wrapped up in her as a vine that clings to a tree seeking sustenance. She's tied me to her for eternity. She's my home. She's my reason for being. To win and hold her heart is my only purpose.

. . .believed in inyeon -- human thread -- and that connections and encounters between people were preordained. The best and most important inyeon were between husband and wife, and parent and child. Those bonds do not break even beyond the pale. . . .

Conscience is a sense of obligation ultimately based in an emotional attachment to another living creature (often but not always a human being), or to a group of human beings, or even in some cases to humanity as a whole. Conscience does not exist without an emotional bond to someone or something, and in this way conscience is closely allied with the spectrum of emotions we call "love." This alliance is what gives true conscience its resilience and its astonishing authority over those who have it. It can drive us in compelling ways because its fuel is none other than our strongest affections. And witnessing or hearing about an act of.conscience, even an ordinary one, pleases us, because any conscience-bound choice reminds us of the sweet ties that bind us. A story about conscience is a story about the connectedness of living things, and in unconscious recognition, we smile at the true nature of the tale.

To Marry One's Soul Being true to who we are means carrying our spirit like a candle in the center of our darkness. If we are to live without silencing or numbing essential parts of who we are, a vow must be invoked and upheld within oneself. The same commitments we pronounce when embarking on a marriage can be understood internally as a devotion to the care of one's soul: to have and to hold … for better or for worse … in sickness and in health … to love and to cherish, till death do us part. This means staying committed to your inner path. This means not separating from yourself when things get tough or confusing. This means accepting and embracing your faults and limitations. It means loving yourself no matter how others see you. It means cherishing the unchangeable radiance that lives within you, no matter the cuts and bruises along the way. It means binding your life with a solemn pledge to the truth of your soul. It is interesting that the nautical definition of marry is “to join two ropes end to end by interweaving their strands.” To marry one's soul suggests that we interweave the life of our spirit with the life of our psychology; the life of our heart with the life of our mind; the life of our faith and truth with the life of our doubt and anxiety. And just as two ropes that are married create a tie that is twice as strong, when we marry our humanness to our spirit, we create a life that is doubly strong in the world.

Farewell, eyes that I loved! Do not blame me if the human body cannot go three days without water. I should never have believed that man was so truly the prisoner of the springs and freshets. I had no notion that our self-sufficiency was so circumscribed. We take it for granted that a man is able to stride straight out into the world. We believe that man is free. We never see the cord that binds him to wells and fountains, that umbilical cord by which he is tied to the womb of the world. Let man take but one step too many... and the cord snaps. Apart from your suffering, I have no regrets. All in all, it has been a good life. If I got free of this I should start right in again. A man cannot live a decent life in cities, and I need to feel myself live. I am not thinking of aviation. The airplane is a means, not an end. One doesn't risk one's life for a plane any more than a farmer ploughs for the sake of the plough. But the airplane is a means of getting away from towns and their bookkeeping and coming to grips with reality.

For the sake of brevity, it is sufficient to note that Mary described the rosary as a song that God loves to hear and a tie that binds us to our spiritual mother.

I will, I do, Amen, Here Here, Let's eat, drink and be merry. Marriage is the public spectacle of private parts: cheque-books and genitals, house-wares, fainthearts, all doubts becalmed by kissing aunt, a priest's safe homily, those tinkling glasses tightening those ties that truly bind us together forever, dressed to the nines. Darling, I reckon maybe thirty years, given our ages and expectancies. Barring the tragic or untimely, say, ten thousand mornings, ten thousand evenings, please God, ten thousand moistened nights like this, when, mindless of these vows, our opposites, nonetheless, attract. Thus, love's subtactraction: the timeless from the ordinary times -- nine thousand nine hundred ninety-nine.

