Quotes About Acceptance

La clave de vuestra felicidad es aceptar vuestras babuchas, lo que sois, vuestro aspecto, a vuestra familia, las dotes que tenéis y las que no tenéis. Si seguís repitiendo que vuestras babuchas no son vuestras, moriréis buscando y amargados, creyendo siempre que os habían prometido más. «No sólo se convierten en nuestro destino nuestras acciones, sino también nuestras omisiones.»

is to own your slippers, own who you are, own how you look, own your family, own the talents you have, and own the ones you don't. If you keep saying your slippers aren't yours, then you'll die searching, you'll die bitter, always feeling you were promised more. Not only our actions, but also our omissions, become our destiny.

But God's time isn't the same as hers. God's calendar isn't the one hanging in her kitchen. To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under heaven. It's pointless chastising herself for not rescuing her mother sooner. Happened is happened, she thinks. The past is unreliable, and only the future is certain, and she must look to it with faith that the pattern will be revealed.

What is worry but fear of what the future holds? Baby Mol lives completely in the present and is spared all worry.

What did it matter? We are dying while we are living. We are old even when we're young. We are clinging to life even as we resign ourselves to leaving it.

Some part of him must know this is unreasonable even as he thinks it. But his mind can't accept the alternative. If it's all his fault, what earthly excuse does he have be still breathing?

Please understand. This happened before her birth. She was born this way. Nothing you or anyone else did caused it. Understand? This isn't your fault. In Jeremiah, doesn't God say, 'Before I formed thee in the belly I knew thee; and before thou camest forth out of the womb I sanctified thee'?" "He does!" she says, shocked to hear a Bible verse from this worldly man.

There is neither Jew nor Gentile, neither slave nor free, nor is there male and female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus." They are far from being all one.

He who avoids complaint invites happiness.

Death is the easiest of all things after it, and the hardest of all things before it.

Not everything that is faced can be changed, but nothing can be changed until it is faced.' " "I figured you'd be in.

I imagine what it must be like to stay hidden, disappear in the dusky nothing and stay still in the night. It's not sadness, though it may sound like it. I'm thinking about people and trees and how I wish I could be silent more, be more tree than anything else, less clumsy and loud, less crow, more cool white pine, and how it's hard not to always want something else, not just to let the savage grass grow.

I remembered what had been circling in me: I am beautiful. I am full of love. I am dying.

What if, instead of carrying a child, I am supposed to carry grief?

Say we spend our last moments staring at each other, hands knotted together, clutching the dog, watching the sky burn. Say, It doesn't matter. Say, That would be enough. Say you'd still want this: us alive, right here, feeling lucky.

My mother's psychic says, everyone essentially wants the same thing as everyone else, a sense of belonging, a coming home.

Sometimes, you have to look around at the life you've made and sort of nod at it, like someone moving their head up and down to a tune they like.

I don't know how to hold this truth, so I kill it, pin its terrible wings down in case, later, no one believes me.

I loved them: my own bright dead things. I'm thirty-five and remember all that I've done wrong. Yesterday I was nice, but in truth I resented the contentment of the field. Why must we practice this surrender? What I mean is: there are days I still want to kill the carrots because I can.

I slip into bed and lie there beside Your body like a buoy that the ocean resents. If I could just grab hold and find a way to paddle, If you could stop dragging your feet along the gravel. As a child I remember knowing how to float When sober was the wind and my body, the boat. Now each step is anchored and you continue to drift In the room where we pretend that we are alive, Where you and I commit the sin, and you and I forgive.

Mostly, I enjoy my failings. Until I don't.

Humans are so strange in the ways that we are either recovering too quickly from something or holding on to pain forever. There seems to be no middle ground. We bounce back or we wallow. But remembering the hardest moments of grief or loss and letting them be present for you in the good moments is something I've found useful and grounding as I age. It feels like a way of remembering that balance does exist. This too. This grief. This joy. Together always intertwined.

It wasn't until later, when I moved in with him and stood outside on our patchy imperfect lawn, that I remembered what had been circling in me: I am beautiful. I am full of love. I am dying.

HOW MOST OF THE DREAMS GO First, it's a fawn dog, and then it's a baby. I'm helping him to swim in a thermal pool, the water is black as coffee, the cement edges are steep so to sink would be easy and final. I ask the dog (that is also the child), Is it okay that I want you to be my best friend? And the child nods. (And the dog nods.) Sometimes, he drowns. Sometimes, we drown together.