Vent Inspiration Quotes

My bursting heart must find vent at my pen.

When a friend of Abigail and John Adams was killed at Bunker Hill, Abigail's response was to write a letter to her husband and include these words, "My bursting heart must find vent at my pen.

Venting is a poor substitute for prayer.

Most people spend their lives doing one of two things to their emotions: numbing or venting. Self-loving people do something very different—they accept each emotion as a piece of communication and they try to decode it. This way, emotions can become important guideposts on the journey of self-discovery, rather than annoying roadblocks.

You can vent your anger and think that others are to blame when in truth the anger you carry belongs to you. Learn to accept responsibility for every action. Learn to let go of preconception. Learn to let go of what you have learnt in your life. Travel lightly and you will find the journey has far more enlightenment than you could ever have imagined.

Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre!

- Offre ton identité au Conseil, jeune apprentie. La voix était douce, l’ordre sans appel. - Je m’appelle Ellana Caldin. - Ton âge. Ellana hésita une fraction de seconde. Elle ignorait son âge exact, se demandait si elle n’avait pas intérêt à se vieillir. Les apprentis qu’elle avait discernés dans l’assemblée étaient tous plus âgés qu’elle, le Conseil ne risquait-il pas de la considérer comme une enfant ? Les yeux noirs d’Ehrlime fixés sur elle la dissuadèrent de chercher à la tromper. - J’ai quinze ans. Des murmures étonnés s’élevèrent dans son dos. Imperturbable, Ehrlime poursuivit son interrogatoire. - Offre-nous le nom de ton maître. - Jilano Alhuïn. Les murmures, qui s’étaient tus, reprirent. Plus marqués, Ehrlime leva une main pour exiger un silence qu’elle obtint immédiatement. - Jeune Ellana, je vais te poser une série de questions. A ces questions, tu devras répondre dans l’instant, sans réfléchir, en laissant les mots jaillir de toi comme une cascade vive. Les mots sont un cours d’eau, la source est ton âme. C’est en remontant tes mots jusqu’à ton âme que je saurai discerner si tu peux avancer sur la voie des marchombres. Es-tu prête ? - Oui. Une esquisse de sourire traversa le visage ridé d’Ehrlime. - Qu’y a-t-il au sommet de la montagne ? - Le ciel. - Que dit le loup quand il hurle ? - Joie, force et solitude. - À qui s’adresse-t-il ? - À la lune. - Où va la rivière ? L’anxiété d’Ellana s’était dissipée. Les questions d’Ehrlime étaient trop imprévues, se succédaient trop rapidement pour qu’elle ait d’autre solution qu’y répondre ainsi qu’on le lui avait demandé. Impossible de tricher. Cette évidence se transforma en une onde paisible dans laquelle elle s’immergea, laissant Ehrlime remonter le cours de ses mots jusqu’à son âme, puisque c’était ce qu’elle désirait. - Remplir la mer. - À qui la nuit fait-elle peur ? - À ceux qui attendent le jour pour voir. - Combien d’hommes as-tu déjà tués ? - Deux. - Es-tu vent ou nuage ? - Je suis moi. - Es-tu vent ou nuage ? - Vent. - Méritaient-ils la mort ? - Je l’ignore. - Es-tu ombre ou lumière ? - Je suis moi. - Es-tu ombre ou lumière ? - Les deux. - Où se trouve la voie du marchombre ? - En moi. Ellana s’exprimait avec aisance, chaque réponse jaillissant d’elle naturellement, comme une expiration après une inspiration. Fluidité. Le sourire sur le visage d’Ehrlime était revenu, plus marqué, et une pointe de jubilation perçait dans sa voix ferme. - Que devient une larme qui se brise ? - Une poussière d’étoiles. - Que fais-tu devant une rivière que tu ne peux pas traverser ? - Je la traverse. - Que devient une étoile qui meurt ? - Un rêve qui vit. - Offre-moi un mot. - Silence. - Un autre. - Harmonie. - Un dernier. - Fluidité. - L’ours et l’homme se disputent un territoire. Qui a raison ? - Le chat qui les observe. - Marie tes trois mots. - Marchombre.

