Quotes About Meditation

calmness wasn't an end in itself

and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.

Oh, sleep that dreams, and dream that never tires, press from the petals of the lotus flower something of this to keep, the essence of an hour.

I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.

life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.

stared at it, like Kant at his church steeple, for half an hour.

He sat there for a moment and then said, "Well … I

First, it is imperative that you create a private Sacred Space and set up an altar with a photo of yourself as a child, a candle, or anything else that speaks to you. I have a picture of the Dalai Lama and Oprah Winfrey.

Walter Lippmann was once asked his views on a particular topic, he is said to have replied, "I don't know what I think on that one. I haven't written about it yet.

mihotoke ni / shini mukeoreba / tsuki suzushi4 I've turned my back On Buddha How cool the moon!

In an old pond a frog ages while leaves fall

The world of dew is, yes, a world of dew, but even so

tama ni ge ni / mokut? ya tada / michi no tsuki In spirit and in truth silent prayer . . . just the moon on the road

Absolutely,' she said. 'The more you pay attention to the body, the less attention you've got left to pay the soul. I really do understand that.

walked back to the

It seems I've stopped speaking with my voice. Part of me fell asleep and just watches.

Could it think, the heart would stop beating.

I have at this moment so many fundamental thoughts, so many truly metaphysical things to say, that I suddenly get tired and decide not to write any more, not to think any more, but to allow the fever of speaking to make me sleepy, and with my eyes closed, like a cat, I play with everything I could have said.

Writing is like paying myself a formal visit…

There's enough metaphysics in not thinking about anything.

That's why I read, as a stranger, My being as if it were pages. Not knowing what will come And forgetting what has passed, I note in the margin of my reading What I thought I felt. Rereading, I wonder: "Was that me?" God knows, because he wrote it.

Isolation has carved me in its image and likeness.

Me detengo a orillas de mí y me asomo… Abismo… Y en ese abismo el Universo.