Quotes About Acceptance

For some things there are no wrong seasons. Which is what I dream for me.

Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude? Have I endured loneliness with grace?

so long as you don't mind a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life that doesn't have its splash of happiness?

Above the modest house and the palace—the same darkness. Above the evil man and the just, the same stars. Above the child who will recover and the child who will not recover, the same energies roll forward, from one tragedy to the next and from one foolishness to the next. I bow down.

Let the world have its way with you, luminous as it is with mystery and pain— graced as it is with the ordinary.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

What shall I do? When I pick up the broom he leaves the room. When I fuss with kindling he runs for the yard. Then he's back, and we hug for a long time. In his low-to-the-ground chest I can hear his heart slowing down. Then I rub his shoulders and kiss his feet and fondle his long hound ears. Benny, I say, don't worry. I also know the way the old life haunts the new.

Okay, I said. But remember, you can't fix everything in the world for everybody. "However," said Ricky, "you can't do anything at all unless you begin.

To live in this world you must be able to do three things: to love what is mortal; to hold it against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go

It is the news that no one is singular, that no argument will change the course, that one's time is more gone than not, and what is left waits to be spent gracefully and attentively, if not quite so actively.

When I think of death it is a bright enough city

When I have to die, I would like to die on a day of rain— long rain, slow rain, the kind you think will never end.

whatever the name of the catastrophe, it is never the opposite of love.

For are we not all, at times, exactly like Poe's narrators—beating upon the confining walls of circumstance, the limits of the universe? In spiritual work, with good luck (or grace) we come to accept life's brevity for ourselves. But the lover that is in each of us—the part of us that adores another person—ah! That is another matter.

The point is, you're you, and that's for keeps.

There was someone I loved who grew old and ill. One by one I watched the fires go out. There was nothing I could do except to remember that we receive then we give back.

But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,     to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly; for example—I think this     as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch— the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the     daisies for the field.

The cricket doesn't wonder if there's a heaven or, if there is, if there's room for him. It's fall. Romance is over. Still, he sings. If he can, he enters a house through the tiniest crack under the door. Then the house grows colder. He sings slower and slower. Then, nothing. This must mean something, I don't know what. But certainly it doesn't mean he hasn't been an excellent cricket all his life.

You do not have to be good. You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Today I'm flying low and I'm not saying a word. I'm letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.

You can have the other words—chance, luck, coincidence, serendipity. I'll take grace. I don't know what it is exactly, but I'll take it.

let the soft animal of your body love what it loves

I have refused to live locked in the orderly house of reasons and proofs. The world I live in and believe in is wider than that. And anyway, what's wrong with Maybe?

As though they have been told everything already, and are content.