Vow Of Silence Quotes

He played of love and loss and years of silence, words unsaid and vows unspoken, and all the spaces between his heart and theirs; and when he was done, and he'd set the violin back in its box, Will's eyes were closed, but Tessa's were full of tears.

Instead of a vow of silence, I took a vow of invisibility. At that time you were looking for someone to love, and that’s why you couldn’t see me.

Books are living things and their task lies in their vows of silence. You touch them as they quiver with a divine pleasure. You read them and they fall asleep to happy dreams for the next 10 years. If you do them the favor of understanding them, of taking in their portions of grief and wisdom, then they settle down in contented residence in your heart.

Someone’s been having fun in here,” said Gideon. Harrow shot her a look but did not enforce the vow of silence. “Yes,” she said. “Me.

He played of love and loss and years of silence, words unsaid and vows unspoken, and all the spaces between his heart and theirs...

When We Two Parted When we two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years, Pale grew thy cheek and cold, Colder thy kiss; Truly that hour foretold Sorrow to this. The dew of the morning Sunk chill on my brow— It felt like the warning Of what I feel now. Thy vows are all broken, And light is thy fame: I hear thy name spoken, And share in its shame. They name thee before me, A knell to mine ear; A shudder comes o'er me— Why wert thou so dear? They know not I knew thee, Who knew thee too well: Long, long shall I rue thee, Too deeply to tell. In secret we met— In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? With silence and tears.

Everyone always asks, was he mad at you for writing the book? and I have to say, Yes, yes, he was. He still is. It is one of the most fascinating things to me about the whole episode: he cheated on me, and then got to behave as if he was the one who had been wronged because I wrote about it! I mean, it's not as if I wasn't a writer. It's not as if I hadn't often written about myself. I'd even written about him. What did he think was going to happen? That I would take a vow of silence for the first time in my life?

The au pair was bug-eyed. "What happened back there?" "It's not our fault!" Dan babbled. "Those guys are crazy! They're like mini-Darth Vaders without the mask!" "They're Benedictine monks!" Nellie exclaimed. "They're men of peace! Most of them are under vows of silence!" "Yeah, well, not anymore," Dan told her. "They cursed us out pretty good. I don't know the language, but some things you don't have to translate.

I'm sitting her thinking, -God, I swear I will take a vow of silence and move to a monastery and worship you for all my days if you just this once provide me with an invisibility cloak, come on, come on, please please invisibility cloak now now now-. It's very possible that Jane is thinking the same thing, I have no idea, because she's not talking either, and I can't look at her on account of how I'm blinded by embarrassment.

Zhi yin. Jem had told her once that it meant understanding music, and also a bond that went deeper than friendship. Jem played, and he played the years of Will's life as he had seen them. He played two little boys in the training room, one showing the other how to throw knives, and he played the ritual of parabatai: the fire and the vows and burning runes. He played two young men running through the streets of London in the dark, stopping to lean up against a wall and laugh together. He played the day in the library when he and Will had jested with Tessa about ducks, and he played the train to Yorkshire on which Jem had said that parabatai were meant to love each other as they loved their own souls. He played that love, and he played their love for Tessa, and hers for them, and he played Will saying, In your eyes I have always found grace. He played the too few times he had seen them since he had joined the Brotherhood- the brief meetings at the Institute; the time when Will had been bitten by a Shax demon and nearly died, and Jem had come from the Silent City and sat with him all night, risking discovery and punishment. And he played the birth of their first son, and the protection ceremony that had been carried out on the child in the Silent City. Will would have no other Silent Brother but Jem perform it. And Jem played the way he had covered his scarred face with his hands and turned away when he'd found out the child's name was James. He played of love and loss and years of silence, words unsaid and vows unspoken, and all the spaces between his heart and theirs; and when he was done, and he'd set the violin back in its box, Will's eyes were closed, but Tessa's were full of tears. Jem set down his bow, and came toward the bed, drawing back his hood, so she could see his closed eyes and his scarred face. And he had sat down beside them on the bed, and taken Will's hand, the one that Tessa was not holding, and both Will and Tessa heard Jem's voice in their minds. I take your hand, brother, so that you may go in peace. Will had opened the blue eyes that had never lost their color over all the passing years, and looked at Jem and then Tessa, and smiled, and died, with Tessa's head on his shoulder and his hand in Jem's.

Waking up this morning I smile.        Twenty-four brand-new hours are before me.        I vow to live them deeply and learn to look at everything around me with the eyes of compassion.

But the greater knowledge that now lived in the peaceful silence of my heart was: in love there is truth. And the truth that love had taught me was you can only be strong once you are brave enough to break, and that pain makes more room for love within. I was grateful for it all, because that was the beautiful balance of life

I shouldn't have taken a vow of silence, I told myself. What did I want? Nothing much. Just a memorial. But what is a memorial, when you come right down to it, but a commemoration of wounds endured? Endured, and resented. Without memory, there can be no revenge.

I did something so stupid last night that I can’t even speak about it today. I took a vow of silence.

His blue eyes spoke a thousand words all rolled into a heartfelt stare. They calmed the panic inside my body. In the silence between two friends, the air carried an entire conversation. His dark lashes blinked back a vow I knew he meant more than anything. ‘I promise this will not destroy us.

Jack stares at me blankly. ‘A what?’ he asks. I choke back the laugh. ‘A boy. You know? A Y-chromosome holder? You don’t seem to notice them as much as you do the X-carriers.’ ‘What are you talking about?’ Jack asks, ‘A boy? She’s just a kid.’ I hesitate, wondering how Jack is only just doing the maths on this one now. ‘She’s seventeen. She’s not a kid anymore.’ Jack looks like he’s about to go all Incredible Hulk and burst out of his clothes before rampaging through the bar. He jumps off the stool. ‘If any boy ever lays a finger on my sister, I’m going to kill him,’ he says. Again I stare at him in silence, thinking of all the girls Jack has laid fingers and much more of his anatomy on besides. Poor Lila. If she ever wants to have a shot at a normal life, as in one that doesn’t require a vow of celibacy, she needs to stay in London.

Books are living things and their task lies in their vows of silence. You touch them as they quiver with divine pleasure. You read them and they fall asleep to happy dreams for the next ten years. If you do them the favor of understanding them, of taking in their portions of grief and wisdom, then they settle down in contented residence in your heart.

As long as we practice with a vow to help others, we are the Bodhisattva of Great Compassion, and we become the leading figure in the Heart Sutra, whether we are a layperson or are ordained, whether celibate or married, living in the monastery or living in secular society.

You are the best of us. We are the best of you. What becomes of us will, inevitably, become of you. That is why you should care. That is why I write. I end this chapter, then, with broken silence, broken vows, broken trust. Our secrets are yours now; I pray you use them well.

We can live any way we want. People take vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience--even of silence--by choice. The thing is to stalk your calling in a certain skilled and supple way, to locate the most tender and live spot and plug into that pulse. This is yielding, not fighting. A weasel doesn't "attack" anything; a weasel lives as he's meant to, yielding at every moment to the perfect freedom of single necessity.

Filled with rapture, his soul yearned for freedom, space, vastness. Over him the heavenly dome, full of quiet, shining stars, hung boundlessly. From the zenith to the horizon the still-dim Milky Way stretched its double strand. Night, fresh and quiet, almost unstirring, enveloped the earth. The white towers and golden domes of the church gleamed in the sapphire sky. The luxuriant autumn flowers in the flowerbeds near the house had fallen asleep until morning. The silence of the earth seemed to merge with the silence of the heavens, the mystery of the earth touched the mystery of the stars... Alyosha stood gazing and suddenly, as if he had been cut down, threw himself to the earth. He did not know why he was embracing it, he did not try to understand why he longed so irresistibly to kiss it, to kiss all of it, but he was kissing it, weeping, sobbing, and watering it with his tears, and he vowed ecstatically to love it, to love it unto ages of ages. "Water the earth with the tears of your joy, and love those tears...," rang in his soul. What was he weeping for? Oh, in his rapture he wept even for the stars that shone on him from the abyss, and "he was not ashamed of this ecstasy." It was as if threads from all those innumerable worlds of God all came together in his soul, and it was trembling all over, "touching other worlds." He wanted to forgive everyone and for everything, and to ask forgiveness, oh, not for himself! but for all and for everything, "as others are asking for me," rang again in his soul. But with each moment he felt clearly and almost tangibly something as firm and immovable as this heavenly vault descend into his soul. Some sort of idea, as it were, was coming to reign in his mind-now for the whole of his life and unto ages of ages. He fell to the earth a weak youth and rose up a fighter, steadfast for the rest of his life, and he knew it and felt it suddenly, in that very moment of his ecstasy. Never, never in all his life would Alyosha forget that moment. "Someone visited my soul in that hour," he would say afterwards, with firm belief in his words...

