Quotes About Connection

And this is one of the final things I learn about love: it's found in its purest form, on this imperfect earth, between mothers and young children, because there's nothing they want except to make each other happy.

But where love and sorrow bind people together, goodbyes are not so easily said. We were about to discover that.

But when I see Sudha, her face bright with a simple, generous joy, the walls I'd set up so carefully collapse around me like a house of cards. Inside my heart it feels like a wet, new rain. In spite of all my insecurities, in spite of the oceans that'll be between us soon and the men that are between us already, I can never stop loving Sudha. It's my habit, and it's my fate.

To upset the delicate axis of giving and receiving on which our lives are held precarious.

Perhaps we are always alone, from the time we leave the safety of our mothers' wombs until the time Waheguru gathers us to Himself.

They say in the old tales that when a man and woman exchange looks the way we did, their spirits mingle. Their gaze is a rope of gold binding each to the other. Even if they never meet again, they carry a little of the other with them always. They can never forget, and they can never be wholly happy again.

I long to stretch out on the sofa, wrapping myself in the red quilt that's lying there. Then, with a stab, I recognize the quilt. My father had brought it back from a business trip he took to New England long ago. Ironic, how objects remain in your life long after people have exited.

I guess that's when people call their mothers - when their world is falling apart.

Daughter and mother, mother and daughter. Though we would like to think otherwise, how our lives echo each other's.

Distance is a great promoter of harmony

The force of a person's believing seeps into those around him— into the very earth and air and water—until there's nothing else.

That's love—golden ropes that bind you and pull you in different directions.

To see awe in a parent's eyes—it is a strange, lonely feeling.

Perhaps that is the miracle of stories. They make us realize that we're not alone in our folly and our suffering.

They say in the old tales that when a man and a woman exchange looks the way we did, their spirits mingle. Their gaze is a rope of gold binding each to the other. Even if they never meet again, they carry a little of the other with them always. They can never forget, and they can never be wholly happy again.

Bushes would pull in their sharp thorns and burst into flower when I watered them or loosened the earth around their roots. Squirrel-like creatures, their long white hair smooth as silk-thread, would scurry up to take berries from my palm.

My heart is yours, as yours is mine.

Would you like to come in?" I said. My hands were sweaty. Inside my chest an ocean heaved and crashed and heaved again. "I would," he said. I saw his Adam's apple jerk as he swallowed. "Thank you." I was distracted by that thank you. We had moved past the language of formality long ago. It was strange to relearn it with each other.

Most of all we learned to feel without words the sorrows of our sisters, and without words to console them. In this way our lives were not so different from those of the girls we had left behind in our home villages

It wasn't that I was afraid of death. How could I be? I knew nothing of it. Still, I didn't want to die. Not without seeing Ram one more time. That's how the bonds of love tie us down.

Watching them, I feel at once happy and lonely. It's not the loneliness of being without a mate, but something more primal. As though I were the only being left on this side of the glass, while the rest of the world—happy, uncaring—lived out its life on the other side.

I hid my face in my husband's chest, and the tears that I'd held onto for so long burst from me like a storm. Ram's arms came around me, and I felt, on my forehead, his own tears. Thus we crossed from city to forest, from the known world to the unknown.

Ram wasn't shy about telling me what pleased him, and he asked me what I liked until I overcame my shyness and answered. Bedtime became at once exciting and joyful, a secret gift I looked forward to all day while we went about our separate duties—his as heir-apparent, mine as new bride.

I'd never bared my soul to Krishna in this way. I was afraid he would laugh at me. Still, I said, "When I thought you had died, I wanted to die, too." Krishna gazed into my eyes. Was it love I saw in his face? If so, it was different in kind from all the loves I knew. Or perhaps the loves I'd known had been something different, and this alone was love.