Quotes About Vulnerability

Elimina la falsedad, el miedo y la arrogancia que provienen del ego.

The world was so much more forgiving of strength when it took on the appearance of weakness.

Sascha looked torn. Should she cram my head full of newfound terror that the world would reject me, or let me wander into the big, scary out-there, like a naive lamb prancing to the slaughter?

Dex's mother knew she should be afraid for her daughter. This, she'd been told, was the tragedy of being a girl. To live in fear–it was the fate of any parent, maybe, but the special provenance of a mother to a daughter, one woman raising another, knowing too well what could happen. This was what lurked inside the luckiest delivery rooms, the ones whose balloons screamed It's a girl!: pink cigars and flowered onesies and fear.

And anybody at all can see it, but you can't. It just floats there in front of you. It might as well be your soul, for all you can do to protect it. What isn't strange, when you think about it.

He'd wanted to get her baptized before she could take off and lose herself in some rough life and then be lost in whatever came after it.

The way I figured it, keeping quiet was safe. Words could betray you if you choose the wrong ones, or mean less if you used too many.

It would be okay to laugh one minute, then someone would be bent over, holding his arm where Tom Jones had thumped him. I'd watch tears drop on the wooden floor and I'd love Tom Jones because they weren't my tears.

That is what happens when the heart door opens- you become less yourself than part of everything.' Many are the sentinels who guard that door: our fears, our self-importance, our meanness, our greed, our bitterness, and others.

The heart, like the grape, is prone to delivering its harvest in the same moment that it appears to be crushed.

The greatest gift and expression of love is the gesture of open arms - let come what comes - not because you don't care, or because you hope to steel yourself against pain, but because you care so much that you are helpless to do anything else.

What would people look like if we could see them as they are, soaked in honey, stung and swollen, reckless, pinned against time?

It is a pain in the ass waiting around for someone to try to kill you.

One of the disadvantages of traveling alone is that when you fall there is none to assist you.

And the Scythe of Time has no power in this corner of the heart.

Curious, he thought, how, if you knew a person long enough, he could elicit every kind of emotion from you, every possible reaction, envy, admiration, pity, irritation, fury, fondness, jealousy, love, disgust. But in the end all human beings became candidates for compassion, all of us, without exception...and if we could recognize this from the beginning, what a saving in pain and grief and misery.

Deeply moved, she poured the tea while they were finishing up. They came into the kitchen to replace the cleaning things, and she handed two cups to Om. Noticing the red rose borders, he started to point out her error, The pink one's for us, then stopped. Her face told him she was aware of it. What? she asked, taking the pink cup for herself, Is something wrong? Nothing, his voice caught . He turned away, hoping she did not see the film of water glaze his eyes.

People forget how vulnerable they are despite their shirts and shoes and briefcases, how this hungry and cruel world could strip them, put them in the same position as my beggars.

What love lays bare in me is energy.

Here and there, on the trees, some leaves remain. And I often stand deep in thought before them. I contemplate a leaf and attach my hope to it. When the wind plays with the leaf, I tremble in every limb. And if it should fall, alas, my hope falls with it. - Schubert

Embarrassed and almost quickly because sometimes I feel that my mourning is merely a susceptibility to emotion. But all my life haven't I been just that: moved?

Where there is a wound, there is a subject.

Askesis is addressed to the other: turn back, look at me, see what you have made of me. It is a blackmail: I raise before the other the figure of my own disappearance, as it will surely occur, if the other does not yield.

Embarrassed and almost guilty because sometimes I feel that my mourning is merely a susceptibility to emotion. But all my life haven't I been just that: moved?