The serious writer must take serious vows....a vow of silence, except through his work. A vow of consistency, sticking with writing to the exclusion of other fields. A vow of ego-chastity, abstaining from adulation. A vow of self-regard, placing the self as writer before the self as personality.

I promise to dream with you both great dreams and small dreams. To ask your counsel in times of uncertainty. To honor your silence when you seek to be alone. To be ever wondrous at your curiosities and revelations. And to be ever rejuvenated by your passions . . .

You're vow of silence is conveniently variable, Ninth, I'm very grateful." "Turns out I'm variably penitent. Hey you should be talking to Nonagesimus." "If I wanted to talk to Nonagesimus, I'd talk to Nonagesimus," he said, "or I'd talk to a brick wall, because honestly, your necromancer is a walking Ninth House cliche. You're at least only half as bad.

I remember receiving hate mail saying, “Tell this talking Trappist who took a vow of silence to shut up!” Though silence is a traditional part of their lives, Trappists take no such vow. Maintaining silence (to increase contemplation) does not by itself rule out communication (which they do in sign language). I had an answer for the hate-mongers: “Writing is a form of contemplation.

I re-traced your footsteps to that miserable little Tibetan monastery. It was hard to get the monks to talk, what with that vow of silence and all – and how do you threaten someone who regards death as a promotion?

Purple with rage, the king lashed out, a vicious backhand blow to the side of the head. She stumbled against the table and fell hard, yet Cersei Lannister did not cry out. Her slender fingers brushed her cheek, where the pale smooth skin was already reddening. On the morrow the bruise would cover half her face. “I shall wear this as a badge of honor,” she announced. “Wear it in silence, or I’ll honor you again,” Robert vowed.

God, I swear I will take a vow of silence and move to a monastery and worship you for all my days if you just this once provide me with an invistibility cloak, come on come on, please please invisibility cloak now now now.

When I am alive and I am empress. When you have everything I've vowed to you and Ahiranya..." Silence, as Malini cupped Priya's waist with a hand; as she stretched her fingers wide, as if she could encompass it, hold Priya and keep her. "I've dreamt of garlanding you," Malini confessed. A small, secret thing. "Flowers around your throat, and you garlanding me in return. The two of us making our own promises to each other. I've dreamt of naming you my own. My heart. My wife.

Each admission here defies a blood vow determined long before my birth. An apologist is a traitor of the highest order. How many men, how many fathers ever admit to failures or offenses? The act itself is a betrayal of the basic code. It sprays shrapnel of guilt in all directions. If one of us is wrong, the whole structure and story come tumbling down. Our silence is our bond. The power of not telling, of not letting on, is the most ancient and powerful weapon in our arsenal.

Merton. Gethsemani required a vow of silence, and at dinner if you wanted salt, you had to stare hard at the shaker until another brother noticed. One day, cutting down a tree, Jack couldn’t contain himself. He held his head back and roared, “Timber.” After that, his days at the monastery were numbered. Within a couple of years, he had married, and he and his young wife, Fran, who herself had just spent a year in a nunnery, opened a Catholic Worker farm in eastern Missouri for recovering alcoholics.

In the midst of an enchanted, crystal forest lies my soul, beneath a weeping willow tree. On the shadowed side of this mystical haven, heart beats as thunder warns of a raging storm! Yesterday went well in deeds, but silence fell upon me... words could not express these lonesome thoughts. I closed my eyes to shut the doors of reality. Must you always need to understand me; shan't I keep a bit of mystery for my sake? These eyes plead, as I look up to you for such moments of peace and tranquility. Tears have fallen to the earth-- drops that glisten on blades of grass, even in the dark of night; stars shine brighter in my sight! Today, I remember sharing my life with you; Vows of love and friendship, forever spoken; and now, I lie alone beneath a weeping willow tree. Tommorrow, I shall walk alongside a never-ending creek.

The idea of humanity becomes more and more of a power in the civilized world, and, owing to the expansion and increasing speed of means of communication, and also owing to the influence, still more material than moral, of civilization upon barbarous peoples, this idea of humanity begins to take hold even of the minds of uncivilized nations. This idea is the invisible power of our century, with which the present powers — the States — must reckon. They cannot submit to it of their own free will because such submission on their part would be equivalent to suicide, since the triumph of humanity can be realized only through the destruction of the States. But the States can no longer deny this idea nor openly rebel against it, for having now grown too strong, it may finally destroy them. In the face of this fainful alternative there remains only one way out: and that is hypocrisy. The States pay their outward respects to this idea of humanity; they speak and apparently act only in the name of it, but they violate it every day. This, however, should not be held against the States. They cannot act otherwise, their position having become such that they can hold their own only by lying. Diplomacy has no other mission. Therefore what do we see? Every time a State wants to declare war upon another State, it starts off by launching a manifesto addressed not only to its own subjects but to the whole world. In this manifesto it declares that right and justice are on its side, and it endeavors to prove that it is actuated only by love of peace and humanity and that, imbued with generous and peaceful sentiments, it suffered for a long time in silence until the mounting iniquity of its enemy forced it to bare its sword. At the same time it vows that, disdainful of all material conquest and not seeking any increase in territory, it will put and end to this war as soon as justice is reestablished. And its antagonist answers with a similar manifesto, in which naturally right, justice, humanity, and all the generous sentiments are to be found respectively on its side. Those mutually opposed manifestos are written with the same eloquence, they breathe the same virtuous indignation, and one is just as sincere as the other; that is to say both of them are equally brazen in their lies, and it is only fools who are deceived by them. Sensible persons, all those who have had some political experience, do not even take the trouble of reading such manifestos. On the contrary, they seek ways to uncover the interests driving both adversaries into this war, and to weigh the respective power of each of them in order to guess the outcome of the struggle. Which only goes to prove that moral issues are not at stake in such wars.

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.

Silence is another element we find in classic fairy tales — girls muted by magic or sworn to silence in order to break enchantment. In "The Wild Swans," a princess is imprisoned by her stepmother, rolled in filth, then banished from home (as her older brothers had been before her). She goes in search of her missing brothers, discovers that they've been turned into swans, whereupon the young girl vows to find a way to break the spell. A mysterious woman comes to her in a dream and tells her what to do: 'Pick the nettles that grow in graveyards, crush and spin them into thread, then weave them into coats and throw them over your brothers' backs.' The nettles burn and blister, yet she never falters: picking, spinning, weaving, working with wounded, crippled hands, determined to save her brothers. All this time she's silent. 'You must not speak,' the dream woman has warned, 'for a single world will be like a knife plunged into your brothers' hearts.' You must not speak. That's what my stepfather said: don't speak, don't cry, don't tell. That's what my mother said as well, as we sat in hospital waiting rooms -- and I obeyed, as did my brothers. We sat as still and silent as stone while my mother spun false tales to explain each break and bruise and burn. Our family moved just often enough that her stories were fresh and plausible; each new doctor believed her, and chided us children to be more careful. I never contradicted those tales. I wouldn't have dared, or wanted to. They'd send me into foster care. They'd send my young brothers away. And so we sat, and the unspoken truth was as sharp as the point of a knife.

Let me wander here forever, through the glades where once I played, Long ago in carefree seasons, mid the noontide sun and shade. I will see again before me, all those smiling friends I knew, gone alas to memory's keeping, faithful comrades good and true. Oh, those days of youth and splendour, when we dreamed of glorious war, vows were made to keep forever, and return back here once more. Then the clouds began to gather, winter came, we marched away, singing songs of love and valour, off we went into the fray. Comes a warrior returning, to autumn's gold-clad trees, where the leaves do fall like teardrops, on the gently sighing breeze. Casting sword and shield aside now, I stand weary and forlorn, In the silence of the woodlands, I will rest until the dawn. Let me sleep and dream forever, of the golden days of yore, and those friends who marched off with me, who'll return alas no more.

She vowed “that I should never be again found among the class who condemned dancing.

She learned things went better if she kept a distance between them, a decision that brought with it sadness and guilt. She vowed to herself to carry the burden silently. That was a sort of love. Wasn’t it?

