Quotes About Reflection

Como a uno le va en la pantalla le va en la vida.

The truth. I don't even know what that is anymore. Be patient. Pray about it, and listen to God. He'll help you figure it out.

It was beautiful up here. Full of pine and mountain views, and the kind of quiet that made your thoughts loud.

She'd stared at the darkened ceiling half the night wondering about what Murphy had said. Turning the comment every which way. And every way she turned it, she ended up with the same view: Murphy had feelings for her. She couldn't believe he might love her—though his answer to Dad's question suggested otherwise. And she definitely wasn't about to address the subject with him. Last night had been awkward enough.

Josephine wasn't much for praying . It had never done her any good.

As much as he might lie to himself, tell himself it was real, it wasn't. All the public displays in the world didn't give him the right to kiss her or hold her or even touch her. Her response made that clear enough. And yet, he'd thought he'd seen something in her eyes. Something promising. Something hopeful. Maybe Layla's feelings were starting to change. Maybe she'd be willing to give him another chance. Or maybe it was only wishful thinking.

I came here searching for something, Dad. I didn't find what I'd expected, but I found what I needed: peace. I needed peace.

So ended a day many had dreaded," Natalie wrote in her diary on Christmas Day, "but by doing and thinking of others, we had forgotten self.

It was a reminder in this time of tarnishing gilt, that should all else crumble, memories of gestures made, thoughtfulness considered, and seeds of inspiration planted, might outlast all.

Denise Kiernan

He is a wise man who does not grieve for the things which he has not, but rejoices for those which he has," believed Greek Stoic philosopher Epictetus. And as an old Buddhist proverb states: "'Enough' is a feast.

Marvelous Truth, confront us at every turn, in every guise.

What I invaded has invaded me.

To speak of sorrow works upon it moves it from its crouched place barring the way to and from the soul's hall-- out in the light it shows clear, whether shrunken or known as a giant wrath-- discrete at least, where before its great shadow joined the walls and roof and seemed to uphold the hall like a beam.

Each minute the last minute.

To the Reader" As you read, a white bear leisurely pees, dyeing the snow saffron, and as you read, many gods lie among lianas: eyes of obsidian are watching the generations of leaves, and as you read the sea is turning its dark pages, turning its dark pages.

Looking, Walking, Being I look and look. Looking's a way of being: one becomes, Sometimes, a pair of eyes walking. Walking wherever looking takes one. The eyes Dig and burrow in the world. They touch Fanfare, howl, madrigal, clamor. World and the past of it, Not only Visible present, solid and shadow That looks at one looking. And language? Rhythms Of echo and interruption? That's A way of breathing, breathing to sustain Looking, Walking and looking, Through the world, In it.

Just when you seem to yourself nothing but a flimsy web of questions, you are given the questions of others to hold in the emptiness of your hands, songbird eggs that can still hatch if you keep them warm, butterflies opening and closing themselves in your cupped palms, trusting you not to injure their scintillant fur, their dust. You are given the questions of others as if they were answers to all you ask. Yes, perhaps this gift is your answer.

What I invaded as invaded me.

You have come to the shore. There are no instructions.

It's when we face for a moment the worst our kind can do, and shudder to know the taint in our own selves, that awe cracks the mind's shell and enters the heart.

The poem has a social effect of some kind whether or not the poet wills it to have. It has a kenetic force, it sets in motion...elements in the reader that would otherwise remain stagnant.

I am, a shadow that grows longer as the sun moves, drawn out on a thread of wonder. If I bear burdens they begin to be remembered as gifts, goods, a basket of bread that hurts my shoulders but closes me in fragrance. I can eat as I go. ("Stepping Westward")

The Broken Sandal" Dreamed the thong of my sandal broke. Nothing to hold it to my foot. How shall I walk? Barefoot? The sharp stones, the dirt. I would hobble. And– Where was I going? Where was I going I can't go to now, unless hurting? Where am I standing, if I'm to stand still now?