Le vent se lève, Il faut tenter de vivre!

British prime minister Winston Churchill said, “When the eagles are silent, the parrots begin to jabber.” Good leaders are like eagles: they soar; they inspire; they fly high. And they don’t talk just to hear themselves. They don’t vent about someone to others to make themselves feel better. If they have a problem with a person, they go to that individual and address the issue directly—never through a third party. They praise publicly and criticize privately. And they never say anything about others that they wouldn’t want them to hear—because they probably will.

No sooner had I finished reading the letter than I liberally cursed Peña Sombra and his respectful passion. ‘You wretched, preposterous, mad demon! You Lucifer! Why did the bull which you killed before our very eyes not tear your stomach out? Your cursed respect has caused the death of my husband and my sister. You have condemned me to spend my life in tears and poverty and now you dare to ask for the hand of a ten-month-old infant in marriage. Let heaven … Let …’ Well, I gave vent to everything that my anger inspired me to say and then I went to Segovia and legalized Don Sancho’s letter.

Nature vs. nurture is part of this—and then there is what I think of as anti-nurturing—the ways we in a western/US context are socialized to work against respecting the emergent processes of the world and each other: We learn to disrespect Indigenous and direct ties to land. We learn to be quiet, polite, indirect, and submissive, not to disturb the status quo. We learn facts out of context of application in school. How will this history, science, math show up in our lives, in the work of growing community and home? We learn that tests and deadlines are the reasons to take action. This puts those with good short-term memories and a positive response to pressure in leadership positions, leading to urgency-based thinking, regardless of the circumstance. We learn to compete with each other in a scarcity-based economy that denies and destroys the abundant world we actually live in. We learn to deny our longings and our skills, and to do work that occupies our hours without inspiring our greatness. We learn to manipulate each other and sell things to each other, rather than learning to collaborate and evolve together. We learn that the natural world is to be manicured, controlled, or pillaged to support our consumerist lives. Even the natural lives of our bodies get medicated, pathologized, shaved or improved upon with cosmetic adjustments. We learn that factors beyond our control determine the quality of our lives—something as random as which skin, gender, sexuality, ability, nation, or belief system we are born into sets a path for survival and quality of life. In the United States specifically, though I see this most places I travel, we learn that we only have value if we can produce—only then do we earn food, home, health care, education. Similarly, we learn our organizations are only as successful as our fundraising results, whether the community impact is powerful or not. We learn as children to swallow our tears and any other inconvenient emotions, and as adults that translates into working through red flags, value differences, pain, and exhaustion. We learn to bond through gossip, venting, and destroying, rather than cultivating solutions together. Perhaps the most egregious thing we are taught is that we should just be really good at what’s already possible, to leave the impossible alone.

Plus tu te plonges dans la lecture d'un livre, plus ton plaisir augmente, plus ta nature s'affine, plus ta langue se délie, plus ton doigté se perfectionne, plus ton vocabulaire s'enrichit, plus ton âme est gagné par l'enthousiasme et le ravissement, plus ton cœur est comblé, plus tu es assuré de la considération des masses cultivées et de l'amitié des princes. Le livre t'obéit de jour comme de nuit; il t'obéit aussi bien durant tes voyages que pendant les périodes où tu es sédentaire. Il n'est pas gagné par le besoin de dormir; les fatigues de la veille ne l'indisposent pas. Si tu tombes en disgrâce, le livre ne renonce pas pour autant à te servir; si des vents contraires soufflent contre toi, le livre, lui, ne se retourne pas contre toi. Tant que tu es attaché à lui par le fil le plus ténu, que tu es suspendu à lui par le lien le plus imperceptible, alors tu peux te passer de tout le reste

St. Bernard, with the sharpness of his wit and zeal, has stigmatized the vices of the rebellious people. "Who is ignorant," says the monk of Clairvaux, "of the vanity and arrogance of the Romans? a nation nursed in sedition, untractable, and scorning to obey, unless they are too feeble to resist. When they promise to serve, they aspire to reign; if they swear allegiance, they watch the opportunity of revolt; yet they vent their discontent in loud clamors, if your doors, or your counsels, are shut against them. Dexterous in mischief, they have never learned the science of doing good. Odious to earth and heaven, impious to God, seditious among themselves, jealous of their neighbors, inhuman to strangers, they love no one, by no one are they beloved; and while they wish to inspire fear, they live in base and continual apprehension. They will not submit; they know not how to govern faithless to their superiors, intolerable to their equals, ungrateful to their benefactors, and alike impudent in their demands and their refusals. Lofty in promise, poor in execution; adulation and calumny, perfidy and treason, are the familiar arts of their policy