You wrote to me. Do not deny it. I’ve read your words and they evoke My deep respect for your emotion, Your trusting soul… and sweet devotion. Your candour has a great appeal And stirs in me, I won’t conceal, Long dormant feelings, scarce remembered. But I’ve no wish to praise you now; Let me repay you with a vow As artless as the one you tendered; Hear my confession too, I plead, And judge me both by word and deed. 13 ’Had I in any way desired To bind with family ties my life; Or had a happy fate required That I turn father, take a wife; Had pictures of domestication For but one moment held temptation- Then, surely, none but you alone Would be the bride I’d make my own. I’ll say without wrought-up insistence That, finding my ideal in you, I would have asked you—yes, it’s true— To share my baneful, sad existence, In pledge of beauty and of good, And been as happy … as I could! 14 ’But I’m not made for exaltation: My soul’s a stranger to its call; Your virtues are a vain temptation, For I’m not worthy of them all. Believe me (conscience be your token): In wedlock we would both be broken. However much I loved you, dear, Once used to you … I’d cease, I fear; You’d start to weep, but all your crying Would fail to touch my heart at all, Your tears in fact would only gall. So judge yourself what we’d be buying, What roses Hymen means to send— Quite possibly for years on end! 15 ’In all this world what’s more perverted Than homes in which the wretched wife Bemoans her worthless mate, deserted— Alone both day and night through life; Or where the husband, knowing truly Her worth (yet cursing fate unduly) Is always angry, sullen, mute— A coldly jealous, selfish brute! Well, thus am I. And was it merely For this your ardent spirit pined When you, with so much strength of mind, Unsealed your heart to me so clearly? Can Fate indeed be so unkind? Is this the lot you’ve been assigned? 16 ’For dreams and youth there’s no returning; I cannot resurrect my soul. I love you with a tender yearning, But mine must be a brother’s role. So hear me through without vexation: Young maidens find quick consolation— From dream to dream a passage brief; Just so a sapling sheds its leaf To bud anew each vernal season. Thus heaven wills the world to turn. You’ll fall in love again; but learn … To exercise restraint and reason, For few will understand you so, And innocence can lead to woe.

To that point, he had always found the vicomtesse overflowing with friendly politeness, that sweet-flowing grace conferred by an aristocratic education, and which is never truly there unless it comes, automatically and unthinkingly, straight from the heart. [...] For anyone who had learned the social code, and Rastignac had absorbed it all in a flash, these words, that gesture, that look, that inflection in her voice, summed up all there was to know about the nature and the ways of men and women of her class. He was vividly aware of the iron hand underneath the velvet glove; the personality, and especially the self-centeredness, under the polished manners; the plain hard wood, under all the varnish. [...] Eugène had been entirely too quick to take this woman's word for her own kindness. Like all those who cannot help themselves, he had signed on the dotted line, accepting the delightful contract binding both benefactor and recipient, the very first clause of which makes clear that, as between noble souls, perfect equality must be forever maintained. Beneficience, which ties people together, is a heavenly passion, but a thoroughly misunderstood one, and quite as scarce as true love. Both stem from the lavish nature of great souls.

When I read her two books, The House on Diamond Hill: A Cherokee Plantation Story and Ties That Bind: The Story of an Afro-Cherokee Family in Slavery and Freedom, I experienced something like a “happy” shout in church. Before I read these books, the Afro-Euro-Creek characters of Wood Place were still rolling around in my head. I was sure my novel was possible, but I didn’t yet have the nerve to write it. Reading Tiya Miles’s

Walker Percy wrote that “modern man is estranged from being, from his own being, from the being of other creatures in the world, from transcendent being. He has lost something—what, he does not know; he only knows that he is sick unto death with the loss of it.” The mysterious, absent element is a deep and abiding immersion in communal ties. In all of its varied and protean forms, love is the tether binding our whirling lives.

What if it turns out there really are witches and vampires and werewolves living right here alongside us? After all, what better disguise could there be than to get your image enshrined in the culture of the mass media? Anything that's described in artistic terms and shown in the movies stops being frightening and mysterious. For real horror you need the spoken word, you need an old grandpa sitting on a bench, scaring the grandkids in the evening: 'And then the Master of the house came to him and said: "I won't let you go, I'll tie you up and bind you tight and you'll rot under the fallen branches!"' That's the way to make people wary of anomalous phenomena! Kids sense that, you know–it's no wonder they love telling stories about the Black Han and the Coffin on Wheels. But modern literature, and especially the movies, it all just dilutes that instinctive horror. How can you feel afraid of Dracula, if he's been killed a hundred times? How can you be afraid of aliens, if our guys always squelch them? Yes, Hollywood is the great luller of human vigilance. A toast–to the death of Hollywood, for depriving us of a healthy fear of the unknown!

I used to think I wasn't strong enough to face my future. But eventually I learned that I only have to face today, and that's where our loving God, faithful family, and good friends come in. Each brings something to the day that strengthens us - just enough, but who needs more than just enough?

... he would not have believed the suggestion, nor would he have been greatly distressed by the thought that people supposed her to be attached to him, that people felt them , to be united by any ties so binding as those of snobbishness or wealth. But even if he had accepted the possibility, it might not have caused him any suffering to discover that Odette's love for him was based on a foundation more lasting than mere affection, or any attractive qualities which she might have found in him; on a sound, commercial interest; an interest which would postpone for ever the fatal day on which she might be tempted to bring their relations to an end.

