Wherever The Wind Blows Quotes

Me? I go wherever the wind blows…and wherever the whiskey shots are half price.

I think I like wildflowers best," I explain. "They just grow wherever they want. No one has to plant them. And then their seeds blow in the wind and they find a new place to grow." (Richelle)

I love weather. I'm a connoisseur of weather. Wherever my travels take me, the first thing I do is turn on the weather channel and see what's going on, what's coming. I like to know about regional weather patterns, how storms are created in different altitudes, what kinds of clouds are forming or dissipating or blowing through, where the winds are coming from, where they've been. That's not a passion everybody shares, I know, but I don't believe there are any people on earth who, properly sheltered, don't feel the peace inside a summer rain and the cleansing it brings, the renewal of the earth in its aftermath.

Young people, Lord. Do they still call it infatuation? That magic ax that chops away the world in one blow, leaving only the couple standing there trembling? Whatever they call it, it leaps over anything, takes the biggest chair, the largest slice, rules the ground wherever it walks, from a mansion to a swamp, and its selfishness is its beauty. Before I was reduced to singsong, I saw all kinds of mating. Most are two-night stands trying to last a season. Some, the riptide ones, claim exclusive right to the real name, even though everybody drowns in its wake. People with no imagination feed it with sex—the clown of love. They don’t know the real kinds, the better kinds, where losses are cut and everybody benefits. It takes a certain intelligence to love like that—softly, without props. But the world is such a showpiece, maybe that’s why folks try to outdo it, put everything they feel onstage just to prove they can think up things too: handsome scary things like fights to the death, adultery, setting sheets afire. They fail, of course. The world outdoes them every time. While they are busy showing off, digging other people’s graves, hanging themselves on a cross, running wild in the streets, cherries are quietly turning from greed to red, oysters are suffering pearls, and children are catching rain in their mouths expecting the drops to be cold but they’re not; they are warm and smell like pineapple before they get heavier and heavier, so heavy and fast they can’t be caught one at a time. Poor swimmers head for shore while strong ones wait for lightning’s silver veins. Bottle-green clouds sweep in, pushing the rain inland where palm trees pretend to be shocked by the wind. Women scatter shielding their hair and men bend low holding the women’s shoulders against their chests. I run too, finally. I say finally because I do like a good storm. I would be one of those people in the weather channel leaning into the wind while lawmen shout in megaphones: ‘Get moving!

It is the season of suicide and divorce and prickly dread, wherever the wind blows.

Let us seek truth everywhere; let us cull it wherever we can find its blossom or its SEED. Having Found the seed, let us scatter it to the winds of heaven. Where ever it may blow, it will germinate. There is no lack in this wide universe of souls that will form the new ground.

No one can tell me, Nobody knows, Where the wind comes from, Where the wind goes. It's flying from somewhere As fast as it can, I couldn't keep up with it, Not if I ran. But if I stopped holding The string of my kite, It would blow with the wind For a day and a night. And then when I found it, Wherever it blew, I should know that the wind Had been going there too. So then I could tell them Where the wind goes... But where the wind comes from Nobody knows.

Wind is the sacred music of the leaves; wherever and whenever the wind blows, over there leaves start their holy dancing frantically!

Though their values are liberal and their methods unconventional, ENFPs are incredibly driven folk who almost always have a clear-cut goal in mind. They don’t want to go wherever the wind blows them – they want to embody the storm. And they’ll take down whatever stands in their way.

Love should be carefree, like a leaf blowing in the wind, not knowing or caring where it’s going to land. However, wherever it lands, it will land gently on solid ground. That is the definition of love… love is supposed to be filled with endless joy.

Remember when life was so simple? We weren’t living in a bubble. Now it seems like we are hiding and closed in. We are hated for loving life and for being in love with the same sex. I feel like people are suffocating us with their words and abusing us with their bare hands for being ourselves. Love should be carefree, like a leaf blowing in the wind, not knowing or caring where it’s going to land. However, wherever it lands, it will land gently on solid ground. That is the definition of love… love is supposed to be filled with endless joy.

If a man lives without inner struggle, if everything happens in him without opposition, if he goes wherever he is drawn or wherever the wind blows, he will remain such as he is. But if a struggle begins in him, and particularly if there is a definite line in this struggle, then, gradually, permanent traits begin to form themselves, he begins to ‘crystallise’…Crystallisation is possible on any foundations.

We can choose to go wherever the winds of life happen to blow us, or we can intentionally chart a course that will blow us away. And as I ponder that thought, I realize that there are very few decisions in life whose destinations are so frighteningly opposite.

I wish I had learned to sail sooner in ministry rather than rowing so hard.” I immediately thought of the way I have rowed so hard against the wind rather than hoisting a sail and yielding the boat of my life to the wind of God’s Spirit—blowing my life wherever He wanted.