His blue eyes spoke a thousand words all rolled into a heartfelt stare.  They calmed the panic inside my body.  In the silence between two friends, the air carried an entire conversation.  His dark lashes blinked back a vow I knew he meant more than anything.  I promise this will not destroy us.

Because married women at that time in the eyes of the law were “civilly dead.”5 They were not citizens, they were shadows: subsumed within the legal identities of their husbands from the moment they took their marital vows. “The husband and wife are one,” said the law, “and that one is the husband.

This is the problem with lying, Axe. You do it once, and the other person has no idea what else you’ve been untruthful about. I come from a family of lies and silence. I can’t go into that shadow world with someone I’m intimate with. Moreover, I won’t do it. I told you in the beginning, honesty is the most important thing

All I could see were Will’s intense blue eyes, and the joy that flashed across them as they flickered down to the low neckline of my gown. All I could hear was the deep, reverent rumble of his voice as he repeated his vow to honor, and cherish, and love me for the rest of our lives. And all I could feel was the juxtaposition of cool metal and warm skin as he slid the ring on my finger. It was all I could process . . . until he kissed me, that is. Because that kiss erased everything that came before it. You may now kiss your bride. The world fell away. It really did. It was just us in that tiny spot of land, standing in silence and staring at each other, on the verge of sealing this commitment we’d made. I couldn’t stop smiling.

The first inkling of this notion had come to him the Christmas before, at his daughter's place in Vermont. On Christmas Eve, as indifferent evening took hold in the blue squares of the windows, he sat alone in the crepuscular kitchen, imbued with a profound sense of the identity of winter and twilight, of twilight and time, of time and memory, of his childhood and that church which on this night waited to celebrate the second greatest of its feasts. For a moment or an hour as he sat, become one with the blue of the snow and the silence, a congruity of star, cradle, winter, sacrament, self, it was as though he listened to a voice that had long been trying to catch his attention, to tell him, Yes, this was the subject long withheld from him, which he now knew, and must eventually act on. He had managed, though, to avoid it. He only brought it out now to please his editor, at the same time aware that it wasn't what she had in mind at all. But he couldn't do better; he had really only the one subject, if subject was the word for it, this idea of a notion or a holy thing growing clear in the stream of time, being made manifest in unexpected ways to an assortment of people: the revelation itself wasn't important, it could be anything, almost. Beyond that he had only one interest, the seasons, which he could describe endlessly and with all the passion of a country-bred boy grown old in the city. He was beginning to doubt (he said) whether these were sufficient to make any more novels out of, though he knew that writers of genius had made great ones out of less. He supposed really (he didn't say) that he wasn't a novelist at all, but a failed poet, like a failed priest, one who had perceived that in fact he had no vocation, had renounced his vows, and yet had found nothing at all else in the world worth doing when measured by the calling he didn't have, and went on through life fatally attracted to whatever of the sacerdotal he could find or invent in whatever occupation he fell into, plumbing or psychiatry or tending bar. ("Novelty")

I clutched the basin of the sink as I checked my reflection. I was badly bruised on my neck and décolleté. I then realized my arms, abdomen and legs ached as if I worked out with heavy weights too hard the day before. My eyes flashed back to my neck. I traced the hand marks that left their anger in a violent green and purple pattern. I needed to wash myself. The smell of blood lingered upon my skin, turning my stomach. I heard Alexei tapping on the door but ignored him and stepped into the shower. The water felt caustic at first, causing the pain my attacker rendered upon my body to resurface, but soon we made peace, and I rested under the heat. I heard him come in, and he slowly moved the curtain back, allowing a rush of cool air to rape me once more. “Please, Dija. Say something.” I continued my determined vow of silence. The hurt was suppressed within my chest.

I want us to be faithful to each other,” she said gravely. “From this day forward.” There was a brief silence, a hesitation born not of doubt, but awareness. As if their vows were being heard and witnessed by some unseen presence. Merripen’s chest rose and fell in a long, deep breath. “I’ll be faithful to you,” he said. “Forever.” “So will I.” “Promise also that you’ll never leave me again.” Win lifted her hand from the center of his chest and pressed a kiss there. “I promise.

I am a Guardian of Ga’Hoole. From this night on I dedicate my life to the protection of owlkind. I shall not swerve in my duty. I shall support my brother and sister Guardians in times of battle and in times of peace. I am the eyes in the night, the silence within the wind. I am the talons through the fire, the shield that guards the innocent. I shall seek to wear no crown, nor win any glory. And all these things I do swear upon my honor as a Guardian of Ga’Hoole until my days on this earth cease to be. This be my vow. This be my life. By Glaux, I do swear.

I climb into the incredible sadness of silence. Wrap its slowness around my shoulders, conceal its shame within the folds of my sari. Make it a vow, as if my life hinged upon it, as if I was not a wife in Mangalore but a nun elsewhere, cloistered and clinging to her silence to make sense of the world. To stay silent it to censor all conversation. To stay silent is to erase individuality. To stay silent is an act of self-flagellation because this is when the words visit me, flooding me with their presence, kissing my lips, refusing to dislodge themselves from my tongue.

In our favorite version of an ancient Buddhist parable, several monks are returning to their monastery after a long pilgrimage. Over high mountains and across low valleys they trek, honoring their vow of silence outside the monastery. One day they come to a raging river where a beautiful young woman stands. She approaches the eldest monk and says, “Forgive me, Roshi, but would you be so kind as to carry me across the river? I cannot swim, and if I remain here or attempt to cross on my own, I shall surely perish.” The old monk smiles at her warmly and says, “Of course I will help you.” With that, he picks her up and carries her across the river. On the other side, he gently sets her down. She thanks him, departs, and the monks continue their wordless journey. After five more days of arduous travel, the monks arrive at their monastery, and the moment they do, they turn on the elder in a fury. “How could you do that?” they admonish him. “You broke your vows! You not only spoke to that woman, you touched her! You not only touched her, you picked her up!” The elder replies, “I only carried her across the river. You have been carrying her for five days.

I Love Wrong I am a monster with zeros in his gut Who wants a doll made of flesh To hold between two claws And stroke its body, become a vow A vow to the flesh of the doll Never to myself or god Or monster mother watching over How easy making vows to a doll So easy to see it as holy Through my sad monster eyes That no one likes the look of I have always wanted something holy To vanish the buzz in my forehead My skull has silence but never enough The world has never provided I project a spirit in the doll It speaks a great silence It speaks my childhood dreams I write them for its tongue I write myself a new end Where I am buried by the doll And candles lit around my grave As though I had actually lived

As the guards tugged on the rope, Martin stood firm resisting them. For a moment his eyes met those of Tsarmina’s. His voice was clear and unafraid. “Your father made a just decision, but yours was the right one. You should have killed me when you had the chance, because I vow that I will slay you one day.” The spell was broken. The guards hauled on the ropes, dragging Martin off to the cells. In the silence that followed, Tsarmina slumped in her chair and sniggered. “A mouse kill me, indeed! He’s not even worth worrying about.” Verdauga coughed painfully. He lay back on the pillows. “If you think that, daughter, then you have made a grave mistake. I have seen courage before; it comes in all shapes and sizes. Just because he is a mouse does not make him less of a warrior than me. He has a fighter’s heart—I saw it in his eyes.