Love is many things. It is silence within the whisper between softened lips. It is the bond that connects through unspoken words of hands holding on to each other. It is the 'I love you, see you soon' that brings upon the lush of warming hearts that tie together. Love is confusion mixed in with mysterious delight. Love is the path that can go many directions in your journey. You will reach so many unexpected turns but then it is the path you find that brings you to the top of the hill, with that rising sun and glow that connects your souls with the greatest of love and all the deepest pleasures that make your heart beat a little faster, smile more easy and reading each others soul through the look of bliss-filled eyes. Love can take your heart to many places, especially unexpected craziness. But all in all, love has one thing in common - it binds the true hearts that belong together and does work in mysterious, but delightful ways." Copyright © 2013 Amy Masella --- Illinois

The man who desires women only to deceive them, who loves them only to possess them, who takes them only to betray them, and who scorns them when they no longer please him...the man for whom nothing is sacred when it comes to seducing them, and who triumphs only in order to disgrace them—will such a man, I say, ever feel the happiness of finding a virtuous woman, someone who could repair the disorder of his desires, and replace that shameful frivolity with the sweetness of those ties that bind when woven by marriage?

There are all sorts of different families, Katie. Some families have one mommy, some families have one daddy, or two families. And some children live with their uncle or aunt. Some live with their grandparents, and some children live with foster parents. And some live in separate homes, in separate neighborhoods, in different areas of the country - and they may not see each other for days, or weeks, months... even years at a time. But if there's love, dear... those are the ties that bind, and you'll have a family in your heart, forever.

This, I think, is the most tragic loss brought on by the modern health care system. The loving interconnectedness of doctor, family, and community is being destroyed. These ties that bind us to each other are the bonds that define our humanity, and yet they are being systematically severed in the service of automated bookkeeping. The entire health care system is now being organized around machines instead of human beings. Not prioritized to reduce human suffering, but rather to optimize a computerized recordkeeping system. This is a tragedy.

Saturday Sonnet by Stewart Stafford The Bard once wrote that love is blind, Desire’s muslin cloth veils the eyes behind, As a hog for truffles nosing in dirt, The human sniffs out a way to flirt, Flippant words become overture, And a dungeon-dweller emerges pure, Love’s great story blossoming anew, Past indiscretions in a penitent’s pew, Hearts as one, a confluence of minds, Time to think of the tie that binds, Sure of footing and glad of heart Wheels turning on a bridal cart, Handsome husband, pretty wife, Set out together in this thing called life. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

Have you noticed, mademoiselle,” he said, “how little the feelings of the heart follow the old conventional rules in the days of terror in which we live? Everything about us bears the stamp of suddenness. We love in a day, or we hate on the strength of a single glance. We are bound to each other for life in a moment, or we part with the celerity of death itself. All things are hurried, like the convulsions of the nation. In the midst of such dangers as ours the ties that bind should be stronger than under the ordinary course of life. In Paris during the Terror, every one came to know the full meaning of a clasp of the hand as men do on a battle-field.

THE GOLDEN CHAIN OF FRIENDSHIP Friendship is a golden chain, the links are friends so dear, And like a rare and precious jewel, it’s treasured more each year. It’s clasped together firmly with a love that’s deep and true, And it’s rich with happy memories and fond recollections, too. Time can’t destroy its beauty, for as long as memory lives, Years can’t erase the pleasure that the joy of friendship gives. For friendship is a priceless gift that can’t be bought or sold, And to have an understanding friend is worth far more than gold. And the golden chain of friendship is a strong and blessed tie Binding kindred hearts together as the years go passing by.

After situating herself on a huge flat-sided rock, Baby Suggs bowed her head and prayed silently. The company watched her from the trees. They knew she was ready when she put her stick down. Then she shouted, 'Let the children come!' and they ran from the trees toward her. 'Let your mothers hear you laugh,' she told them, and the woods rang. The adults looked on and could not help smiling. Then 'Let the grown men come,' she shouted. They stepped out one by one from among the ringing trees. 'Let your wives and your children see you dance,' she told them, and groundlife shuddered under their feet. Finally she called the women to her. 'Cry,' she told them. 'For the living and the dead. Just cry.' And without covering their eyes the women let loose. It started that way: laughing children, dancing men, crying women and then it got mixed up. Women stopped crying and danced; men sat down and cried; children danced, women laughed, children cried until, exhausted and riven, all and each lay about the Clearing damp and gasping for breath. In the silence that followed, Baby Suggs, holy, offered up to them her great big heart. She did not tell them to clean up their lives or to go and sin no more. She did not tell them they were the blessed of the earth, its inheriting meek or its glorybound pure. She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they could not see it, they would not have it. 'Here,' she said, 'in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don't love your eyes; they'd just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. These they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face 'cause they don't love that either. You got to love it, you! And nom they ain't in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I'm telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they'd just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver-love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life-holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.

