Quotes About Connection

Love: that which cannot be done without; wish always to be with, be part of, belong to, know intimately inside and out, entirely, WHOLE-LY, for ever and ever amen. Shining bright words in amazing patterns of endless variety. Drawing of the inside of my head.

Unless you find yourself in a book, you have a hard time finding anybody else.

Real love is observing another person and being observed by another person with complete attention...and all art is love, because all art is about looking closely

I think the truth is…you fell for a face and a body and then put the person inside you wanted to find there.

It is love—friendship—that sustains us, even in the worst of times, under the worst of circumstances. Even when we have been driven mad. Even when we have killed. We still love. We are still worthy of love. We can still be loved.

ma chère penchons sur les filons géologiques (my dear let us lean on geographical veins)

We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.

Sometimes, she said, mostly to herself, I feel I do not know my children... It was a fleeting statement, one I didn't think she'd hold on to; after all, she had birthed us alone, diapered and fed us, helped us with homework, kissed and hugged us, poured her love into us. That she might not actually know us seemed the humblest thing a mother could admit.

I am the drying meadow; you the unspoken apology; he is the fluctuating distance between mother and son; she is the first gesture that creates a quiet that is full enough to make the baby sleep. My genes, my love, are rubber bands and rope; make yourself a structure you can live inside. Amen.

I was with them for all of it, but more like an echo than a participant.

That's the thing with handmade items. They still have the person's mark on them, and when you hold them, you feel less alone.

I didn't mind the quiet stretches. It was like we were trying out the idea of being side by side.

When the light at Vernon turned green, we stepped into the street and George grabbed my hand and the ghosts of our younger selves crossed with us.

But I loved George in part because he believed me; because if I stood in a cold, plain room and yelled FIRE, he would walk over and ask me why.

Come find me," Leo put in, his gaze full of understanding. "Whenever you want. I'll be here.

My skin prickled and I looked back at the ocean. None of us ask for the things we inherit; they are thrust upon us, willy-nilly. Like The Marine, I suddenly understood. Mom and I weren't trespassing. This house was ours. This view was ours. And that seemed as absurd and unreal as the stories Sailor Hat had spun for me on the ferry.

That's all I wanted to do. Really. Just talk to Joshua. Tell him that being with him is the only thing that's ever mattered to me. Let him know about the letters I've been writing him, maybe offer to read one or two, so he'd know exactly how I feel, and how much I still want him. How sorry I am for anything I may have done wrong.

But I think it's the quiet way you settle into the crook of a tree trunk, the still and slowdown of your heart in a world that wants us to be quick and to move onto the next thing.

How can one even imagine us getting back to a place where we know the names of the trees we walk by every single day? A place where "a bird" navigating a dewy meadow is transformed into something more specific, something we can hold onto by feeling its name on our tongues: brown thrasher. Or that "big tree": catalpa. Maybe what we can do when we feel overwhelmed is to start small. Start with what we have loved as kids and see where that leads us.

There's a spot over Lake Superior where migrating butterflies veer sharply. No one understood why they made such a quick turn at that specific place until a geologist finally made the connection: a mountain rose out of the water in that exact location thousands of years ago. These butterflies and their offspring can still remember a mass they've never seen,

Boom. Boom. You might think of a heartbeat—your own. A child's. Someone else's. Or something's heart. And in that slowdown, you might think it's a kind of love. And you'd be right.

I'd rather share sunrise with him and loon call over the lake with him, the slap of shoreline threaded through screen windows with him—my heart slamming in my chest, against my shirt—a kind of kindling you'd never be able to light on your own.

Experience God in the Mountains, then in the Butterflies, Trees and the Sea. Then slowly you will Realize, that God is in You & Me!

First, we must Experience God in everything Beautiful. Then, we will see Everything Beautiful as God.