Quotes About Connection

Are there any poets that write directly about this? Oneness is typing this, Oneness is reading this. People mention Hafiz and Rumi. Non-Duality Press publishes books of poems by Nicholas Czernin, 'Wasteland Words', and by John Astin, 'This Is Always Enough'.

We really are like fish discussing how to get more in touch with the sea.

Somewhere out there is someone who wants exactly the kind of person you are, complete with all the flaws and failings you come with.

The important thing is to recognize that when they want to do something on their own, it's not a rejection of you, it's simply an affirmation of who they are. It's their way of touching base and staying happy and if you don't let them do it, you'll lose the person you love.

We trigger each other, it seems, some dysfunctional Rube Goldberg mousetrap, a laugh, then a slap, a razor gliding over a mirror, a glass filled, a glass emptied, a ball rolling down a length of pipe, a pipe filling up and overflowing with smoke. On our best days, we see each other for all that we are, and we find a way to make each other better.

Because every time she looked at me, she saw him, our son, that generous boy, and it was another gut punch bending her over, another parting of her flesh, and I was one of the thousand, and my gift to her now was my echo. (from "Twenty Reasons to Stay and One to Leave")

The thing I do, really, is a communication with audiences more than any achievement through records.

There is such a powerful eloquence in silence. True genius is knowing when to say nothing, to allow the experience, the moment itself, to carry the message, to say what needs to be said. Words are less important, less effective than feeling. When you can sit in perfect silence with someone, you truly know how to communicate.

The head has no answers, and the heart has no questions, Jack would say." Quoting his teacher and good friend Jack Kakakaway

I don't want to touch you skin to skin. I want to touch you deeply, beneath the surface, where our real stories lie.

that land's my home. That land's my deepest wish, my wildest dream, the only prayer and the only temple i'm ever gonna need.

That open country is so huge you can feel lost and abandoned in it or you can work to feel a part of it, like ya belong to it and it belongs to you. Like a part of you is rock and stone and stream and all the open sky. Ya get past lonesome then...them creatures is all my family and i'm family to them as well.

For my wife Deborah, for allowing me to bask in her light and become more.

We become eternal by being held in memory's loving arms.

I wondered how people could live with things set in place, fixed, their places determined by the power of the recollection they contained, the memories they held. It was what made a home, I believed; the things we keep, the sum of us.

Love is unbroken country. Every step ya take deeper into it changes you. Makes you more. Changes the geography of who you are. And if yer brave enough to enter it alone and find your place in it, ya can't never be lonesome again on accounta ya come to live in everything love touches.

He held his hand up to his face and licked the wound. Blood. Old-tasting and rich like the sediment of a river. He looked at Jimmy. The blood on their faces meant they were part of the same stream now, bobbing in the current, borne forward effortlessly under the slowly twirling dome of the sky.

Jimmy used to say we're a Great Mystery. Everything. Said the things they done, those old-time indians, was all about learnin' to live with that mystery. Not solving it, not comin' to grips with it, not even tryin' to guess it out. Just bein' with it. I guess I wish I'da learned the secret to doing that.

She had a way of brushing her hair back from her face with one hand, slowly, using the tips of her fingers, closing her eyes briefly, and he was entranced by that. The sheer pleasure she took in it.

There is enough for everyone on this earth. There always was. When you gaze up at the sky on a starry night, that's what we need to remember.

My mouth would be open with glee and I would face the picture of Jesus hung there on the wall, my salvation coming instead through wood and rubber and ice and the dream of a game. I'd stand there, arms held high in triumph, and I would not feel lonely or afraid, deserted or abandoned, but connected to something far bigger than myself. Then I'd climb back into bed and sleep until the dawn woke me and I could walk back out to the rink again.

Late in the evenings I'd walk into the trees, stride through the bush until I was wrapped in it, cocooned. The stars that pinwheeled above spun a thousand light years away. Time, mystery, departure and union were there all at once. I wondered if this was what it meant to be Indian, Ojibway. A ritual. A ceremony, ancient and simple and personal. If I could have borne it with me into the day-to-day life of the camp, things might have been different.

Waubgeshig Rice, Kim Wheeler, Daniela Ginta, Blanca Schorcht and

One might say that where Religion becomes artificial, it is reserved for Art to save the spirit of religion.