We worship The Block.” The player stared at me for a moment, screwing up his face as he tried to comprehend what I’d said. Then he started to chuckle. “You worship blocks? Like what everything is made out of?” I shook my head. “No, we worship The Block. It is a mysterious block that exists somewhere in the sky. It is said that The Block knows all and sees all. It is said that if it chose to, it could write everyone’s story in the Book of Life. Everyone from Herobrine and Notch down to the smallest endermite.” The player nodded his head. “The Block sounds pretty powerful. Have you ever seen him or her or it or whatever it is?” I shook my head. “The Block only reveals itself in dreams and trance-induced stupors.” “So, you’ve never seen it then?” “I have not. But I work every day to get to the point where I will be blessed enough to see The Block.” Tanisto nodded and pursed his lips. “Sounds kinda cool, I guess. What do you call your religion?” I leaned forward again. “We call ourselves … Blockheads.” The player nodded. He was getting a strange look on his face, like he was stifling a laugh. “It was nice talking to you. I think I’ll go find a villager to trade with. I require more ... earthly transactions.” I leaned back. “Suit yourself. But, you will never know the grand truth of the universe if you do not try to communicate with The Block.” The player nodded, but said no more before scurrying away. After the player was out of earshot, Dark Knight chuckled. “Blockheads. You just made all that up? You’re funny. I never realized.” I looked over my shoulder and hissed at him. “You have taken a vow of silence. Now, you have broken it, and you will never know the mysteries of The Block.

trailed off as her attention moved from Will taking his juice from the bartender to the glass behind the bartender. There were red dots on the glass. Alessandro brushed her shoulder again and Bree followed a row of red dots from the glass mirror to the wall. Some of the red dots danced over the guests and as an icy cloak of understanding fell over Bree, it seemed to grip Alessandro as well. Then she turned to face him and there were red dots on his chest, as well as her shoulder, which he had been brushing, thinking it was a speck of dust. “GET DOWN!” he screamed to everyone grabbing Bree by the waist and throwing her down while and trying to be heard over the music. Chaos erupted as gunfire drowned out the sound of music and people fell screaming on top of each other as pieces of the wall and glass from the doors and the mirrors rained down on them. The gunfire raged on and on for what seemed like an eternity. Then there was silence.

Tyrus pushed the mummy off him and rose, whisking sloughed bits of dried flesh from his tunic. "Well, that wasn't at all humiliating," he said. "Please tell me I didn't shriek. And if I did? Remember I am of imperial lineage. Lie to me." "You didn't shriek," Moria said. "Still, it is a shame Simeon wasn't here to record the encounter for posterity. Prince Tyrus, attacked by a mummified monk. Truly though, it looked more like a monkey. A crazed monkey, clinging to you -" "Enough," he said with a feigned scowl. "Speaking of monks, did they see ...?" He looked around. Ivo had sidled off as they opened the box. Now he huddled with the other two a hundred paces away. "Well, at least they didn't bear close witness," Tyrus muttered. "You needn't worry," Ashyn said. "Two of them had taken vows of silence." "Though they might have been tempted to break them," Moria said. "To relay that particular story." "But I did not shriek, correct?" She smiled. "You did not shriek.

Lying there in silence, Elim thought about how quickly a person’s fate could change, how precious life and health are. He had walked into this very room two days ago as a practicing physician, a man in control, with the power to heal, looking down on the sick American on the same bed where he himself now lay. He had never known just how different the world looked from the other side. He vowed that if he became well, he would cherish every day. And although he had never wished ill health on another person, there and then he wondered if every physician might benefit from being sick—really sick—just once. He wondered if it would make them all care a little more, or work a little harder, to have been on the other side for a while—to have placed their life and livelihood in the hands of a stranger, even if for only a short period. He had considered himself a very conscientious physician before this, but he imagined that if he lived, he would be even more dedicated to his patients. Staring at the ceiling, he was reminded of an old Indian proverb: A healthy person has a hundred wishes, but a sick person has only one.

For one moment, she stood stock-still, drinking in the simple beauty of the marble fountain, the base of its pedestal wreathed in delicate fronds, that stood, glowing lambently in the soft white light, in the center of a small, secluded, fern-shrouded clearing. Water poured steadily from the pitcher of the partially clad maiden frozen forever in her task of filling the wide, scroll-lipped basin. The area had clearly been designed to provide the lady of the house with a private, refreshing, calming retreat in which to embroider, or simply rest and gather thoughts. In the moonlit night, surrounded by mysterious shadow and steeped in a silence rendered only more intense by the distant sighing of music and the silvery tinkle of the water, it was a hauntingly magical place. For three heartbeats, the magic held Patience immobile. Then, through the fine silk of her gown, she felt the heat of Vane's body. He did not touch her, but that heat, and the flaring awareness that raced through her, had her quickly stepping forward. Hauling in a desperate breath, she gestured to the fountain. "It's lovely." "Hmm," came from close behind. Too close behind. Patience found herself heading for a stone bench, shaded by a canopy of palms. Stifling a gasp, she veered away, toward the fountain.

Julian said he had read about a march to Washington, D.C., to be led by Martin Luther King, Jr.... "King leading a march. Who is he going to pray to this time, the statue of Abe Lincoln?" "Give us our freedom again, please suh." "King has been in jail so much he's got a liking for those iron bars and jailhouse food." The ridicule fitted our consciousness. We were brave revolutionaries, not pussyfooting nonviolent cowards. We scorned the idea of being spat upon, kicked, and then turning our cheeks for more abuse. Of course, none of us, save Julian, had even been close to bloody violence, and not one of us had spent an hour in jail for our political beliefs. My policy was to keep quiet when Reverend King's name was mentioned. I didn't want to remind my radical friends of my association with the peacemaker. It was difficult, but I managed to dispose of the idea that my silence was a betrayal. After all, when I worked for him, I had been deluded into agreeing with Reverend King that love would cure America of its pathological illnesses, that indeed our struggle for equal rights would redeem the country's baleful history. But all the prayers, sit-ins, sacrifices, jail sentences, humiliation, insults and jibes had not borne out Reverend King's vision. When maddened White citizens and elected political leaders vowed to die before they would see segregation come to an end, I became more resolute in rejecting nonviolence and more adamant in denying Martin Luther King.

Across our country, rather than slavery having ended, it has spread horridly. So that no matter our color of skin, our creed or persuasion, or our just labors - our industry, our security, our very lives of our sons and daughters, are being taken from us, as our families are harmed, by a small group of elite and power hungry persons. And those institutions, established for our protection, are employed now, in this very country, for our subjugation, right down to local police. Well paid and infiltrated by the powers wielding unthinkable agendas. Let my family and its journey of hardship be living proof, that those of us that stand up for all, currently suffer the stones of those that stand only for themselves, and who now stand with hand on triggers, having silenced all but a few voices, who have paid the ultimate price for daring to speak. For daring to "face down", the few that have systematically and immorally bought, and criminally raised, this specter of a most vile, ancient and hated institution, once more, upon us. When elections come, know they are being held on a broken wagon, whose wheels need fixed, and safeguards restored, that the precious innocents of all races, all persuasions, all lives, may finally have safety, peace, protection and most of all justice. We are being told now we have won, but my family still feels the sting and the weight of the chains. We vow as we break ours, to free others. To use what we may gain in restitution, to the freeing and restoring of others yet bound.

He slides my ruby ring off his finger. 'I, Cardan, son of Eldred, High King of Elfhame, take you, Jude Duarte, mortal ward of Madoc, to be my bride and my queen. Let us be wed until we wish for it to be otherwise and the crown has passed from our hands.' As he speaks, I begin to tremble with something between hope and fear. The words he's saying are so momentous that they're surreal, especially here, in Eldred's own rooms. Time seems to stretch out. Above us, the branches begin to bud, as though the land itself heard the words he spoke. Catching my hand, he slides the ring on. The exchange of rings is not a faerie ritual, and I am surprised by it. 'Your turn,' he says in to the silence. He gives me a grin. 'I'm trusting you to keep your word and release me from my bond of obedience after this.' I smile back, which maybe makes up for the way that I froze after he finished speaking. I still can't quite believe this is happening. My hand tightens on his as I speak. 'I, Jude Duarte, take Cardan, High King of Elfhame, to be my husband. Let us be wed until we don't want to be and the crown has passed from our hands.' He kisses the scar of my palm. I still have his brother's blood under my fingernails. I don't have a ring for him. Above us, the buds are blooming. The whole room smells of flowers. Drawing back, I speak again, pushing away all thoughts of Balekin, of the future in which I am going to have to tell him what I've done. 'Cardan, son of Eldred, High King of Elfhame, I forsake any command over you. You are free of your vow of obedience, for now and for always.' He lets out a breath and stands a bit unsteadily. I can't quite wrap my head around the idea that I am... I can't even think the words. Too much has happened tonight.