Twas the night before Christmas and in SICU All the patients were stirring, the nurses were, too. Some Levophed hung from an IMED with care In hopes that a blood pressure soon would be there. One patient was resting all snug in his bed While visions—from Versed—danced in his head. I, in my scrubs, with flowsheet in hand, Had just settled down to chart the care plan. Then from room 17 there arose such a clatter We sprang from the station to see what was the matter. Away to the bedside we flew like a flash, Saved the man from falling, with restraints from the stash. “Do you know where you are?” one nurse asked while tying; “Of course! I’m in France in a jail, and I’m dying!” Then what to my wondering eyes should appear? But a heart rate of 50, the alarm in my ear. The patient’s face paled, his skin became slick And he said in a moment, “I’m going to be sick!” Someone found the Inapsine and injected a port, Then ran for a basin, as if it were sport. His heart rhythm quieted back to a sinus, We soothed him and calmed him with old-fashioned kindness. And then in a twinkling we hear from room 11 First a plea for assistance, then a swearing to heaven. As I drew in my breath and was turning around, Through the unit I hurried to respond to the sound. “This one’s having chest pain,” the nurse said and then She gave her some nitro, then morphine and when She showed not relief from IV analgesia Her breathing was failing: time to call anesthesia. “Page Dr. Wilson, or May, or Banoub! Get Dr. Epperson! She ought to be tubed!” While the unit clerk paged them, the monitor showed V-tach and low pressure with no pulse: “Call a code!” More rapid than eagles, the code team they came. The leader took charge and he called drugs by name: “Now epi! Now lido! Some bicarb and mag! You shock and you chart it! You push med! You bag!” And so to the crash cart, the nurses we flew With a handful of meds, and some dopamine, too! From the head of the bed, the doc gave his call: “Resume CPR!” So we worked one and all. Then Doc said no more, but went straight to his work, Intubated the patient, then turned with a jerk. While placing his fingers aside of her nose, And giving a nod, hooked the vent to the hose. The team placed an art-line and a right triple-lumen. And when they were through, she scarcely looked human: When the patient was stable, the doc gave a whistle. A progress note added as he wrote his epistle. But I heard him exclaim ere he strode out of sight, “Merry Christmas to all! But no more codes for tonight!” Jamie L. Beeley Submitted by Nell Britton

Allow me to share one of Amelia (Bloomer)'s thoughts. "The human mind must be active, and the thoughts of a woman's heart must find vent in some way; and if the garden of the mind instead of being highly cultivated, so that it may produce a rich harvest of fruits and flowers, is suffered to run to waste, it is not surprising that it yields nothing but weeds, briars, and thorns.

Hey Alexa, I’m really, really sorry for what happened. I promise I never intended for Ronnie, of all people, to find out. Like I said, I was angry with Ali, and I couldn’t help venting to Brie. That was when the other details slipped out. Ronnie walked past and must have overheard. But at the time, neither Brie nor I realized. I’m so sorry I mentioned anything. I had no right to talk about your personal life. I promise I didn’t share the details with anyone else, not even Jake. Also, so that you know, Brie and I don’t care where you lived before you moved to our neighborhood. Neither does Ali. I admire you so much. You’ve been through some really tough situations, but you’ve managed to cope. Plus, you’ve supported Tyler in whatever way you can. You’ve taught me so much about resilience and perseverance, and being strong, even in the worst situations imaginable. You truly are an inspiration, as well as a genuinely nice person. I really hope we can stay friends. Casey

We're going to cook our hearts out." He whispers. "Kate, you already have mine. Just don't serve it up on a platter." I can't bring myself to look at Charles because when I do, he smiles and all I can think about is kissing him. As we make a homemade Mexican-inspired chocolate sauce for the vanilla ice cream, our arms brush together as I hand over the urfa biber flakes. He stirs the pot, the aromas mingling together, all sweet and spicy, and now, thanks to his recording in the vent and the words I'd heard, I'm imagining us together. "Kate, taste this," says Charles, snapping me out of my fantasy. He holds out a spoon laden with sauce, I take a tiny mouthful, and then lick my lips. Charles flashes a sexy smile. "Almost better than sex, huh?" He has to be a mind reader.