You’ll sleep in my bed every night. There are times when I’ll want to bind you in the bed so that you’re helpless and dependent on me for everything. I’ll make love to you while you’re spread out and tied to my bedposts. Where your body will be available to me whenever I choose to take it. And I’ll take you often, Joss. Before we go to bed at night. During the night. And first thing in the morning before you’re fully awake. I’ll slide into your beautiful body and I’ll be the first thing you feel each morning. I’ll be the last thing you know when you go to sleep at night. And you’ll go to bed knowing you are mine and that you belong, heart and soul, to me. You’ll never have cause to doubt it because not a day will go by that I won’t prove that to you.

When warm weather came, Baby Suggs, holy, followed by every black man, woman, and child who could make it through, took her great heart to the Clearing--a wide-open place cut deep in the woods nobody knew for what at the end of the path known only to deer and whoever cleared the land in the first place. In the heat of every Saturday afternoon, she sat in the clearing while the people waited among the trees. After situating herself on a huge flat-sided rock, Baby Suggs bowed her head and prayed silently. The company watched her from the trees. They knew she was ready when she put her stick down. Then she shouted, "Let the children come!" and they ran from the trees toward her. "Let your mothers hear you laugh,"she told them, and the woods rang. The adults looked on and could not help smiling. Then "Let the grown men come," she shouted. They stepped out one by one from among the ringing trees. "Let your wives and your children see you dance," she told them, and groundlife shuddered under their feet. Finally she called the women to her. “Cry,” she told them. “For the living and the dead. Just cry.” And without covering their eyes the women let loose. It started that way: laughing children, dancing men, crying women and then it got mixed up. Women stopped crying and danced; men sat down and cried; children danced, women laughed, children cried until, exhausted and riven, all and each lay about the Clearing damp and gasping for breath. In the silence that followed, Baby Suggs, holy, offered up to them her great big heart…“Here,” she said, “in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it… No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them! Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face ‘cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it - you! And no, they ain’t in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed…What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give leavins instead. No they don’t love your mouth. You got to love it." "This is flesh I’m talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I’m telling you. And oh my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it, and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they’d just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver - love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet…More than your life-holding womb and your live-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize."" -Baby Suggs

Visions flood in as I watch her chest rise and fall . . . the second our eyes locked in my backyard, the flash of surety I initially dismissed but still rang true through every fiber of my being. She knows you. The long looks we shared across every space, to the minute we snapped on that float before we collided and were created. The same continuous buzz thrumming steadily as we stole glances of each other between the flip of pages as storms raged outside my window. Her fingers tracing my skin, wonder in her eyes, to running my palm reverently over her back—in awe of the heart that beat inside of her, wrapped in her mystery. To the burst of sun that lit her up in my passenger seat as she adjusted her honeysuckle crown. The laughter spilling from us where she lay beneath me, tangled in the sheets before our smiles faded. Hearts raw and aching as we locked together, lost in our connection, chests bouncing in unison due to the tie that bound us. That still binds us. A fate we created together. A story I’ll continue to relive without regret. Falling for her was worth hitting bottom—and every single ache that comes with it. Reaching out, I trace the curve of her cheek. “You gutted me, baby,” I croak in confession as my chest caves. “But I can’t say I don’t deserve it . . .” I falter, grunting through the pain consuming me. “You thrive on love, and I . . . we fucking starved your heart . . . we just left you here.

Here,” she said, “in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don’t love your eyes; they’d just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face ’cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain’t in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don’t love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I’m talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I’m telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they’d just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver—love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life-holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.” Saying no more, she stood up then and danced with her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while the others opened their mouths and gave her the music. Long notes held until the four-part harmony was perfect enough for their deeply loved flesh.