‌* When the coughing stopped, there was nothing but the nothingness of life moving on with a shuffle, or a near-silent twitch. ‌* Mistakes, mistakes, it’s all I seem capable of at times ‌*No matter how many times she was told that she was loved, there was no recognition that the proof was in the abandonment. ‌*It’s much easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it ‌*When death captures me,” the boy vowed, “he will feel my fist on his face.”. ‌*he’d turned for one last look at his family as he left the apartment. Perhaps then the guilt would not have been so heavy. No final goodbye. No final grip of the eyes. Nothing but goneness. ‌ *Wrecked, but somehow not torn into pieces. ‌*Life had altered in the wildest possible way, but it was imperative that they act as if nothing at all had happened. ‌*“If we gamble on a Jew,” said Papa soon after, “I would prefer to gamble on a live one,” and from that moment, a new routine was born. *‌you should know it yourself—a young man is still a boy, and a boy sometimes has the right to be stubborn.” ‌*The fire was nothing now but a funeral of smoke, dead and dying, simultaneously. ‌*Even death has a heart.. ‌* In truth, I think he was afraid. Rudy Steiner was scared of the book thief’s kiss. He must have longed for it so much. He must have loved her so incredibly hard. So hard that he would never ask for her lips again and would go to his grave without them. ‌*There is death. Making his way through all of it. On the surface: unflappable, unwavering. Below: unnerved, untied, and undone. *‌That damn snowman,” she whispered. “I bet it started with the snowman—fooling around with ice and snow in the cold down there.” Papa was more philosophical. “Rosa, it started with Adolf.” *‌There were broken bodies and dead, sweet hearts. Still, it was better than the gas ‌*They were French, they were Jews, and they were you. ‌*Sometimes she sat against the wall, longing for the warm finger of paint to wander just once more down the side of her nose, or to watch the sandpaper texture of her papa’s hands. If only she could be so oblivious again, to feel such love without knowing it, mistaking it for laughter and bread with only the scent of jam spread out on top of it. *‌Himmel Street was a trail of people, and again, Papa left his accordion. Rosa reminded him to take it, but he refused. “I didn’t take it last time,” he explained, “and we lived.” War clearly blurred the distinction between logic and superstition. ‌*Silence was not quiet or calm, and it was not peace. ‌*“I should have known not to give the man some bread. I just didn’t think.” “Papa, you did nothing wrong.” “I don’t believe you. ‌ * I’m an idiot.” No, Papa. You’re just a man.. ‌*What someone says and what happened are usually two different things ‌* despised by his homeland, even though he was born in it ‌ *“Of course I told him about you,” Liesel said. She was saying goodbye and she didn’t even know it. ‌*Say something enough times and you never forget it ‌*robbery of his life? ‌*Those kinds of souls always do—the best ones. The ones who rise up and say, “I know who you are and I am ready. Not that I want to go, of course, but I will come.” Those souls are always light because more of them have been put out. More of them have already found their way to other places ‌*One could not exist without the other, because for Liesel, both were home. Yes, that’s what Hans Hubermann was for Liesel Meminger ‌*DEATH AND LIESEL It has been many years since all of that, but there is still plenty of work to do. I can promise you that the world is a factory. The sun stirs it, the humans rule it. And I remain. I carry them away.

What I have been doing lately from my WIP "In Hiding" is available on my website. *Strong language warning* Wayne sat in the hygienic emergency room trying to ignore the bitch of a headache that began radiating at the back of his skull. His worn jeans, a blood-stained t-shirt, and his makeshift bandage sat on a nearby chair. The hysteria created by his appearance in the small hospital ward had died down. A local cop greeted him as soon as he was escorted to the examination room. The conversation was brief, once he revealed he was a bail enforcer the topic changed from investigation to shooting the bull. The experienced officer shook his hand before leaving then joked he hoped this would be their only encounter. The ER doc was a woman about his age. Already the years of long hours, rotating shifts and the rarity of a personal life showed on her face. Her eyelids were pink-rimmed, her complexion sallow; all were earmarks of the effect of long-term exhaustion. Wayne knew it all too well as he rubbed his knuckle against his own grainy eyes. Despite this, she attended to him with an upbeat demeanor and even slid in some ribbing at his expense. He was defenseless, once the adrenaline dropped off Wayne felt drained. He accepted her volleys without a response. All he mustered was a smile and occasional nod as she stitched him up. Across the room, his cell toned, after the brief display of the number a woman’s image filled the screen. Under his breath, he mumbled, “Shit.” He intends for his exclamation to remain ignored, having caught it the doctor glanced his direction with a smile. Without invitation, she retrieved his phone handing it to him without comment. Wayne noted the raised eyebrow she failed to hide. The phone toned again as he glanced at the flat image on the device. The woman’s likeness was smiling brightly, her blue eyes dancing. Just looking at her eased the pain in his head. He swiped the screen and connected the call as the doctor finished taping his injury. Using his free uninjured arm, he held the phone away from him slightly, utilizing the speaker option. “Hey Baby.” “What the hell, Wayne!” Her voice filled the small area, in his peripheral vision he saw the doc smirk. Turning his head, he addressed the caller. “Babe, I was getting ready to call.” The excuse sounded lame, even to him. “Why the hell do I have to hear about this secondhand?” Wayne placed the phone to his chest, loudly he exclaimed; “F***!” The ER doc touched his arm, “I will give you privacy.” Wayne gave her a grateful nod. With a snatch, she grabbed the corner of the thin curtain suspended from the ceiling and pulled it close. Alone again, he refocused on the call. The woman on the other end had continued in her tirade without him. When he rejoined the call mid-rant, she was issuing him a heartfelt ass-chewing. “...bullshit Wayne that I have to hear about this from my cousin. We’ve talked about this!” “Honey...” She interrupts him before he can explain himself. “So what the hell happened?” Wisely he waited for silence to indicate it was his turn to speak. “Lou, Honey first I am sorry. You know I never meant to upset you. I am alright; it is just a flesh wound.” As he speaks, a sharp pain radiates across his side. Gritting his teeth, Wayne vows to continue without having the radiating pain affect his voice. “I didn’t want you to worry Honey; you know calling Cooper first is just business.” Silence. The woman miles away grits her teeth as she angrily brushes away her tears. Seated at the simple dining table, she takes a napkin from the center and dabs at her eyes. Mentally she reminds herself of her promise that she was done crying over this man. She takes an unsteady breath as she returns her attention to the call. “Lou, you still there?” There is something in his voice, the tender desperation he allows only her to see. Furrowing her brow she closes her eyes, an errant tear coursed down her cheek.

Just then Marc rolls on to his side, faces me and his voice breaks the silence. “How is it that you have never found happiness?” Feeling him move a stray strand of hair away from my mouth I reply truthfully. “I thought I had at the time. I married for all of the right reasons and believed in the vows we exchanged. Unfortunately happiness got lost along the way through the actions of others; I also lost trust with it.

For the lead player, a psalm; for David, a song. 1 To You silence is praise, God, in Zion, 2 and to You a vow will be paid. O, Listener to prayer, 3 unto You all flesh shall come. My deeds of mischief are too much for me. 4 Our crimes but You atone.

I shall wear this as a badge of honor" she announced. "Wear it in silence, or i'll honor you again" robert vowed.

March 5 Wearing our Crown Well Children’s children are a crown to the aged…—Proverbs 17:6 Oh, the sting of it! We spend our best years taking our children from cradle to college, making our mistakes and learning our lessons. Now that we are old and full of wisdom we are regarded as irrelevant by the (untried) generation that is raising our precious grand-children. Even though I vow that I will never do it again, sometimes the words just slip out: “When the kids (you kids) were little, we did so-and-so.” Most often my helpful hint or amusing anecdote is greeted with a glazed look and several seconds of polite silence that most definitely do not say, How fascinating. Tell me more. Yet Scripture affirms the value of one generation passing on its wisdom to the next. So what do we do? Fortunately the Bible not only teaches us the “what” of God’s principles, but also the how. In its pages we can learn how the process is done, and what we might be doing wrong. As of today, this is what I am learning: My attitude is more important than my words: A kind-hearted woman gains respect (Proverbs 11:16). When I speak, my words need to be kind and wise: Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according their needs (Ephesians 4:29a). Don’t sweat the small stuff. Take the long view. Think and say the best: If anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things (Philippians 4:8b). Praying for my children and grand-children is one of the most important jobs I have. God is on the throne. He loves them (and me) and his plan is good. Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice! Do not be anxious about anything but in everything, by prayers and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God (Philippians 4:4a-6).

he had decided after careful consideration to join a monastery and take an eternal vow of silence. Immediately. Without a moment’s delay. Or, as soon as they’d had lunch. “Do

A soft growl echoed in the darkness. Sarah snatched the thermal imaging camera from the row of equipment by the fire. Turning in a slow circle, she scanned the dark trees beyond. Nothing moved. Just as she was taking a few tentative steps through the ferns and thick brush, a branch snapped, making her jump. Another growl pierced the silence.

