Best 46 quotes of Karen White on MyQuotes

Adversity in life does not rob your heart of beauty. It simply teaches it a new song to sing.

A great man once wrote, "Absence diminishes small loves and increases great ones, as the wind blows out the candle and blows up the bonfire." If only I were as eloquent as Mr. de la Rochefoucauld...I miss you, I miss you, I miss you. And I want you. And I need your kiss. And your touch on my skin like a man needs water. Always.

A life without rain is like the sun without shade.

A secret society exists, and is living among all of us. They are neither people nor animals, but something in-between.

But I think sometimes a person has to be forced underwater to see if they're going to drown or swim.

But there is room now in my heart for more memories, carved by a letting go that I could find only by coming home to a place I'd never been.

Death and loss, they plague you. So do memories. Like the Mississippi's incessant slap against the levees, they creep up with deceptive sweetness before grabbing your heart and pulling it under.

Don’t see the notes. See the music. See the story it is telling you. Allow the music to change you. Allow it to give you the courage to do whatever you need to

Every woman needs a daughter to tell her stories to.

Every woman should have a daughter to tell her stories to. Otherwise, the lessons learned are as useless as spare buttons from a discarded shirt. And all that is left is a fading name and the shape of a nose or the color of hair. The men who write the history books will tell you the stories of battles and conquests. But the women will tell you the stories of people's hearts.

Great tragedy gives us opportunities for great kindness.

I know what it is to hope and pray so hard that you're sure God will answer your prayer just so you'll stop asking.

Life isn't perfect. It's not supposed to be. We all make mistakes. You bash your head against the wall and you get hurt, but you walk away and make the best of it. And that's what makes it life, Brenna, not perfection. You'll never find happiness if you only expect to find a perfect life. Happiness is something we reach for while we try to learn from our disappointments.

Mama?" "Yes, Emmy." She traced a rivulet of rain with her finger as it made its journey down the glass. "How do you know when it's been long enough?" Emmy could sense her mother smiling into the phone. "When you relaize that love doesn't have a time span. Only pain does. I think sometimes it's hard to distinguish between the two, so we just hold on to both of them like they're inseparable.

Miles and years become suddenly invisible when you find yourself back where you started from, as if you've learned nothing and you are once again the person you once were.

Sometimes we make decisions because it seems to be the only path visible at the moment. It's only later that we see there was more than one path, but the others were blocked from our vision at the time. That's the thing with hindsight, you see. Even if you can see it clearly, there's no going back. It's at that point we need to turn around and stare ahead and make a new life.

Strong winds buffet the sea oats and tall dune grasses, tossing sand and seabirds where it will, winding my sister's golden hair into sunlit spirals of silk until it becomes the only good memory I have of her -- the only memory I allowed myself to keep.

The answers we seek aren't always the answers we want, are they? But knowing the truth is what helps us sleep at night.

The highway of life was littered with the roadkill of those who didn't know when to change lanes.

There are no completely good or bad people. Everybody makes mistakes, or bad choices. It's how we live with them that make us the people we are.

They say that not matter how old you become, when you are with your siblings, you revert back to childhood.

To give up too easily leads to regret, yet trying and then failing can lead us to second chances if we do not accept it as a failure, but a chance to learn.

when you lose your sails, row.

You have to get through the rain if you're ever going to see a rainbow.

All you wander aren't lost, you know.

A sharp twist of grief pulled at my heart. I sucked in a deep breath of marsh air, briny and moist, trying to clear my head. I loved who I’d become. I did. Almost as much as I hated the old me. But not, I suddenly realized, all of the old me. I missed the girl who’d known these secret alleyways into the marshes and who could recognize the sounds of the different bird and open an oyster faster than anyone she knew. But I’d gotten rid of her along with the rest of me, and the grief I felt was raw and open.

A strong breeze pushed at the martin houses strung from the old oak tree below. Watching them, Ceecee remembered the story Margaret had told her long ago, about how the small birds relied on others to make their homes for them. It made sense to her now, knowing that so much of life was reliant on things outside of oneself, how the whims of others dictated people’s hearts and lives. How dreams and wishes were just so much dust when held against the will of another human being.

Because I will always remember that when I told her I needed help burying a body, the first thing she said was, "Let me go get my shovel.

Because she needed ore than sleep. She needed oblivion.

...Being a mother is like being a gardener of souls. You tend your children, make sure the light always touches them

...Being a mother is like being a gardener of souls. You tend your children, make sure the light always touches them; you nourish them. You sow your seeds, and reap what you sow.

But I don’t believe in luck. I believe that love creates good fortune and builds empires, and it’s doubt and envy that destroy both.

But time changed all things, oxidizing friendships like old copper pots, so they no longer saw their reflection in each other’s faces.

Ceecee told me to wait to get married, to be sure. Not about how much I loved him, but how much I could bear to lose.

Don’t think of the realities, Ceecee. Think of possibilities and dreams. Of things you can’t even imagine yet. And write those down.

Everything I’ve ever learned has brought me to this one conclusion – we are all thrown into this world without a road map, and it’s up to us to muddle through. We are free to make a mess of it or to make a success out of our lives. Most of us choose something in between.

For the first time in nine years, I felt embarrassed about my abrupt departure and the complete severing of all my ties. My actions had been justified – I was still sure of that. But all the time I’d been away, I’d assumed that everything had remained the same, that people and beliefs hadn’t changed. Which was stupid, because I hadn’t stayed the same. I felt a little of my old resolve not to look back shift and redistribute itself, like sand in and outgoing tide.

Grief was like that, Ceecee had learned. It either opened your heart or closed it.

I don’t hold on grudges, you know. They’re like expired milk in the fridge.

I’d sat on a bench there with Mabry and Bennett, eating ice cream and making up dramatic stories about the people we’d seen, their hidden lives and dark secrets. Mabry said I gave her nightmares sometimes, that that was the true mark of a storyteller, to make people believe something made-up was real.

It's because everything that's beautiful and worthwhile on this earth starts as a pile of mess. Think of the butterflies. It's the struggle to get past the messy part that makes us who we are.

It wasn’t that I didn’t believe in the tree’s power. But I believed in the power of human imagination more, of projecting our dreams and wishes into a safe space where we could place our disappointments if they didn’t come true.

I wanted to cry for the little girls we’d been before the world’s glaring spotlight eradicated our childish imaginations.

I was like a child leaving a gift unwrapped, the anticipation more exciting than the reality.

My childhood had been vanishing bit by bit while I’d been living in New York, trying to pretend it had never existed. Maybe that was what the old saying – that a person can never really go home again – was all about. You couldn’t go home because even though home might still be there in brick and mortar, everything else would be unrecognizable.

That's the measure of friendship, isn't it? Knowing people who will jar your secret and store it in a dark cellar forever. People who know it's never about the secret itself, but the keeping of it.