Maybe they’d give her everything she wanted. All it would cost was her secrets. Charlie pasted a smile on her face. Glanced at the old “fear less” tattoo looping across the skin of her inner arm. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth. “In that case, I’d like to confess.” “Confess?” Vicereine echoed, puzzled. “Do you remember when Brayan Araya had his secrets written with a laser on grains of rice and kept them in a glass jar under his pillow? I snatched that like I was the tooth fairy. Or remember when Eshe Goodwin got that book with all the detailed illustrations and no one could make head or tail of it? The secrets were written in the artwork, so I cut those pages straight out. I’m not sure she’s opened it up to know they’re missing. I took Owain Cadwallader’s eighteenth-century memoir and discovered a whole pile of notes stitched into the interior binding of another book—I forget the title, but it had these cool metal catches on the side—and took those without letting anyone be the wiser. Oh, and I grabbed Jaden Coffey’s whole collection of seventies shadow magic zines. Want me to go on? I’ve been doing this for years.” She felt giddy, like she was sliding down a hill, no way to stop now. All the exultation of finally admitting to something. “You cut out pages from Eshe’s book?” Vicereine sounded pissed. “I’m a bad person.” Charlie reached into the pocket of her jeans, took something out, and threw it to Malik. Startled, he caught it. When he looked at what was in his hands, his brows drew together. “I also grabbed your wallet when I brushed by you. Sorry.” “You are making some very dangerous enemies,” Vicereine told her. “What’s this all about?” Malik was tight-jawed. “What are you doing?” “Punish me,” Charlie said. “I’m loads worse than Adeline.” “You want it tied to you?” Bellamy asked. The idea of someone inside her head, someone she couldn’t hide her worst thoughts from, someone she loved, made her feel a little queasy. “Yes. Reward or punishment, give him to me. I’ll be the Hierophant.

Millions of us daily take advantage of [Skype], delighted to carry the severed heads of family members under our arms as we move from the deck to the cool of inside, or steering them around our new homes, bobbing them like babies on a seasickening tour. Skype can be a wonderful consolation prize in the ongoing tournament of globalization, though typically the first place it transforms us is to ourselves. How often are the initial seconds of a video's call takeoff occupied by two wary, diagonal glances, with a quick muss or flick of the hair, or a more generous tilt of the screen in respect to the chin? Please attend to your own mask first. Yet, despite the obvious cheer of seeing a faraway face, lonesomeness surely persists in the impossibility of eye contact. You can offer up your eyes to the other person, but your own view will be of the webcam's unwarm aperture. ... The problem lies in the fact that we can't bring our silence with us through walls. In phone conversations, while silence can be both awkward and intimate, there is no doubt that each of you inhabits the same darkness, breathing the same dead air. Perversely, a phone silence is a thick rope tying two speakers together in the private void of their suspended conversation. This binding may be unpleasant and to be avoided, but it isn't as estranging as its visual counterpart. When talk runs to ground on Skype, and if the purpose of the call is to chat, I can quickly sense that my silence isn't their silence. For some reason silence can't cross the membrane of the computer screen as it can uncoil down phone lines. While we may be lulled into thinking that a Skype call, being visual, is more akin to a hang-out than a phone conversation, it is in many ways more demanding than its aural predecessor. Not until Skype has it become clear how much companionable quiet has depended on co-inhabiting an atmosphere, with a simple act of sharing the particulars of a place -- the objects in the room, the light through the window -- offering a lovely alternative to talk.

He frowned down at her. “You need to settle down and listen to me.” “You need to fuck off and—” She never got the next word out because he flipped her over on her stomach. While she cursed and tried to move him he tied her hands together with something, then wrapped some silky cloth around her head, forcing it between her lips. Bound and gagged, he moved her back over so she was on her back again. Beyond pissed, she struggled against her bindings, trying to get free so she could kill him. To her disgust he just grinned and watched her writhe on her mattress until she finally lay there in a sweaty, panting heap, with her hands still bound and her mouth still gaged. “Done with your tantrum?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Fuck you,” she said, or at least tried to say. It must have come through loud and clear because he smiled at her, a predatory smile that actually made her wet. Damn her hormones had bad taste and timing. He licked his lips and her pussy throbbed. “Oh, you’ll be begging me to fuck you by the time I’m done with you.” She glared, then rolled over on her stomach so she could flip him off with both bound hands. “See, this is why I love you. I love you, Amanda. You’re it for me. All I want, the only woman I want.” He leaned down and brushed her hair back from her face with a gentle touch. “Hold still and I’ll let you up. I’m sorry if I scared you.” “Wait,” she said in a garbled voice. “You love me?” He smiled and began to unbutton his shirt, slowly, revealing his magnificent body an inch at a time. “That’s right, I love you. I love how brave you are, how smart, how classy and yet at the same time you can cuss up a blue streak. I love how you take care of me, how I’m the only one who gets to see the soft, feminine side of you that comes out when you make love. I love your temper, your kindness, and how you devour me with your eyes, like you want to eat me alive. Kind of like you’re doing right now.” “I don’t love you,” she mumbled through the gag. “Liar,” he whispered into her ear, tracing the shell with the tip of his tongue.