I once read about this interrogation tactic in which you break the person's will in steps so small they don't even realize it's happening. Here's how it works: Imagine a suspect sitting in a police station, refusing to talk. Ask them something about the crime, they're going to stay silent. But, instead, ask them if they'd like a glass of water and they're likely to answer. Because not answering a simple question like that seems unreasonable -- it's a question unconnected to the reason they're at the police station, so what's the harm? Except now they've broken their vow not to speak. So getting them to break it again isn't as difficult. It's no longer about whether the suspect is going to talk or not, it's about what information the suspect will be willing to share. Suddenly, the playing field has shifted. It's like this: Ask someone to run a marathon, and they're likely to say no. But ask them to take one step and they usually will. Because taking that one step is no big deal. Then ask them to take another step and same thing. And once they've taken a dozen steps they're invested. You can get them through an entire marathon that way.

So, what was it Ravenswood wanted to discuss with you privately, anyway? Or are you allowed to say?” They walked a short distance in silence before Tristan answered. “Actually, he wanted to talk about you.” “Me?” Dom said, surprised. “What about me?” “He’s worried about you. About how you’ll react if Nancy ends up bearing George’s son, and you lose the estate and have to go back to running the agency again.” Tristan slanted a glance at him. “He’s not the only one.” “I’ll be fine.” To his shock, he realized it was true. He wouldn’t be happy about it, of course, but he had learned how to cope. Compared to the first time, this was nothing. “I lost everything once and survived it well enough. I can do it again. Besides, I have a business concern that I can return to now, so it’ll be easier.” “Not if this nonsense with Nancy means you lose Jane again, too.” He sucked in a harsh breath. “I am not losing Jane.” The words were a vow, to himself and to her. He would do whatever it took to keep her this time.

Shakespeare's Sonnet XVIII: This Thing of Ours Should I compare yous to a made man You gots more stugots and love to bust chops. Eh! You do whatcha gotta do, Jack a truck, buttleg or shoot some feds or cops. Nuthin gives you agita like a rat with a wire, You let the boss decide who lives and who gets whacked. You have sit-downs with the higher-ups with all your beefs, You've taken the vow of Omertá, silence and honor is your pact. You love your goomah and take care of your wife, You got your crew'sback, you're a stand-up guy. You got a vig on the Shylock biz and a taste from swag, When your Capo says 'burn that jamook,' never ask why. So long as you don't wanna be a guest of the state and eyes can see, Count on Tony to pop the witnesses, leave the gun and grab the cannoli.

bread

Ocean has taken possession of me. He has hold of me forever. I'm lured to His charming beauty and overwhelming majestic presence. He makes me dream, dance, fly and laugh. His mystical silence is mesmerizing. His roaring voice is fascinating. He inspires with infinite depth and makes me gasp from His rocking weight... Each time, being parted, we, like true lovers, desperately rush into a tearfully passionate hug... United once again He elegantly carries me where I long to be. His euphoric scent fills the air, adoring stillness and glimmering serenity embraces with the warmth of gently kissing waves makes my whole body sing... He always keeps His faithful promises to me and I give back. I find peace in Him and He finds Love in me... Every day and night diving in each other’s eyes and exchanging vows we write the book to pass down this miracle of unseen...

He would not let himself be overawed by her consequence! He was also the son of noble parents, if not of a king. "Then-then they'll need more Dagons," he blurted out. "Let me go, please. Let me serve the king." "It is not my decision to make." "How can you stop me if I refuse to take vows as a monk when my novitiate is ended?" he demanded. She raised an eyebrow. "You have already pledged yourself to enter the church, an oath spoken outside these gates." "I had no choice!" "You spoke the words. I did not speak them for you." "Is a vow sworn under compulsion valid?" "Did I or any other hold a sword to your throat? You swore the vow." "But-" "And," she said, lifting a hand for silence-a hand that bore two handsome rings, one plain burnished gold braid, the other a fine opal in a gold setting, "your father has pledged a handsome dowry to accompany you. We do not betroth ourselves lightly, neither to a partner in marriage-" He winced as she paused. Her gaze was keen and unrelenting. "-nor to the church. If a vow can be as easily broken as a feather can be snapped in two-" She lifted a quill made from an owl feather from her table, displaying it to him. "-then how can we any of us trust the other?" She set down her feather. "Our oaths are what makes us honorable people. What man or woman who has forsworn his noble lord or lady can ever be trusted again? You swore your promise to Our Lady and Lord. Do you mean to swear that oath and live outside the church for the rest of your days?" Said thus, it all sounded so much more serious. No man or woman who made a vow and then broke it was worthy of honor.

This tree is breaking its vow of silence to remind you not to give the new apprentices nightmares,

The Flintstone Block No.1: A whole nation has created the kindling Which owes you desperately But it hasn’t been specified Whether it’s the flintstone Or A firestorm? Block No.2: A piece of my happiness is in debt with the flintstone You’ve turned to the rocks But it’s for the flint stone. Block No.3: I’m in debt with the flintstone The whole world is in debt with the flintstone Block No.4: It has cast a spell For all your desires Behind the railing. Block No.5: I’m the mother of this Flintstone I’ve nourished it I’ve shed tears on it If the world is on fire I’m the one to blame. Block No.6: I’ve betrayed the heaven above God is disabled by it. Block No.7: And since then people have taken the vow of silence, … From 'Dating Noah’s Son' Rosa Jamali (TRANSLATED FROM ORIGINAL PERSIAN INTO ENGLISH BY ROSA JAMALI)

It may be difficult to accept something you do not like but you can definitely accept a tiny bit of it — an atom. The moment you accept that one atom, you will see change happen. But this must be done in a meditative state. Suppose you love someone. You want more and more of them, yet there is no fulfillment. In anu vrat — the vow of an atom — you take just one atom of that person and that is enough to bring fulfillment to you. Though the river is vast, a little sip quenches your thirst. Though the earth has so much food, just a small bite satisfies your hunger. All that you need are tiny bits. Accept a tiny bit of everything in life — that will bring you fulfillment. European Ashram, Bad Antogast, Germany August 11, 1999

I REGARD,” Chopper Jim said judiciously, “all forms of organized religion as a blight, an abomination and a public nuisance. It is the fifth horseman of the Apocalypse. I’m not talking about the guy who takes a vow of silence, or poverty, or celibacy”—he shivered—“and goes and sits on top of a mountain to meditate for the rest of his life.” He fixed Kate with a stern look. “It’s the people who follow him up that mountain, and then come back down and beat His word into their fellow man who annoy me.” She didn’t reply, and he forked up a french fry. Mutt, well aware of who was the soft touch at this table, sat pressed against his side, looking yearningly up into his face. He forked up another french fry and she took it delicately between her teeth, casting him a look of adoration in the process. “Most of those people—not all, I admit—but most of the people who subscribe to organized religion are too lazy and or too frightened to answer the hard questions themselves, and so hand their souls over for safe-keeping to a bunch of thieves and charlatans who know more about separating fools from their money than they do about God. Any God.” He took a bite of cheeseburger. “Religion is a crutch. You lean on it long enough, you forget how to walk on your own two feet.

I am attracted to you, and I think the attraction is mutual. I am asking you to marry me, Maggie Windham. Cry the banns, reserve St. George’s, your mama weeping in the first row while your brothers glare at me for my audacity…” He could not gauge her reaction. “Her Grace is not my mother, and my brothers would not glare at you, and while I understand the honor you do—” She tipped her head back, eyes closed. He watched while her throat worked and felt her hand clench in his. “Benjamin, I cannot.” He had expected an uphill battle. He had not expected the single, silver tear that slipped from the corner of her closed eye and trickled down her cheek. “Why not?” She shook her head and accepted his handkerchief. “I’m just a by-blow, and being your countess would only ensure I was the subject of constant gossip. Our children would be ostracized; I’d be the subject of much criticism…” “Our children would be the grandchildren of a duke and an earl. When one of the Wilson sisters can marry a titled lord and be accepted anywhere, your argument fails. We’d live in Cumbria, where the only ones to pass judgment would be the sheep climbing the fells. I’d give you as many children as you wanted, and we’d suit, Maggie Windham. We’d suit admirably.” He was an educated, resourceful man, but just a man. Words were not winning the fair maid, and while he’d been prepared to work for her capitulation, he was not ready for her to wall herself off in specious arguments and stubborn silence. He kissed her. He put all of his longing into the kiss, all of his determination to keep her safe and fight her battles for her. When she was sighing into his mouth and her hands were clinging to his biceps, he forced himself to pause, lest he be consummating unspoken vows on the carriage bench. “You must not…” She drew in a slow, deep breath, their mouths an inch apart. “You cannot ravish my reason, Benjamin. I am discharging you, and we will be cordial acquaintances from this day forward.” She dropped her forehead to his, her fingers circling his wrist where his hand cradled her jaw. A tactical retreat might be in order, but he was not going to be easily discouraged. “I will serenade you from the street, Maggie Windham. I will be so callow, you will marry me to save me from embarrassment.” She

