Quotes About Connection

I knew when I met you an adventure was going to happen.

Promise me you'll never forget me because if I thought you would, I'd never leave.

Some people talk to animals. Not many listen though. That's the problem.

If there ever comes a day when we can't be together, keep me in your heart. I'll stay there forever.

Your environment wasn't supportive, wasn't loving, did not respond to you ... The fundamental thing that happened, and the greatest calamity, is not that there was no love or support. The greater calamity, which is caused by the first calamity is that you lost the connection to your essence. That is much more important than whether your mother or father loved you or not.

You came one day and as usual in such matters significance filled everything- your eyes, the things you knew, the way you turned, leaned, stood, or sat, this way or that.

He knows,I said. I tell him everything Does that go both ways? he asked. Does what go both ways? You said you tell him everything, he replied. You didn't say we tell each other everything

Sometimes a place to work, or a place to relax--even if only for an hour--is all you need. That, and good friends. Without those things, the city will break you into a million tiny pieces. But what in the world could be harder to find?

In your opinion, where do private and political life, personal history and History meet? You know the answer, Maya. You say it unhesitatingly - in art and literature.

For life is a seamless web. It connects us not merely with one another, but with all that is sentient; with all that shares its miracle of birth and feeling and death.

The theater has been called the pulse of the people.

Should I draw you the picture of my heart it would be what I hope you would still love though it contained nothing new. The early possession you obtained there, and the absolute power you have obtained over it, leaves not the smallest space unoccupied.

Deliver me from your cold phlegmatic preachers, politicians, friends, lovers and husbands.

The way black women say girl can be magical. Frankly, I have no solid beliefs about the survival of consciousness after physical death. But if it's going to happen I know what I want to see after my trek toward the light. I want to see a black woman who will smile and say, Girl....

I used to get upset if somebody I didn't like loved a book I loved. That's MY book, I'd think.

The connection with him is a connection with part of myself, and it has to do with a kind of insatiable curiosity. I mean the part of me that gets connected to the rest of me when I'm connecting to him. The insatiably curious part.

I feel only gratitude. We are doing something as necessary to our well-being as food or air or water. We are steeping ourselves, reassuring ourselves, renewing ourselves, three creatures of two species, finding comfort in the simple exchange of body warmth.

even when there's no interest on either side one's coordination completely disappears in the presence of beauty (Abigail's daughter, Jen)

Maybe there are clusters of souls born again and again into the same repertory company, and with each new birth they play different parts in a different play. Or maybe it's the same play. This would account for those moments of Oh! there you are! After all, there are those people we like and dislike, there are those people we love, and then there are those we recognize. These are the unbreakable connections.

was between lives. "What is it?" I asked. "What is it we are longing for?" He thought a minute and said, "There isn't any it. There is just the longing for it." This sounded exactly right. Years later and a little wiser, I know what the longing was for: here is where I belong.

But we're all looking for the place we belong. And what is home, anyway, but what we cobble together out of our changing selves? Maybe there isn't any it, as my friend said, only the longing.

Shhh," she wants to say to her husband as he speaks a pleasantry in her ear, "I am remembering being lonely.

It strikes me that the physical details of the dying body are as intimate and predictable as those of the body making love.

Rosie dives under the quilt on my right, Harry on my left, and we jam ourselves together. After a little bit Harry starts to snore, Rosie rests her chin on my ankle, the blanket rises and falls with our breathing, and I feel only gratitude. We are doing something as necessary to our well-being as food or air or water. We are steeping ourselves, reassuring ourselves, renewing ourselves, three creatures of two species, finding comfort in the simple exchange of body warmth.