Quotes About Belonging

I only wish I could describe it more accurately, because it's not the design I'm trying to describe as much as the feeling it evokes when I think of it. A sense of home how does one describe that?

My ghosts weren't ghosts anymore. They were people and they loved me. Anita was right. They were my family.

we are animals—unusual animals, but animals nevertheless. Not only that, but we are pack or tribal animals, like the other apes. For a tribal animal one of the worst pains is banishment, or separation from the tribe. And one of the greatest pleasures is acceptance by the tribe.

I am in between. Trying to write to be understood by those who matter to me, yet also trying to push my mind with ideas beyond the everyday. It is another borderland I inhabit. Not quite here nor there. On good days I feel I am a bridge. On bad days I just feel alone.

You cross a border because you are searching, because you want more, because you want to match where you are with who you are, because you want to test your place. Maybe because you want to expand your sense of place. You are searching for something that may as yet be indefinable. A border crosser questions the very idea of home.

The either/or proposition that forces you to choose between your community and, say, your country has never been true. The very skills we learn to cross borders within ourselves help us to cross borders toward others outside our community.

A tribe is a group of people connected to one another, connected to a leader, and connected to an idea. For millions of years, human beings have been part of one tribe or another. A group needs only two things to be a tribe: a shared interest and a way to communicate.

What we become a part of becomes a part of us.

I have lived in Mumbai for more than 20 years, have my domicile here, my home and family here.

Pero, ¿qué es eso de país? ¿En serio seguimos jugando a ese juego? ¿Todavía no hemos pasado esa pantalla, como especie? ¿Qué es un país? Dime, Séptimo. ¿Qué es una patria? Es una ficción, hermano, una ficción peligrosa.

America, every black men's dream. Africa, every black men's home

I'm Razo, a member of Bayern's Own," he said, stopping himself from adding "Loafing is just a hobby of mine." "Bayern's Own? But you're a child." Razo looked up to the sky. "I'm not a child, I'm just short.

She answered by standing and kissing him first and held his cheeks and closed her eyes and felt sure as bones and deep as blood that she had found her place.

Here's the thing about home: you can create it most anywhere, as long as you gather your people around you.

She felt really alone now. But here's the thing- suddenly she felt as though she belonged inside the aloneness, and that feeling made her whisper aloud, "I never have before. I've never felt at home with myself.

Miri almost told Marda then of feeling like the outcast of the quarry and the mean, tight spot of jealousy she had harbored in her heart for years. But the sensation was loosening, and it did not seem to matter as much anymore.

Mount Eskel feels the boots of outsiders. Mount Eskel won't bear their weight.

Inside each of us is a desire to be loved, a desire to be chosen, called out of the crowd, and loved for who we are. Seeking these desires, we all become performers, morphing ourselves into whatever role may earn us a place in the hearts of those around us.

If somebody wants you to pin a label on my place in your life, just tell them I'm yours. It's that simple.

I felt like a real girl.

Vorrei essere come gli altri ragazzi". "Quindi vorresti essere meschina, falsa e ottusa?" [...] "No. Vorrei essere normale." "Essere normali è uno schifo!" è sbottata.

IT'S FUNNY—WHEN Dad was in California, Mom's house was where I lived. It was home. But now I don't really feel like I have a home—it's more like I live at Dad's place. Or Mom's place. I never say "I'm going home" anymore. It's "I'm going to my mom's." Or "I'm going to my dad's." Going. Not staying. Actually, it's not funny at all.

So much had become so connected to him that it seemed to belong to him, so that now, flying, for hours, above the Atlantic still felt like being over his realm.

only a sojourner, in our home, where the heart, after its long, good years, was sparrow-netted to make its own cage