Tous les bruits de l'univers – le hurlement du vent, le ressac de la mer, le crépitement du feu, les cris des animaux, les chants et les paroles des hommes – sont les vibrations du mantra, le son du dharma spontanément manifesté.

C'était tout près de la Gamsgasse, à deux pas du palais Kinsky. Je regardais les grands arbres s'agiter dans le vent. Je me souviens encore t'avoir fait éviter un amas de crottin dans la rue. — Fais attention, petite ! Tu m'as tiré la langue... C'était un joli monticule, d'une couleur franche et fraîche. Je t'ai dit : — Trouvons-en plutôt un autre, celui-là ne m'inspire pas... Nous en avons trouvé un autre : les boulettes en étaient sèches, on devinait l'herbe sèche en ossature secrète à l'intérieur. Une sorte d'anatomie cachée. Avec autour, la texture d'une sorte de sable. Tels la Pythie, nous restions penchés dessus : face au livre ouvert de la digestion équine. Spectacle étrange dans la rue pavée, encore ombreuse à cette heure... Julie s'est moquée de moi : — Tu aimes aussi ce parfum-là ? — Encore plus que tu ne crois... Au-dessus de nous, les arbres se penchaient sur nos âmes. [ Heiraten, chapitre XIII : "CHEVAUX DE ZÜRAU ", page 67 - éd. Stellamaris, 2015]

À Ion Ghica, Jassy 2 janvier 1861, Mon cher vieux, Les chasse-neige et les dégels m’ont retenu jusqu’à ce jour dans cette maudite ville de Jassy qui depuis deux ans prend un caractère de ville de province à faire crisper les séparatistes. Voici déjà deux mois que ma valise est faite et que j’attends un caprice favorable du baromètre pour me mettre en route, mais pendant que cet instrument fallacieux indique le beau fixe, il pleut, il neige, il vente, il gèle, il dégèle, bref il fait un temps ultra. Force m’a été donc de m’armer de patience et de fourrure pour attendre un moment plus opportun, car la Galicie m’inspire des terreurs de 1793. J’ai profité de ce contretemps pour revoir le Prince, avec lequel j’ai longuement parlé de toi. Je ne rapporterai pas tout ce que le Prince m’a dit de flatteur sur ton compte, je crois devoir te faire part de son étonnement à la vue d’un certain rapprochement qui se serait produit dernièrement entre toi et les Bratiano et consorts. Un pareil accouplement est-il possible ? Je déclare que non, car si l’on a vu s'accoupler des carpes avec des lapins (la chose est encore en doute dans le monde la science) on n'a pas encore vu se produire ce phénomène monstrueux entre des hommes sensés comme toi et des sauteurs burlesques comme les Berlikoko et Jean Bratiano. La politique serait-elle donc une entremetteuse aussi adroite ? J’ai appris aussi que notre ami Balaciano serait monté actuellement au plus haut degré de l’échelle de la colère au sujet de la question hongroise. Voudrait-il par hasard que le Prince se rendît solidaire des mouvements magyars au détriment probable des intérêts roumains de la Transylvaine ? Le Prince n’est pas le geôlier de l’Autriche et certainement son gouvernement ne commettra jamais l’infamie de rendre les émigrés hongrois aux autorités autrichiennes. Mais est-ce à dire pour cela qu’il jette son va-tout en l’air, au risque de compromettre la situation politique du pays ? Quoiqu’il en soit Balaciano peut compter que rien ne sera entrepris contre l'honneur et les véritables intérêts des Principautés. Il répondra à cela des choses spirituelles, tant mieux pour lui, plus il évacuera de l’esprit, et plus il sera soulagé ! J’ai envoyé, comme tu sais, plusieurs pièces de théâtre à Millo. Qu’en a-t-il fait ? A-t-il l'intention de les monter ? Fais-moi le plaisir de lui demander de me répondre de suite pour que ta lettre me trouve encore à Jassy. Envoie-moi aussi par la première occasion un numéro de « Păcală » où se trouve insérée « La Complainte du conservateur ». Adieu mon cher vieux je t’embrasse et te prie de présenter mes amitiés à Madame Ghica ainsi qu’à tous nos amis et connaissances. Tout à toi, V. Alecsandri.