Whatever happens, know that I love you. I’ve always loved you. Since you walked into my workshop and blew my world to bits, I hated you, but I loved you too.

Where friendship binds the firmest ties, love tells the sweetest tale

If I can survive loving you, I can survive anything.

I conquer my existence to find you By defeating my mind to remind you That my lonely life’s pledge is to bind you With my blue heart tightly tied behind you To follow, to embrace and to give you All my love, pain, desire just to heave you From the poem: Pledge

You never loved me, Farin. You never even said you liked me very much.

Long after we are gone, our souls remain. They live in the trees we touched, the sigh of the wind we listened for. They exist not only to comfort our loved ones, but to comfort us, the parts of us that still watch and need strength. There is thread that binds us, all of the living things, to the past. It winds about us, sometimes playfully, sometimes twisting us in knots, tying us painfully to those memories that are heavy as stones. Sometimes it’s an oak leaf in your hand. You pick it up. You remember. Sometimes it’s a kringle pastry. You place it on your tongue. Those sweet times you shared.

The strength of our friendship was revealed by our willingness to confront openly the shift in our ties and to make necessary changes. We do not see each other as much as we once did, and we no longer call each other daily, but the positive ties that bind us remain intact.

Mombasa, too, furnished with such Palaces and sumptuous houses, Will be laid waste with iron and fire In payment for its former treachery. Along the Indian coast, swarming With enemy ships plotting Portugal's Downfall, Lourenço with sail and with oar Will give his uttermost, and then give more. Though the powerful Samorin's giant ships Choke the entire sea, his cannon-shot Thundering from hot brass Will pulverize rudder, mast, and sail; Then, daring to grapple the enemy Flagship, watch him leap On deck, armed only with lance and sword, To drive four hundred Muslims overboard. But God's inscrutable wisdom (He knows Best what is best for his servants) Will place him where neither strength nor wisdom Can avail in preserving his life. In Chaul, the very seas will churn With blood, fire, and iron resistance, As the combined fleets of Egypt and Cambay Confront him with his destiny that day. The united power of many enemies (Might was defeated only by might), Faltering winds and a swelling sea Will all be ranged against him. Here, let ancient heroes rise To learn from this scion of courage This second Scaeva who, however maimed, Knows no surrender and will not be tamed. With one thighbone completely shattered By a wayward cannon-ball, still He battles on with his forearms alone And a heart not to be daunted, Until another ball snaps the ties Binding flesh and spirit together: The leaping soul slips its body's prison To claim the greater prize of the arisen. Go in peace, O soul! After war's Turbulence, you have earned supreme peace! As for that scattered, broken body, He who fathered it plans vengeance. Already, I hear their hot perdition Looming in a thunderous barrage On Mameluke and cruel Cambayan From catapult, from ordnance and cannon. Here comes the father, magnified By his anger and grief, his heart On fire, his eyes swimming, his soul Transfixed by paternal love. He has taken an oath his noble rage Will make blood run knee-high In the enemy ships; the Nile will mourn, The Indus witness, the Ganges be forlorn.

You will marry Dagr. You will act as befits the daughter of Zeus and a Queen of Asgard. If at any time, I sense Dagr’s unhappiness with this union or you, I myself will destroy Soren. If you disobey me, the same. I see defiance in your eyes, Clotho. And arrogance. I can't kill him but I can make him wish for death. His quality of life depends on your performance and your obedience to your loving Papa.