You are angry?” Her reply was frigid silence. “Blue Eyes, what wrong words have I said?” “What have you said?” Hunter frowned. “It would not please you to marry with me? Better a wife than a slave, yes?” “I will never play second fiddle, never!” Hunter studied her, trying to figure out why she had switched the topic of conversation from marriage to making music. “How dare you!” she cried. “Of all the-- You arrogant, simple-- Oh, never mind! Just you understand this! Amongst my people, a man has one wife, only one, and he looks at no other, thinks of no other, touches no other, until death do they part. I wouldn’t marry you if you got on your knees and begged me!” Hunter sat up slowly, feeling a little dazed by her fury and wondering what had sparked it. Would he never understand her? She leaned toward him, her blue eyes flashing. “Even if I would marry you, an announcement by a central fire would not constitute a marriage in my books.” She thumped her chest. “I must make my vows before a priest! And furthermore, when I take a husband, he won’t be a Comanche. You couldn’t be chief husband, second husband, any husband, to me. You’re a barbarian who treats women like chattel!” Very calmly Hunter inserted, “You are my woman. You will sure enough marry no other.” “Well, if you think I’m going to marry you, you have another think coming! Never, do you hear me?” With that, she wrapped her arms around herself and glared at him. Hunter sighed and flopped onto his back, staring upward sightlessly. Minutes passed. When at last he felt her curl up at the foot of the bed, as far away from him as possible, a knowing smile touched his lips. No woman could possibly get that angry over another woman unless she was jealous. And a woman didn’t get jealous unless she was in love. Perhaps he wasn’t the only one with another think coming.

It is not your fate that is your verdict, but how you deal with your fate. If you find yourself in a story contrary to every vow you have made or wish to make, then you must silence your mind and observe everything closely. You must see the patterns of possible fates in the world around you and choose that which your holy soul tells you to choose." - Thordis, Thunder priestess

The warm stillness within the room was broken only by the rustling of sheets, and soft, urgent murmurs. Then the silence gave way to soft moans, groans, breathless pants, desperate gasps. Culminating in a soft, piercingly sweet scream, dying, sobbing, into a deep guttural groan.

Vane met her wide gaze, and managed not to smile wolfishly- no need to frighten the prey. The view he now had- of delectable curves filling a gown of ivory sprigged muslin in a manner he fully approved- was every bit as enticing as the view that first held him- the gorgeous curves of her derriere clearly delineated beneath taut fabric. When she'd shifted, so had those curves. He couldn't remember when a sight had so transfixed him, had so tantalized his rake's senses. She was of average height, her forehead level with his throat. Her hair, rich brown, lustrously sheening, was confined in a sleek knot, bright tendrils escaping to wreathe about her ears and nape. Delicate brown brows framed large eyes of hazel brown, their expression difficult to discern in the gloom. Her nose was straight; her complexion creamy. Her pink lips simply begged to be kissed. He'd come within a whisker of kissing them, but tasting an unknown lady before the requisite introductions was simply not good form. His silence had allowed her to steady her wits; he sensed her growing resistance, sensed the frown gathering in her eyes. Vane let his lips curve. He knew precisely what he wanted to do- to her, with her; the only questions remaining were where and when.

A vow of silence (maun) taken for a worldly purpose is considered non-silence (amaun). Anything that is spoken for the purpose of the Self, only that can be considered as complete silence (sampurna maun).

Lionblaze interrupted him as Dovepaw’s and Ivypaw’s eyes grew even wider. “This tree is breaking its vow of silence to remind you not to give the new apprentices nightmares,” he warned.

It seems there is no shortage of regret among the young — but then, they are young, they make mistakes. They have time to correct them and the courage to admit their failings aloud. Adults should try it. But frankly, I think it’s a miracle that adults can manage to speak to one another at all, and that the entire species doesn’t take a universal vow of silence. Some days I wish it would.

talking about his girlfriend, though he paws at all the male waiters through every shift. They have Gory and Marcus, the manager, completely snowed or at least compromised. Harry and I suspect it’s the drugs that come through Tony’s brother, a dealer who is in and out of jail and who Tony talks about only when he’s wasted, demanding vows of silence as if he’s never told you before. We call Dana and Tony the Twisted Sister and try to stay out of their path. ‘You’ve just taken two tables out of my section,’ Yasmin says. ‘We have two eight-tops,’ Tony says. ‘Well use your own bloody tables. These are mine, you fucks.’ Yasmin was born in Eritrea and raised in Delaware, but she’s read a lot of Martin Amis and Roddy Doyle. Unfortunately she doesn’t stand a chance against the Twisted Sister. Before I can band with Yasmin, Dana points a finger at me. ‘Go get the flowers, Casey Kasem.’ She and Tony are the headwaiters. You have to

Now that we, my sister and I, are talking to her, truthfully; now that we have broken this vow of silence and someone else’s shame; now that our perpetrator, dead since we were little, is dead of his control: now we are present with one another. The real brutality of that is that it is decades later. The stigma put upon us, by society, by its shameful lack of action, by secrets in families, in culture, in religions, in misogynistic realities everywhere, is out in the open. Yet we lost a lifetime of love, of our family.

Romance requires trust—and the deeper the trust, the deeper the possibility for romance. But trust has its requirements, as well, apart from the courage required of the individuals wise enough to distrust but brave enough to risk putting their faith in a partner. The first of those requirements is truth. You cannot maintain trust in yourself if you lie. You cannot maintain trust in yourself, likewise, if you act in a manner that would require a lie if it was discovered. Similarly, you cannot maintain trust in your partner if he or she lies, or betrays you in action or in silence. So, the vow that makes a marriage capable of preserving its romantic component is first and foremost the decision not to lie to your partner.

Veronica? Praise to Our Lady that you got

Bob decided on being Mostly Silent because he knew if he took vows of total silence he wouldn’t be able to call for help in an emergency or politely agree if someone said it was a nice day or ask for a sandwich, so he cut down his vocabulary to what he called the Sacred Eight Words: “yes,” “no,” “maybe,” “help,” “now,” “later,” “sleep,” and “sandwich.

Saturday was general cleaning day in accordance with the rules laid down by the Foundress. Every nun, professed or lay, scrubbed down her cell, took her linen to the laundry room, made up her narrow bed with fresh sheets and changed her underwear for the second time in a week.

The second exercise is a favorite of Yogi Raman’s. He used to go an entire day without speaking, except in response to a direct question.” “Kind of like a vow of silence?” “Actually that’s exactly what it was, John. The Tibetan monks who popularized this practice believed that to hold one’s tongue for an extended period of time would have the effect of enhancing one’s discipline.

An oath is sacred, isn’t it? That’s what the Athels always say. But which is more binding, professor – a vow of silence or a declaration of love?

[Imprisoned Poem] Somewhere deep inside me There lies an imprisoned poem A poem that is Buried Chained And holding its breath Ages ago… A poem about futility The fragility of words About alarms, if sounded, They’d be either destined to silence Or get written on the walls of indifference… There is an ancient poem Imprisoned in my soul Waiting to be released impatiently, In due time… Like a house cat this imprisoned poem keeps eagerly watching Every move outside the window, Without any participation… And like a house cat, Whenever this imprisoned poem Gets exhausted by the triviality of reality, It sleeps for long hours Only to wake up and find The status quo unchanged And the strings moving the puppets uncut… It then looks out the window in sorrow And goes back to sleep once again To dream of a less ugly world… My imprisoned poem has vowed not to release itself From the deepest points in my soul Until everyone else is awake For its release to be meaningful… (November 17, 2014)

I am not just the girl who understands, I am the one who wants better. The anger and pain unfurls inside me until it hurts worse than the toxin, until it's bigger than my body and darker than the shadows. My shadow self brushes her fingertips over the charred edges of my heart and smiles. Too many years of silence. Too many years of pushing aside my own pain to take care of someone else. This part of me is just as valid as the rest.

