Quotes About Balance

Si pudiéramos mantener siempre el vínculo con la tierra — dijo—, nos evitaríamos muchos problemas. ¿No te parece? —A veces nos dejamos embriagar tanto por la extraña idea de que somos los amos de todo lo que vemos que se nos olvida nuestra condición de simples criaturas de la naturaleza — contestó él.

Self-care should include the cold shower as well as the scented tub.

In this world, you must be oh so smart, or oh so pleasant. Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. ~Elwood P. Dowd

In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant. ' Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.

My life has a certain amusing symmetry, if viewed with sufficient detachment.

Don't let anyone drive you crazy. It's right nearby anyway, and the walk will do you good.

We're not made to wallow in pleasure. Pleasure is joy's assassin.

every writer needs two selves—the generative self and the editor self.

One can't mount a stripper pole wearing a metal diving suit.

As novelist Harry Crews once wrote, I'm the kind of person who—if he can't have too much of something—doesn't want any of it. In

If you've got one foot in yesterday and one foot in tomorrow, you're straddling today—pissing all over it rather than living in it.

You're working so hard, burning the candle at both ends. Up early, home late. When are you going to stop and smell the roses?

Never fall in love with anything that can't love you back.

By contrast, if one conceives the idea of human rights as centring on the notion that each individual is completely autonomous and should have entire control over its own fate, this seems to me unrealistic even for human beings, and far too one-sided to be used as a central tool of morality.

in the storm of emotions, we can create a small, peaceful sanctuary within.

If you have a difficult decision to make, never force it, Rob had told his boys. Weigh each alternative singly, without prejudice. If they seem to balance evenly, no advantage one way or the other, do not be deceived. There is an advantage one way or the other. If you wait long enough, it will become apparent to you and suddenly the decision will be made without difficulty, and it will be right.

I believe in kindness. Also in mischief.

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth, it can lie down like silk breathing or toss havoc shoreward; it can give gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can sweet-talk entirely. As I can too, and so, no doubt, can you, and you.

We meet wonderful people, but lose them in our busyness. We're, as the saying goes, all over the place. Steadfastness, it seems, is more about dogs than about us. One of the reasons we love them so much.

In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music Every spring I hear the thrush singing in the glowing woods he is only passing through. His voice is deep, then he lifts it until it seems to fall from the sky. I am thrilled. I am grateful. Then, by the end of morning, he's gone, nothing but silence out of the tree where he rested for a night. And this I find acceptable. Not enough is a poor life. But too much is, well, too much. Imagine Verdi or Mahler every day, all day. It would exhaust anyone.

Some things are unchangeably wild, others are stolidly tame. The tiger is wild, and the coyote, and the owl. I am tame, you are tame. There are wild things that have been altered, but only into a semblance of tameness, it is no real change. But the dog lives in both worlds.

Owl Poem One has to say this for the rounds of life that keep coming and going; it has worked so far. The rabbit, after all, has never asked if the grass wanted to live. Any more than the owl consults with the rabbit. Acceptance of the world requires that I bow even to you, Master of the night.

Emerson, I am trying to live, as you said we must, the examined life. But there are days I wish there was less in my head to examine, not to speak of the busy heart. How would it be to be Percy, I wonder, not thinking, not weighing anything, just running forward.

It's true, isn't it, in our world, that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns are a single thing- that the petals pooled with nectar, and the polished thorns are a single thing- that even the purest light, lacking the robe of darkness, would be without expression- that love itself, without pain, would be no more than a shrug gable comfort.