Quotes About Connection

I am grateful to those who are keepers of the groove. The babies and the grandmas who hang on to it and help us remember when we forget that any kind of dancing is better than no dancing at all.

Living in a family where all the interactions are superficial and shallow can cause a wound that may limit capacity for meaningful connections with others. Physical, emotional, or sexual abuse, neglect, rejection, extreme punishment, humiliation, ridicule, and abandonment can also be the source of unhealed wounds.

Often, what makes certain people particularly attractive to us is that when we are really with them we experience ourselves as being more whole.

God knows, I'm no expert on relationships, but I do know when something's good. And this thing we've created between us is precious and rare. I only hope it's not fleeting, because for the first time in my adult life, I've given someone the power to hurt me.

He didn't know why he was running away. Maybe because being close to someone took a hell of a lot more guts than being alone.

Er wusste nicht, warum er davonlief. Vielleicht, weil man mehr Mut brauchte, sich jemandem nahe zu fühlen, als allein zu sein.

tagging Allegra

God gave you the gift of passion so that you and your husband can experience intimate oneness. He also gave it to you so you could share exquisite pleasure.

Sometimes what is most important to us is not obvious and can be seen only by how we respond to our husbands in everyday life.

Because I found out that a little love is better than no love at all.

Walking. I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.

There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough, to pay attention to the story.

tears have a purpose. they are what we carry of the ocean, and perhaps we must become the sea, give ourselves to it, if we are to be transformed.

Can we love what will swallow us when we are gone? I do.

A woman once described a friend of hers as being such a keen listener that even the trees leaned toward her, as if they were speaking their innermost secrets into her listening ears. Over the years I've envisioned that woman's silence, a hearing full and open enough that the world told her its stories. The green leaves turned toward her, whispering tales of soft breezes and the murmurs of leaf against leaf.

There is no real aloneness. There is solitude and the nurturing silence that is relationship with ourselves, but even then we are part of something larger.

You see? he asked, his voice softening to a velvety punas he felt her tremble. His warm breath stirred her hair. All I have to do is touch you. It's the same for me, Faith. I don't like this worth a damn, but by God, I want you, and we're going to do something about it.

She felt both relaxed and protected with him, at least from outside forces. Nothing, it seemed, could protect her from him, and tonight she wasn't even certain she wanted to be. Claimed, and mated. She was his, but was he hers? And if he was, what in hell did they do about it? "I don't even know what you want," she said fretfully, beginning to lose herself in rising sensation. "This," he muttered in a dark, rough tone. "You. Everything.

I'm really not hungry," she repeated, lifting the coffee cup and inhaling the fragrant steam before sipping. "Just a few bites," he cajoled, taking his own place beside her. "You need to keep up your strength for tonight." She gave him a heated, slumberous look, remembering her fantasy. "Why? Are you planning something special?" "I suppose I am," he said consideringly. "It's special every time we make love.

He supposed he knew, rationally, that she wasn't the prettiest woman in the world, but if his eyes saw any imperfections, his heart didn't care.

Before you know it, you'll be smiling at her across the breakfast table. I don't smile, Cahill said, though he was having to fight his amusement. So you'll be scowling at her across the breakfast table. That isn't my point.

By morning, she was raw and sore, and knew walking would be an effort. By morning, she could barely remember what it had been like to not know his body, not to have felt him inside her and held him in her arms and absorbed the power of his thrusts as he came. By morning, she was his.

She felt oddly safe with him, though not safe from him.

When we're married and he looks at me sitting beside him at the table, he should feel as if he's fought a great battle and accomplished something—namely, winning me. He'll treasure me more. I like being treasured.