One of his hands tangled in my hair, tugging it to tip my chin back and eliciting another moan of pleasure from my lips. He swallowed it up, his tongue sinking into my mouth and making my heart find a rhythm it had never beat to before. He kissed me like he wasn't allowed to kiss me, but if he didn't he'd die. I tangled myself around him with equal desire, the well of magic in my body spilling over and flooding my veins. A profound and unknown energy hummed within me, drawing to the edges of my skin. Orion seemed to sense it too as the hairs raised along my arms and static energy crackled everywhere our flesh met. I was entirely lost to the deepest and most carnal desire I'd ever felt. His hand found the slit in my dress and his fingers trailed onto my bare leg, making me gasp in response. Fire surged down my spine only to bounce back up again as he gripped my thigh and squeezed. With so little clothes parting us, I felt every inch of his arousal pressing between my legs and I started to wonder how far this kiss was going to go. My fingers slid into the verge of his hair as I ground against him and my thoughts scattered again. He released a rumbling growl filled with nothing but need and his hand shifted between us, roaming deeper beneath my dress until he found the top of my panties. I nearly lost my mind as his fingers brushed the sensitive flesh there and skimmed the line of my underwear. My back arched as I tried to bring his hand closer to fulfil the promise of ecstasy I knew he could bring me. Instead, he pulled his hand free and placed it on my hip with a heavy breath. It took everything I had, but with his fingers firmly away from the area of my body which was trying to run the show, I could think a little clearer. He pulled back almost the same moment I did and I swallowed hard as I felt the lasting sensations of that kiss everywhere. My mouth tingled and my cheeks stung from the scrape of his stubble. My thigh muscles throbbed where they were still locked tightly around his waist and my heart seemed to bleed from the loss of contact with his mouth. We remained breathless and silent, staring at each other like the reality waiting above us wasn't about to rip us apart. But I knew as well as he did, this was a one time only thing. Now I just had to convince my body of that. I unwound my legs from him, bracing my hands on his shoulders as I dropped down. He steadied me for a moment then the air between us changed. His eyes darkened and he didn't need to speak to let me know what he was thinking. A vow hung solidly around us. This won't happen ever again. He opened his mouth to speak but I spoke before he could, not wanting to be commanded into eternal silence. I already knew what would happen the second we left this magical place behind, I didn't need to be told. “Let's go.” “We can stay a little longer...if you want.” His expression was that of a wounded man but I knew whatever pain lay in his body, would never be mine to heal. I shook my head, lifting my chin to gaze up at the surface of the pool. “No, I think we should go back to reality now.” The longer I stay, the harder it will be to leave. “Are you angry with me for bringing you here?” he asked and I was compelled to look down, falling into the intensity of his eyes as a strained line formed on his brow. “No.” He reached out to skate his fingers across the line of my jaw, feather light. “You know how it has to be.” I nodded, leaning away from his touch which felt like forcing two magnets apart. “I know.” What happens at the bottom of the pool, stays at the bottom of the pool. “Come on then, Blue.” He held out his hand. I took a shuddering breath, placing my hand in his. “I think it might be best if you don't call me that anymore.” I tugged at a lock of wet hair. “It's not blue anyway.” (DARCY)

Tapas is any practice that pushes the mind against its own limits, and the key ingredient of tapas is endurance. Thus in the archaic Rig-Veda (10.136), the long-haired ascetic or keshin is said to “endure” the world, to “endure” fire, and to “endure” poison.1 The keshin is a type of renouncer, a proto-yogin, who is a “wind-girt” (naked?) companion of the wild God Rudra (Howler). He is said to “ascend” the wind in a God-intoxicated state and to fly through space, looking down upon all things. But the name keshin harbors a deeper meaning, for it also can refer to the Sun whose “long hair” is made up of the countless rays that emanate from the solar orb and reach far into the cosmos and bestow life on Earth. This is again a reminder that the archaic Yoga of the Vedas revolves around the Solar Spirit, who selflessly feeds all beings with his/her/its compassionate warmth. The early name for the yogin is tapasvin, the practitioner of tapas or voluntary self-challenge. The tapasvin lives always at the edge. He deliberately challenges his body and mind, applying formidable will power to whatever practice he vows to undertake. He may choose to stand stock-still under India’s hot sun for hours on end, surrounded by a wall of heat from four fires lit close by. Or he may resolve to sit naked in solitary meditation on a windswept mountain peak in below-zero temperatures. Or he may opt to incessantly chant a divine name, forfeiting sleep for a specified number of days. The possibilities for tapas are endless. Tapas begins with temporarily or permanently denying ourselves a particular desire—having a satisfying cup of coffee, piece of chocolate, or casual sex. Instead of instant gratification, we choose postponement. Then, gradually, postponement can be stepped up to become complete renunciation of a desire. This kind of challenge to our habit patterns causes a certain degree of frustration in us. We begin to “stew in our own juices,” and this generates psychic energy that can be used to power the process of self-transformation. As we become increasingly able to gain control over our impulses, we experience the delight behind creative self-frustration. We see that we are growing and that self-denial need not necessarily be negative. The Bhagavad-Gītā (17.14–16) speaks of three kinds of austerity or tapas: Austerity of body, speech, and mind. Austerity of the body includes purity, rectitude, chastity, nonharming, and making offerings to higher beings, sages, brahmins (the custodians of the spiritual legacy of India), and honored teachers. Austerity of speech encompasses speaking kind, truthful, and beneficial words that give no offense, as well as the regular practice of recitation (svādhyāya) of the sacred lore. Austerity of the mind consists of serenity, gentleness, silence, self-restraint, and pure emotions.

There exists a presence in the ocean, seldom glimpsed in waking hours, best envisioned in your dreams. While you drift in sleep, turtles ride the curve of the deep, seeking their inspiration from the sky. From tranquil tropic bays or nightmare maelstroms hissing foam, they come unseen to share our air. Each sharp exhalation affirms, “Life yet endures.” Each inhaled gasp vows, “Life will continue.” With each breath they declare to the stars and wild silence. By night and by light, sea turtles glide always, their parallel universe strangely alien, yet intertwining with ours.

That was the trouble with talking: you said things that weren’t quite the things you meant, and then you either had to wallow in your own uncomfortable silence or trip over your own tongue in a vain attempt to clarify your original meaning.

Lionblaze interrupted him as Dovepaw’s and Ivypaw’s eyes grew even wider. “This tree is breaking its vow of silence to remind you not to give the new apprentices nightmares

Our national anthem is the symbols of our country. it represents the tradition, history, and beliefs of our nation and its people. We South Sudanese do not need President Kiir's presence to sing it. Oh God we Praise and Glorify you For your grace on South Sudan Land of great abundance Uphold us United in Peace and Harmony Whenever we are singing our national anthem with our chest up and our eyes in the sky, we feel the unity, love, peace and togetherness among us as Citizens of South Sudan. Oh! Motherland Arise, raise your flag with the guiding star And sing-song of freedom with joy For justice, Liberty and prosperity shall forever reign, The national anthem reminds Us of Our nation’s glory, beauty, rich heritage, and most importantly it is about us, and our martyrs who sacrificed their lives for our beautiful country South Sudan but not for only you Mr President. Oh! great patriots Let us stand up in silence and respect saluting our martyrs whose blood Cemented our national foundation, we protect our nation oh God blessed South Sudan The national anthem helps evoke feelings of patriotism among us South Sudanese It also helps us South Sudan united in peace and harmony by singing it. The questions are: Who is President Kiir to deny us this feeling of Patriotism? Does president Kiir's presence anywhere install that feeling in our heart? Does Sudan Sudan mean President Kiir? Was the national anthem composed for Mr President or for our nation, its heroes, heroines, martyrs and its people who you forbid from singing it today? Therefore, we all feel the enthusiasm when we sing.. and we don't need your permission, Mr President. Despite the tribal and ethnic differences, we rise in Unison and Listen or Sing the national anthem with great enthusiasm. Your Government took away our basic rights and gave us tribalism and hatred. Now Mr. president you want to take away the only things that united us. Therefore, we all feel the enthusiasm when we sing our national anthem and we don't need your permission, Mr President. Note: People of South Sudan. Kiir and his government want to rewrite our history into Kiir story! Don't let them. we vow to protect our nation not Kiir and now is the time for us Citizens of South Sudan to stand up for our country.