The Binding of Isaac and the Binding of You and Me With Rosh Hashanah coming in a few weeks, it is a good time to think about some of its important lessons. The High Holy Days are a time to evaluate our relationship with important people in our lives. We ask their forgiveness, they ask ours, and if there is regret for past faults and insensitive acts (Tradition calls them “sins”), we lend forgiveness to others, and they to us. Rosh Hashanah is also a time to think about our relation with our Tradition, with Judaism. It is the Jewish New Year, and a time to reexamine where we stand with regard to the faith/culture/civilization we call Judaism. Those hearing these words have already taken significant steps toward solidifying their Jewish connections by joining a synagogue, coming to religious worship, and doing many other Jewish things in our lives. Take a few moments—even a few hours—to think about and discuss your Jewish values and priorities with your loved ones and intellectual sparring partners. How can you deepen and strengthen your Jewish ties and commitments in the coming year? Perhaps that is why we are bidden to hear the sound of the Shofar each morning for thirty days during the month of Elul, before Rosh Hashanah, as well as on the New Year itself. The Talmud, in tractate “Rosh Hashanah” (16a), tells us: “Rabbi Abahu said: Why do we use the horn of a ram on Rosh Hashanah? Because the Blessed Holy One is saying to us: If you blow a horn from a ram before Me on Rosh Hashanah, I will be reminded of the act of ultimate faith performed by Avraham when he was ready to carry out my demand, even though a ram was eventually sacrificed in place of Yitzhak. The merit of Avraham will reflect merit on you, his descendants. In fact, when you blow the Shofar, and I remember the Binding (Hebrew: Akedah) of Yitzhak I will attribute to you the merit of having bound (Hebrew: akad-tem) yourselves to me. As we begin to blow the Shofar each morning, from the first day of the Hebrew month of Elul, let’s begin to think about how we bind ourselves to God. About our Jewish boundaries, the ties that bind us to our Jewish past. Let’s think of how our ritual lives can be enriched and enhanced with more song, custom, prayer and ceremony. Let’s think of how we can give ourselves to more Jewish causes (Israel, Jewish education, the synagogue), and how being Jewish can help bind and tie us to the needs of humanity (the environment, the needs of our community, the eradication of poverty and injustice). Rabbi Dov Peretz Elkins

And the ties that truly bind me to Him and the truth of who I am in Him are given to me in those quiet moments where I say, “I’m Yours, God.

Love is everywhere. It is the tie that binds us each other, to the world we live in and to something above and beyond the world.

Emotion is a complex thing, the different strands entwine themselves so deeply with one another. Regret, sorrow, heartbreak, these dark, twisted threads can bind so thoroughly with the glimmering golden threads of love, joy, and hope. They tie themselves to one another so thoroughly, so completely, that a person cannot tell where one emotion ends and another begins. The result is that you are left feeling numb, unable to comprehend the intricacies of this tapestry of emotion. Tears of pure sorrow leaking from your eyes even as your lips smile in joy. It is then that we become the two face, as our heart is split asunder so does our expressions, so does our mind. Leaving us feeling like a broken vessel, hollow and empty, the bubbling, complex emotions no longer able to be contained within our frail, flawed bodies.

Emotion is a complex thing, the different strands entwine themselves so deeply with one another. Regret, sorrow, heartbreak, these dark, twisted threads can bind so thoroughly with the glimmering golden threads of love, joy, and hope. They tie themselves to one another so thoroughly, so completely, that a person cannot tell where one emotion ends and another begins. The result is that you are left feeling numb, unable to comprehend the intricacies of this tapestry of emotion. Tears of pure sorrow leaking from your eyes even as your lips smile in joy. It is then that we become the two face, as our heart is split asunder so does our expressions, so does our mind. Leaving us feeling like a broken vessel, hollow and empty, the bubbling, complex emotions no longer able to be contained within our frail, flawed bodies.

Remember tonight, for it is the beginning of always. A promise, like a reward for persisting through life so long alone. A belief in each other and the possibility of love. A decision to ignore simply rise above the pain in the past. A covenant, which at once binds two souls and yet severs prior ties. The celebration of the chance taken and the challenge that lies ahead. For two will always be stronger than one. Like a team braced against the tempests of the world. And love will always be the guiding force in our lives. For tonight is mere formality. Only an announcement to the world of feelings long held, promises made long ago in the sacred space in our hearts.

By forgiving others, you consciously cut ties with the negative energies that are binding you.

The knot was more than sex, I realized in that moment. It was a symbol of our tying together. A knot, a binding, a promise. Wolfgang and I were forever tangled together in a knot too deep and twisted to ever be undone. And I was in awe of every curve and fray of our love.

Breitwieser understands the bind in which he’s trapped his mother, pressed to choose between her son and the law. She seems incapable of severing ties with her only child.

I can promise to more than love you, forever

as long as we associate food preparation with "love" and "family," while a capitalist economy continually erodes the ties that bind, we will continue to reproduce these variations on nostalgia for the real

