Best 1078 quotes in «birth quotes» category

Ne scapă mereu câte ceva în viaţă, de aceea trebuie să ne naştem mereu.

New birth, new bliss.

New birth, new blessings.

Nobody remembers the moment of birth. Nobody remembers the moment of death. So between both You better do memorable things. (From: Kinderpraat)

No, madam,' I said to the woman in my ESL English. "That's my mom. I came out her asshole and I love her very much. I am seven. Next year I will be eight. I'm doing fine."... You believed, like many Vietnamese mothers, that to speak of female genitalia, especially between mothers adn sons, is considered taboo- so when talking about birth, you always mentioned that I had come out of your anus. You would playfully slap my head and say,'This huge noggin nearly tore up my asshole!

No man was born empty, every man was born with a worth.

No man was born empty.

No matter where I went, where I’ve gone, what I’ve seen and what I’ve done…you have never not been wit’ me. You’ve always been my home.

No one is born beneath this dance. This dance gives birth to you.

Nothing could be given birth to without solitude.

No solitude, no birth.

Nothing is born into this world without labor.

One day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second.

Now you know what hurt it brings to women when men come into the world. Remember, and make it up to your Mama and to all women.

Oh my God!” Sam said again, his voice shaking. I’ve given birth to something inhuman, Phoebe thought. A lamprey with row after row of teeth.

One is ejected into the world like a dirty little mummy; the roads are slippery with blood and no one knows why it should be so. Each one is traveling his own way and, though the earth be rotting with good things, there is no time to pluck the fruits; the procession scrambles toward the exit sign, and such a panic is there, such a sweat to escape, that the weak and the helpless are trampled into the mud and their cries are unheard.

One Must Always Remember That Birth, Old Age, Disease And Death Comes At Any Moment In Regardless Of Whom We Are Or What We Have In Forms Of Material Possession.

Once born, how long a man will live matters. Once dead, how long he has lived doesn’t.

One of the strangest things is the act of creation. You are faced with a blank slate—a page, a canvas, a block of stone or wood, a silent musical instrument. You then look inside yourself. You pull and tug and squeeze and fish around for slippery raw shapeless things that swim like fish made of cloud vapor and fill you with living clamor. You latch onto something. And you bring it forth out of your head like Zeus giving birth to Athena. And as it comes out, it takes shape and tangible form. It drips on the canvas, and slides through your pen, it springs forth and resonates into the musical strings, and slips along the edge of the sculptor’s tool onto the surface of the wood or marble. You have given it cohesion. You have brought forth something ordered and beautiful out of nothing. You have glimpsed the divine.

Only birth can conquer death—the birth , not of the old thing again, but of something new .

One would say; “He is the herdsman of all; there is no evil in his heart. His herds are few, but he spends the day herding them. There is fire in their hearts! If only he had perceived their nature in the first generation! Then he would have smitten the evil, stretched out his arm against it, would have destroyed their seed and their heirs! But since giving birth is desired, grief has come and misery is everywhere. So it is and will not pass, while these gods are in their midst. Seed comes forth from mortal women ; it is not found on the road. Fighting has come, and the punisher of crimes commits them! There is no pilot in their hour. Where is he today? Is he asleep ? Lo, his power is not seen!

Only rarely do doctors in training have the opportunity to sit continuously with laboring women for hours. Most are taught to intervene in the normal process so often and so early that they have never witnessed a normal labor and birth.

On ne naît pas femme: on le devient.

Our mistakes would not wish for anything more, if we could just stop giving birth to them.

Precarious, life is. A flying leap. A sweep of hand. A star flung across the night. A lucky catch in this whirling juggling circus act. From Steam Drills, Treadmills, and Shooting Stars

Our talents are living things, we give birth to them, nourish them till they grow and become immortal.

People who're somehow burned at birth, withered or ablated way past anything like what might be fair, they either curl up in their fire, or else they rise.

Perfection is born of imperfection.

Postpartum depression makes you suddenly feel like a stranger to yourself, but knowing the clinical facts are the first step toward wellness.

Pregnancy is a very tough experience for a female, have no doubt. But, it's not a walk in the park for a man either. Understanding on both sides is key

Pride is born as a mountaintop on a valley, but dies as an abyss in which it is too deep and too dark to see the better.

Quinn dropped her hand and avoided Thalcu’s eye. “I . . . I don’t want to kill you,” she said to the floor. “Not if I could save you.” The woman smiled gently at Quinn, her lips curling behind her oxygen mask. “I will not really die,” she said, drawing Quinn’s surprised gaze. She looked at Quinn contently a moment and went on, “Do you know how worlds are born? From the first breath of a star. We are made of starlight. We can not bear to look into the sun, into the thing that birthed us, anymore than we can bear to look upon our parents in the throes of passion. It is our point of origin, and to it, we all must return.

Our Thoughts have life of its own: Their Birth, Influence and Death happens at our Mind level

Outside november night gathers With a harmony of autumn leaves Blown down a wind. Quietly by the fire Taliesin Humming from within his closing hood Places the seeing child on to a chair. And the glowing head is clothed In a vestment with bright Colours spreading. Together two voices rise Until at the end of breath one soars And one falls away......echoing. - Circle of Gold

Parent should never forget the great excitement they felt for the birth of a new born into the world.