A great and dreadful storm was blowing—and he was the object of the Lasshaar’s attack. He had to retaliate, else his own soul would be wrenched from him by the Giants of the Wind and flung to the air spirits, to be borne for eternity on the winds of the world. Then his voice would moan like a banshee around the cold peaks of high ice-clothed mountains for ever—lost and lonely. His soul would be damned to travel with the four winds wherever their caprice might bear it, knowing no rest.

Camera You want this instant: nearly spring, both of us walking, wind blowing walking sunlight knitting the leaves before our eyes the wind empty as Sunday rain drying in the wormy sidewalk puddles the vestiges of night on our lightscratched eyelids, our breezy fingers you want to have it and so you arrange us: in front of a church, for perspective, you make me stop walking and compose me on the lawn; you insist that the clouds stop moving the wind stop swaying the church on its boggy foundations the sun hold still in the sky for your organized instant. Camera man how can I love your glass eye? Wherever you partly are now, look again at your souvenir, your glossy square of paper before it dissolves completely: it is the last of autumn the leaves have unravelled the pile of muddy rubble in the foreground, is the church the clothes I wore are scattered over the lawn my coat flaps in a bare tree there has been a hurricane that small black speck travelling towards the horizon at almost the speed of light is me

The Peloponnesians arranged their ships in such a manner as to make the largest possible circle without leaving space to break through, turning their prows outwards and their sterns inwards; within the circle they placed the smaller craft which accompanied them, and five of their swiftest ships that they might be close at hand and row out at whatever point the enemy charged them. The Athenians ranged their ships in a single line and sailed round and round the Peloponnesian fleet, which they drove into a narrower and narrower space, almost touching as they passed, and leading the crews to suppose that they were on the point of charging. But they had been warned by Phormio not to begin until he gave the signal, for he was hoping that the enemy's ships, not having the steadiness of an army on land, would soon fall into disorder and run foul of one another; they would be embarrassed by the small craft, and if the usual morning breeze, for which he continued waiting as he sailed round them, came down from the gulf, they would not be able to keep still for a moment. He could attack whenever he pleased, because his ships were better sailers; and he knew that this would be the right time. When the breeze began to blow, the ships, which were by this time crowded into a narrow space and were distressed at once by the force of the wind and by the small craft which were knocking up against them, fell into confusion; ship dashed against ship, and they kept pushing one another away with long poles; there were cries of 'keep off' and noisy abuse, so that nothing could be heard either of the word of command or of the coxswains' giving the time; and the difficulty which unpractised rowers had in clearing the water in a heavy sea made the vessels disobedient to the helm.At that moment Phormio gave the signal; the Athenians, falling upon the enemy, began by sinking one of the admirals' vessels, and then wherever they went made havoc of them. (Book 2 Chapter 83.5-84.3)

once there was a great king who gazed down from a tall tower upon a gardener who sang as he worked, and the king cried, ‘Ah, to have a life of no cares! If only I could be that gardener.’ And the voice of the August Personage of Jade reached out from Heaven and said, ‘It shall be so,’ and lo, the king was a gardener singing in the sun. In time the sun grew hot and the gardener stopped singing, and a fine dark cloud brought coolness and then drifted away, and it was hot again and much work remained, and the gardener cried, ‘Ah, to carry coolness wherever I go and have no cares! If only I could be that cloud.’ And the voice of the August Personage reached out from Heaven and said, ‘It shall be so,’ and lo, the gardener was a cloud drifting across the sky. And the wind blew and the sky grew cold, and the cloud would have liked to go behind the shelter of a hill, but it could only go where the wind took it, and no matter how hard it tried to go this way the wind took it that way, and above the cloud was the bright sun. ‘Ah, to fly through wind and be warm and have no cares! If only I could be the sun,’ cried the cloud, and the voice of the August Personage of Jade reached out from Heaven and said, ‘It shall be so,’ and lo, he was the sun. It was very grand to be the sun, and he delighted in the work of sending down rays to warm some things and burn others, but it was like wearing a suit made of fire and he began to bake like bread. Above him the cool stars that were gods were sparkling in safety and serenity and the sun cried, ‘Ah, to be divine and free from care! If only I could be a god.’ And the voice of the August Personage of Jade reached out from Heaven and said, ‘It shall be so,’ and lo, he was a god, and he was beginning his third century of combat with the Stone Monkey, which had just transformed itself into a monster a hundred thousand feet tall and was wielding a trident made from the triple peaks of Mount Hua, and when he wasn’t dodging blows he could see the peaceful green earth down below him, and the god cried, ‘Ah, if only I could be a man who was safe and secure and had no cares!’ And the voice of the August Personage of Jade reached out from Heaven and said, ‘It shall be so.’ And lo, he was a king who was gazing down from a tall tower upon a gardener who sang as he worked.

