Quotes About Reflection

The important thing is to recognize our faults, avoid self-denial, and have the courage and self-sufficiency to make constant adjustments in our lives.

We count our miseries carefully and accept our blessings without much thought." Masters

At a wat temple in the mountains of Northern Thailand, a Buddhist teacher once reminded me of a simple truth. "Life," he said, "is offered as a means of self-expression, only giving us what we seek when we listen to the heart." The highest forms of this expression are acts of kindness.

If our soul reflects a small portion of the oversoul we call God, then our guides provide the mirror by which we are able to see ourselves connected to this creator.

There are too many people trying to escape from reality because they do not see their identity as having purpose or meaning.

Whenever I am confused about what to do in life, I quietly sit down and think about where I have been and compare this to where I might want to go in future. The answer to the next step just comes to me from inside myself.

Many people looking back on the effects of tragedy in their lives conclude that there was nothing else that would have been a strong enough motivation to change—that the most extreme suffering was needed to drive them toward their soul's mission.

A recorded past is no more than a bygone present composed of the footprints made by human beings actually going somewhere but not knowing (in any extended sense), and certainly not revealing to us, how, they came to be afoot on these particular journeys.

Neither the truth nor the character of history depend, in any way, upon its having some lesson to teach us. And if ever we persuade ourselves that the past has taught us something, we may be certain that it is not the historical past which has been our teacher.

We are acquisitive to the point of greed; ready to drop the bone we have for its reflection magnified in the mirror of the future.

He wants the minute and secret reflection between them, the depth of field minimal, their foreignness intimate like two pages of a closed book.

From this point on, she whispered, we will either find or lose our souls.

She entered the story knowing she would emerge from it feeling she had been immersed in the lives of others, in plots that stretched back twenty years, her body full of sentences and moments, as if awaking from sleep with a heaviness caused by unremembered dreams.

A love story is not about those who lost their heart but about those who find that sullen inhabitant who, when it is stumbled upon, means the body can fool no one, can fool nothing—not the wisdom of sleep or the habit of social graces. It is a consuming of oneself and the past.

She is a woman of honour and smartness whose wild leaves out luck, always taking risks, and there is something in her brow now, that only she can recognize in a mirror. Ideal and idealistic in that shiny dark hair! People fall in love with her. She is a woman I don't know well enough to hold in my wing, if writers have wings, to harbour for the rest of my life.

I have spent weeks in the desert, forgetting to look at the moon, he says, as a married man may spend days never looking into the face of his wife. These are not sins of omission but signs of pre-occuopation.

For we live with those retrievals from childhood that coalesce and echo throughout our lives, the way shattered pieces of glass in a kaleidoscope reappear in new forms and are songlike in their refrains and rhymes, making up a single monologue. We live permanently in the recurrence of our own stories, whatever story we tell.

He has been disassembled by her. And if she has brought him to this, what has he brought her to?

A novel is a mirror walking down a road

However little you think you need to do, there's less you need to do.

As you look back at your life, there are just a million different things that have happened, just in the right way, to allow you to make your dreams come true. And you know, someone has all that under control.

Looking back, Eddy still couldn't see what was so awful about what he'd done. He'd gone to camp to have fun, but every time he tried, it just got him deeper into trouble.

The trouble with travelling back later on is that you can never repeat the same experience.

My parents have been married forty-two years. I wonder how many of those were happy.