Assertiveness is not speaking up; it’s speaking up and being heard. Assertiveness is not venting your anger and frustrations; it’s reaching a positive outcome and win-win solutions. Assertiveness is not winning a battle of argument; it’s the victory in the great war of career!

A child just needs to be loved,” Malia, an older and wiser single mother defiantly responded as I vented my fears promised me defiantly after I vented my deepest fear. “That is what matters. That is all that matters.” The glistening, translucent trappings of materialism, of keeping up and stretching ourselves beyond our means in everyday life dissolved. Possessions and pressed private school uniforms will never be more important than authentic, unconditional, wholehearted love – so vital yet so undervalued in our developed world of dizzying wants and mores.

One becomes aware of such curious facts in the rain at night and one's iconoclasm, like a broken umbrella, hangs useless from one's hand. Tomorrow these people who are now asleep will be stirring, giving vent to outrageous ideas, championing incredulous banalities, prostrating themselves before imbecile superstitions. Tomorrow they will rise and begin forthwith to lie, quibble, cheat, steal, fourflush and kill, each and all inspired by the solacing monomania that every one of their words and gestures is a credible variant of perfection. Yes, tomorrow they will be as they were yesterday.

An innocent girl died because she happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time when a monster needed to vent his rage. But on another level, it accomplished a tremendous amount. It caused us to become much better people, more caring and compassionate. It also inspired us to become active in a civic and political way—fighting for justice for crime victims and their families. It made us reach out to help others whom we might never have helped before.

Face à la montée des couches populaires en 1985–1986, la classe dominante avait renoncé à la maîtrise directe de l’appareil politico-administratif. Elle se contente, dans la plupart des cas, d’inspirer et de piloter à distance la politique économique et monétaire. Exemples ? Le long discours-programme rédigé en partie par le secteur privé et lu par le général-président Henry Namphy en mars-avril 1986. En 1991–1992, à la suite de l’embargo imposé pour ramener Aristide au pouvoir, elle abandonnait ses projets d’industrialisation. Elle se concentrait sur la recherche du profit, laissant aux couches moyennes la triste et ingrate besogne de la gestion de la misère du peuple et de la répression. Il faut vraiment que ses intérêts paraissent en grand danger pour qu’elle se résigne à « aller au charbon », comme lorsqu’il fut nécessaire de mobiliser l’Association des Industries d’Haïti afin d’abattre Jean-Claude Duvalier, à la fin de janvier 1986, quand celui-ci avait épuisé sa durée de vie politique utile. Ce scénario rappelle l’apologue du chien hollandais que conte Chateaubriand dans ses Mémoires d’Outre-Tombe : « Quand les Hollandais essuient un coup de vent en haute mer, ils se retirent dans l’intérieur du navire, ferment les écoutilles et boivent du punch, laissant un chien sur le pont pour aboyer à la tempête; le danger passé, on renvoie Fidèle à sa niche au fond de la cale, et le capitaine revient jouir du beau temps sur le gaillard. » Voilà ce qui pourrait fort bien s’appliquer tant à Jean-Claude Duvalier qu’à Henry Namphy, à cette différence près que la bourgeoisie haïtienne, au lieu de les renvoyer à la cale, les a simplement basculés par-dessus bord.

À ces rêves tenaces qui ne quittent jamais le navire, qui contre vents et marées, sont toujours là pour réconforter, murmurant l'existence bien réelle d'un monde au-delà de l'arc-en-ciel. Il suffit juste de tenir bon, accepter toute aide qui se présente à soi, et parvenir à s'harmoniser avec les astres, favorisant ainsi l'alignement idéal pour qu'on puisse enfin crier avec passion d'une vive voix, la gorge nouée : Terre ! Terre !