Jesus answered, “Very truly I tell you, no one can enter the kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit. Flesh gives birth to flesh, but the Spirit gives birth to spirit. You should not be surprised at my saying, ‘You must be born again.’ The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.

Listen to the voice, when she beckons, With the sound of her lullabies, your soul awakens. Take the road, the heart echoes, Follow the wind wherever it blows.   I

Take the road, the heart echoes, Follow the wind wherever it blows.   I

I AM CREATING something new in you: a bubbling spring of Joy that spills over into others’ lives. Do not mistake this Joy for your own or try to take credit for it in any way. Instead, watch in delight as My Spirit flows through you to bless others. Let yourself become a reservoir of the Spirit’s fruit. Your part is to live close to Me, open to all that I am doing in you. Don’t try to control the streaming of My Spirit through you. Just keep focusing on Me as we walk through this day together. Enjoy My Presence, which permeates you with Love, Joy, and Peace. “The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit.” JOHN 3 : 8 But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness. GALATIANS 5 : 22

The wind got inside her and urged her to be free, just as it was, blowing wherever and however it willed.

San Gabriel emerges from the fog laden with dew. The clouds of the night slept over the village searching for the warmth of the people. Now the sun is about to come out and the fog rises slowly, rolling up its sheet, leaving white strips over the rooftops. A gray steam, hardly visible, rises from the trees and the wet earth, attracted by the clouds, but it vanishes immediately. Then the black smoke comes from the kitchens, smelling of burned oak, covering the sky with ashes. In the distance the mountains are still in shadow. [ At daybreak ] Wherever you look in Luvina, it’s a very sad place. You’re going there, so you’ll find out. I would say it’s the place where sadness nests. Where smiles are unknown as if people’s faces had been frozen. And if you like, you can see that sadness just any time. The breeze that blows there moves it around but never takes it away. It seems like it was born there. And you can almost taste and feel it, because it’s always over you, against you and because it’s heavy like a large plaster weighing on the living flesh of the heart. The people from there say that when the moon is full they clearly see the figure of the wind sweeping along Luvina’s streets, bearing behind it a black blanket; but what I always managed to see when there was a moon in Luvina was the image of despair - always. [ Luvina ]

What does the beautiful stories tell? If you can't believe them But love is the most beautiful art in existence Maybe you can feel it or leave it But you can't avoid it Wherever you go Wherever you hide He will find you and make you feel it as deeply as he can. As if it were the last thing in the universe Don't believe everything they tell you Other people's story isn't yours The life of others isn't yours The traumas of others aren't yours Because the experience is to avoid following the same steps But love, Love will always be what keeps this planet under gravity Gravity doesn't support the lack of it Gravity doesn't support fear What supports fear is unloving Don't put your pains in response to what love means Perhaps fear didn't allow them to love Maybe the other didn't know how overwhelming it is to love But you are strong, as strong as the winds that blow at the highest heights You are a divine, vibrant, uplifting being Your forces show it And when the time comes Lift your head to the sky and see how amazing creation is Look in the mirror and see the beauty that inhabits existence And don't forget That love is the strongest force and that you are the result of pure work Coming from the heaven Ready to love.

The Snowman by Stewart Stafford My snowball heart is a sorbet, With delusions of grandeur, Use alcohol instead of snow, And I'd make a fine iced liqueur. My arrival and departure, Are never certain things, Wherever the North wind blows, I descend on the iciest wings. Here one day, gone the next, My appearances are fleeting, Then I'm disembodied by thaws, Until our next frosty meeting. © Stewart Stafford, 2021. All rights reserved.

denna låt är en av de finaste låtar jag någonsin hört. herremingud va texten är vacker. det som händer vid 7:39 och efteråt är helt magiskt. denna värld förtjänar inte justin vernon, tänk att han skrivit både denna och re:stacks <3 The hills speaking softly to brag The rain is so quiet it's sad In liberty it rains so loud we can't hear It's so hard to see outside when it rains down here The arches hold together St. Louis And the mighty Mississippi splits right through us Before my arches rebuild, they must have a song But I can't proceed until the rain is gone Blue grey background on those moss green pines Heavy grown raindrops clinging to the electrical lines Floating in an atmosphere of truth and hidden lies Sometimes out here, I feel like my heroes can save my life Through the window of this ricket rail car And I see the world scene by scene The silver mountains and blue streams I will only ever smell the train steam We hear Louis Armstrong play his horn on the shortwave radio His sound breaks my heart with a stone in my throat Like a sword through a heart, leaking tears onto the ground So hard to see when it rains down here Alone, is where I been leading to be So I, just been sailing the seas The wind can blow me wherever it needs to take me The skipper taunts the sky Thunder and waves crashing into the side It will never break him, it will never save him