She told them that the only grace they could have was the grace they could imagine. That if they could not see it, they would not have it. “Here,” she said, “in this here place, we flesh; flesh that weeps, laughs; flesh that dances on bare feet in grass. Love it. Love it hard. Yonder they do not love your flesh. They despise it. They don’t love your eyes; they’d just as soon pick em out. No more do they love the skin on your back. Yonder they flay it. And O my people they do not love your hands. Those they only use, tie, bind, chop off and leave empty. Love your hands! Love them. Raise them up and kiss them. Touch others with them, pat them together, stroke them on your face ’cause they don’t love that either. You got to love it, you! And no, they ain’t in love with your mouth. Yonder, out there, they will see it broken and break it again. What you say out of it they will not heed. What you scream from it they do not hear. What you put into it to nourish your body they will snatch away and give you leavins instead. No, they don’t love your mouth. You got to love it. This is flesh I’m talking about here. Flesh that needs to be loved. Feet that need to rest and to dance; backs that need support; shoulders that need arms, strong arms I’m telling you. And O my people, out yonder, hear me, they do not love your neck unnoosed and straight. So love your neck; put a hand on it, grace it, stroke it and hold it up. And all your inside parts that they’d just as soon slop for hogs, you got to love them. The dark, dark liver—love it, love it, and the beat and beating heart, love that too. More than eyes or feet. More than lungs that have yet to draw free air. More than your life-holding womb and your life-giving private parts, hear me now, love your heart. For this is the prize.” Saying no more, she stood up then and danced with her twisted hip the rest of what her heart had to say while the others opened their mouths and gave her the music. Long notes held until the four-part harmony was perfect enough for their deeply loved flesh.

I start to wonder how many people in your lifetime do you get to love how I love her? Can't be that many. How many loves do you get? Tell me it's two. Fuck. Please, tell me it's two. Jo pulls me backwards and away from her and I think the ties that bind us, I think I hear them snap. It's not two.

I didn’t know I had so much self-control. As I sat in the booth, surrounded by her scent, my beasts were clawing at my insides to be set free and to ravage her. I wanted nothing more than to lie her flat on her back, tear her clothes off, fuck, and bite to claim her as mine. Mmm, my beasts love that idea. I love that idea. I want to tie her to me. I want to bind her to me. Mine to have. Mine to own. Mine to fucking claim.

Love didn’t care about artificial boundaries. It laughed at the plans of Slayers and Theronai alike. Love did whatever the fuck it wanted, and turned the lives of everyone it touched upside down.

Dreaming Of Hair" Ivy ties the cellar door in autumn, in summer morning glory wraps the ribs of a mouse. Love binds me to the one whose hair I've found in my mouth, whose sleeping head I kiss, wondering is it death? beauty? this dark star spreading in every direction from the crown of her head. My love's hair is autumn hair, there the sun ripens. My fingers harvest the dark vegtable of her body. In the morning I remove it from my tongue and sleep again. Hair spills through my dream, sprouts from my stomach, thickens my heart, and tangles from the brain. Hair ties the tongue dumb. Hair ascends the tree of my childhood--the willow I climbed one bare foot and hand at a time, feeling the knuckles of the gnarled tree, hearing my father plead from his window, _Don't fall!_ In my dream I fly past summers and moths, to the thistle caught in my mother's hair, the purple one I touched and bled for, to myself at three, sleeping beside her, waking with her hair in my mouth. Along a slippery twine of her black hair my mother ties ko-tze knots for me: fish and lion heads, chrysanthemum buds, the heads of Chinamen, black-haired and frowning. Li-En, my brother, frowns when he sleeps. I push back his hair, stroke his brow. His hairline is our father's, three peaks pointing down. What sprouts from the body and touches the body? What filters sunlight and drinks moonlight? Where have I misplaced my heart? What stops wheels and great machines? What tangles in the bough and snaps the loom? Out of the grave my father's hair bursts. A strand pierces my left sole, shoots up bone, past ribs, to the broken heart it stiches, then down, swirling in the stomach, in the groin, and down, through the right foot. What binds me to this earth? What remembers the dead and grows towards them? I'm tired of thinking. I long to taste the world with a kiss. I long to fly into hair with kisses and weeping, remembering an afternoon when, kissing my sleeping father, I saw for the first time behind the thick swirl of his black hair, the mole of wisdom, a lone planet spinning slowly. Sometimes my love is melancholy and I hold her head in my hands. Sometimes I recall our hair grows after death. Then, I must grab handfuls of her hair, and, I tell you, there are apples, walnuts, ships sailing, ships docking, and men taking off their boots, their hearts breaking, not knowing which they love more, the water, or their women's hair, sprouting from the head, rushing toward the feet.

The sole tie that binds us is his mother and her kitchen, and the meals I watch disappear down his throat. If my daily presence in his house seems even vaguely novel to him, he gives very little away. His face is always distant, absorbed in faraway things, his prickliness feels as if it would take months to break down.

I've hated you for the longest time, but I've loved you for longer." ~ Stefan #5 The Veil Series, Ties That Bind,