In a 5 November leader article the West African Pilot vented its anger at Churchill’s words in the Commons: ‘That a British prime Minister could utter such a statement during an unparalleled destructive war which has cost Colonial peoples their material resources and manpower is, indeed, a revelation. What, now, must we expect our fate to be after the war?’120 Nnamdi ‘Zik’ Azikiwe, the editor of this pioneering Nigerian nationalist newspaper, also cabled Churchill requesting clarification of the discrepancy between Attlee’s statement and Churchill’s. Did the Charter apply to West Africa or not? Churchill gave instructions for a reply, which, echoing his Commons statement, claimed that the government’s Empire policy was ‘already entirely in harmony with the high conceptions of freedom and justice which inspired the joint declaration [i.e. the Atlantic Charter]’. Therefore, no fresh statement of policy on Africa was required.121 But his efforts were to no avail. In 1943 Zik travelled with a delegation to Britain and used the Charter as the basis for a demand for a timescale for complete independence.

While we vented and ranted about the quarantine life hoping to wake up miraculously from this dystopian nightmare, we also discovered a newfound respect for the life that was, that we had left behind.

Christ was sent not to mend wounded people or wake sleepy people or advise confused people or inspire bored people or spur on lazy people or educate ignorant people, but to raise dead people. ... we can vent our fleshly passions by breaking all the rules, or we can vent our fleshly passions by keeping all the rules, but both ways of venting the flesh still need resurrection. We can be immoral dead people, or we can be moral dead people. Either way, we're dead. The mercy of God reaches down and rinses clean not only obviously bad people but fraudulently good people, both of whom equally stand in need of resurrection. God is rich in mercy. He doesn't withhold mercy from some kinds of sinners while extending it to others. because mercy is who he is - "being rich in mercy" - his heart gushes forth mercy to sinners one and all. His mercy overcomes even the deadness of our souls and the hollowed-out, zombie-like existence that we are all naturally born into. The mercy of Ephesians 2:4 does not seem far off and abstract when we feel the weight of our sin.

Cycle asynchrony is present when the ventilator inspiratory (Ti-vent) and expiratory times are different from that of the patient’s neural inspiratory (Ti-pt) and expiratory times. Double cycling in VCV suggests that the patient is still inspiring when the ventilator is turned off (Ti-pt>Ti-vent). Lengthening inspiratory time by adding an inspiratory pause or reducing flow may help, as might increasing VT. An end-inspiratory spike in the pressure-time waveform suggests that the patient is trying to exhale, while the ventilator is still pushing (Ti-pt < Ti-vent); increasing the set flow or reducing VT might alleviate this. The PCV may be helpful in this situation, but the inspiratory time is still constant and may not be comfortable. A trial of high-level PS might be attempted, although some new ventilators allow PCV to be flow cycled and to function like PS with a backup rate.

In an 1872 essay on poetry that both Vincent and Zola read, the philosopher Hippolyte Taine had described with astonishing prescience the imagery at the end of Vincent’s tortuous journey: Less a style, indeed, than a system of notation, superlatively bold, sincere and faithful, created from instant to instant, out of anything and everything in such a fashion that one never thinks of the words but seems to be in direct touch with the gush of vital thought, with all its palpitations and starts, with its suddenly checked flights and the mighty beating of its wings.… It is queer language, yet true even in its least details, and the only one capable of conveying the peaks and troughs of the inner life, the flow and tumult of inspiration, the sudden concentration of ideas, too crowded to find vent, the unexpected explosion into imagery and those almost limitless blazes of enlightenment which, like the northern lights, burst out and flame in a lyrical mind… Trust the spirit, as sovereign nature does, to make the form; for otherwise we only imprison spirit, and not embody. Inward evermore to outward—so in life, and so in art, which still is life … Poetry, thus conceived, has only one protagonist, the soul and mind of the poet; and only one style—a suffering and triumphant cry from the heart.

Better to set yourself up for disappointment than to accept it as a fact of life.

Don’t carry the anger and you won’t need to vent.