Physicality’s a cage. And a liberation. The cells I’ll fill in, they’re magnificent, burgeoning with aliveness! I’m dialed into them like a station on a radio transmitting constantly. First faint and distant, but growing, amassing, volumizing the very idea of a person this body aims to harbor. Glowing like the universe, always growing. Each new cell increases my momentum, tightening the tether.

Prayer before Birth I am not yet born; O hear me. Let not the bloodsucking bat or the rat or the stoat or the club-footed ghoul come near me. I am not yet born, console me. I fear that the human race may with tall walls wall me, with strong drugs dope me, with wise lies lure me, on black racks rack me, in blood-baths roll me. I am not yet born; provide me With water to dandle me, grass to grow for me, trees to talk to me, sky to sing to me, birds and a white light in the back of my mind to guide me. I am not yet born; forgive me For the sins that in me the world shall commit, my words when they speak me, my thoughts when they think me, my treason engendered by traitors beyond me, my life when they murder by means of my hands, my death when they live me. I am not yet born; rehearse me In the parts I must play and the cues I must take when old men lecture me, bureaucrats hector me, mountains frown at me, lovers laugh at me, the white waves call me to folly and the desert calls me to doom and the beggar refuses my gift and my children curse me. I am not yet born; O hear me, Let not the man who is beast or who thinks he is God come near me. I am not yet born; O fill me With strength against those who would freeze my humanity, would dragoon me into a lethal automaton, would make me a cog in a machine, a thing with one face, a thing, and against all those who would dissipate my entirety, would blow me like thistledown hither and thither or hither and thither like water held in the hands would spill me. Let them not make me a stone and let them not spill me. Otherwise kill me.

Pregnancies and births happen in their own time, regardless of our conscious wishes, hopes, efforts, and fantasies. We may decide we want a child and make every effort to have one, and yet, whether it happens or not is beyond the control of even the most desirous and diligent of couples. And even when a pregnancy does occur, when the surprise moment of conception is confirmed, doctors give us a due date which can only be an approximation, for when and how the baby arrives is also a matter beyond determination. For this reason, in my opinion, almost nothing more than a pregnancy and birth deserve to be called synchronistic: the random coincidence of one of millions of sperm meeting a particular egg, yet from this coincidence, which we do not ultimately control, grows all of life. Is there any more significant coincidence that we experience?

She gave me money to buy condoms, and instead I bought a book of baby names. That’s life. That’s love. That’s fiscally irresponsible.

Remember this, for it is as true and true gets: Your body is not a lemon. You are not a machine. The Creator is not a careless mechanic. Human female bodies have the same potential to give birth well as aardvarks, lions, rhinoceri, elephants, moose, and water buffalo. Even if it has not been your habit throughout your life so far, I recommend that you learn to think positively about your body.

Seeing your child for the first time is rarest of occasions. You see glimpses of yourself from the past. The potential of a brand new life happening right before your eyes. And most importantly, that life begins again.

she is born in the breath of a cloud

Seed Leaves Homage to R. F. Here something stubborn comes, Dislodging the earth crumbs And making crusty rubble. it comes up bending double, And looks like a green staple. It could be seedling maple, Or artichoke, or bean. That remains to be seen. Forced to make choice of ends, The stalk in time unbends, Shakes off the seed-case, heaves Aloft, and spreads two leaves Which still display no sure And special signature. Toothless and fat, they keep The oval form of sleep. This plant would like to grow And yet be embryo; In crease, and yet escape The doom of taking shape; Be vaguely vast, and climb To the tip end of time With all of space to fill, Like boundless Igdrasil That has the stars for fruit. But something at the root More urgent that the urge Bids two true leaves emerge; And now the plant, resigned To being self-defined Before it can commerce With the great universe, Takes aim at all the sky And starts to ramify.

She said...she said don't be scared, we wasn't born to be all the time scared, we was born happy, babies laugh at everything, we was born happy and to make a better world.

Shiva is saying: the body is a product of nature and your will to do. The nature is merely the source, the womb. Your ego functions like a seed in it. Your will to do this or that, to achieve this or that, to become this or that – acts like a seed. And the moment the art of your doing meets the womb of nature, a body is formed. Therefore, buddhas say: ”Give up all desires, only then will you be liberated.: If you desired for heaven, you will become an angel, but that won’t be liberation either. Because as long as desires persist, there can never be any liberation. All desires lead to the formation of bodies.

So as long as you have not attained to desirelessness, as long as you have not renounced desires completely, you will go on taking births and wandering in different bodies. And howsoever different the forms of the body may be, their basic condition is always the same. The ills of the body are the same, regardless whether it’s a bird’s body or man’s. There is no difference in their miseries, because the fundamental misery is only one: the soul becoming confined in the body, the entering of the soul into the prison of body. A prison after all is a prison; it makes no difference whether its walls are circular or angular no matter what you think.

Since birth, life is about stumbling into the unknown by every turn. One hopes there is a grand purpose to it all.Few are lucky to encounter the right people, along the journey.

Some of us were brought into this troubled world primarily or only to increase our fathers’ chances of not being left by our mothers, or vice versa.

Some of us can live without a society but not without a family.

Some of us hover when we weep for the other who was dying since the day they were born.