Best 2905 quotes in «consciousness quotes» category

A good man cares about others. A good man has not only selfish desires. He is not only centered in himself. A bad man has no concern for others. He has only selfish concerns. He is centered in his own world.

A good book writes the author

A group experience takes place on a lower level of consciousness than the experience of an individual. This is due to the fact that, when many people gather together to share one common emotion, the total psyche emerging from the group is below the level of the individual psyche. If it is a very large group, the collective psyche will be more like the psyche of an animal, which is the reason why the ethical attitude of large organizations is always doubtful. The psychology of a large crowd inevitably sinks to the level of mob psychology. If, therefore, I have a so-called collective experience as a member of a group, it takes place on a lower level of consciousness than if I had the experience by myself alone.

A healthy PFC means a healthy cognitive grip over the world with very little elements of prejudice.

A journey should not consist of getting from point A to point B but in realizing each step along the way. Do not search for conscious enlightenment, rather realize you are it and thus are one with all things.

A kind of northing is what I wish to accomplish, a single-minded trek towards that place where any shutter left open to the zenith at night will record the wheeling of all the sky’s stars as a pattern of perfect, concentric circles. I seek a reduction, a shedding, a sloughing off. At the seashore you often see a shell, or fragment of a shell, that sharp sands and surf have thinned to a wisp. There is no way you can tell what kind of shell it had been, what creature it had housed; it could have been a whelk or a scallop, a cowrie, limpet, or conch. The animal is long since dissolved, and its blood spread and thinned in the general sea. All you hold in your hand is a cool shred of shell, an inch long, pared so thin that it passes a faint pink light. It is an essence, a smooth condensation of the air, a curve. I long for the North where unimpeded winds would hone me to such a pure slip of bone. But I’ll not go northing this year. I’ll stalk that floating pole and frigid air by waiting here. I wait on bridges; I wait, struck, on forest paths and meadow’s fringes, hilltops and banksides, day in and day out, and I receive a southing as a gift. The North washes down the mountains like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, and pours across the valley; it comes to me. It sweetens the persimmons and numbs the last of the crickets and hornets; it fans the flames of the forest maples, bows the meadow’s seeded grasses and pokes it chilling fingers under the leaf litter, thrusting the springtails and the earthworms deeper into the earth. The sun heaves to the south by day, and at night wild Orion emerges looming like the Specter over Dead Man Mountain. Something is already here, and more is coming.

A light bulb is capable of shining light on the room around it but not on the power which illuminates it. In the same way, we’re capable of comprehending the world around us but not the consciousness which animates us. It’s beyond the normal functioning of the mind, beyond words, beyond even thought itself.

All answers lie in the neurons.

All beliefs are equally valid.

All at once, something wonderful happened, although at first, it seemed perfectly ordinary. A female goldfinch suddenly hove into view. She lighted weightlessly on the head of a bankside purple thistle and began emptying the seedcase, sowing the air with down. The lighted frame of my window filled. The down rose and spread in all directions, wafting over the dam’s waterfall and wavering between the tulip trunks and into the meadow. It vaulted towards the orchard in a puff; it hovered over the ripening pawpaw fruit and staggered up the steep faced terrace. It jerked, floated, rolled, veered, swayed. The thistle down faltered down toward the cottage and gusted clear to the woods; it rose and entered the shaggy arms of pecans. At last it strayed like snow, blind and sweet, into the pool of the creek upstream, and into the race of the creek over rocks down. It shuddered onto the tips of growing grasses, where it poised, light, still wracked by errant quivers. I was holding my breath. Is this where we live, I thought, in this place in this moment, with the air so light and wild? The same fixity that collapses stars and drives the mantis to devour her mate eased these creatures together before my eyes: the thick adept bill of the goldfinch, and the feathery coded down. How could anything be amiss? If I myself were lighter and frayed, I could ride these small winds, too, taking my chances, for the pleasure of being so purely played. The thistle is part of Adam’s curse. “Cursed is the ground for thy sake, in sorrow shalt thou eat of it; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee.” A terrible curse: But does the goldfinch eat thorny sorrow with the thistle or do I? If this furling air is fallen, then the fall was happy indeed. If this creekside garden is sorrow, then I seek martyrdom. I was weightless; my bones were taut skins blown with buoyant gas; it seemed that if I inhaled too deeply, my shoulders and head would waft off. Alleluia.

All endeavors, heroic or monstrous, scientific or philosophical, rise from the electrochemical functioning of the mind, that takes place relentlessly in the little specks of protoplasm inside the head. These specks of jelly inside the brain, known as the neurons, determine our identity, personality and everything that we are.

All human endeavors are the achievements of the little specks of jelly in your head.

All human experiences, from the feeling of love, to the presence of God emerge from various brain activity.

All knowledge that Science has acquired so far, has been through the concentration of the powers of the mind.

All of life is a ceremony where we get to know and explore our wholeness.

All of Nature follows perfectly geometric laws. The Ancient Egyptian, Greek, Peruvian, Mayan, and Chinese cultures were well aware of this, as Phi—known as the Golden Ratio or Golden Mean—was used in the constructions of their sculptures and architecture.

All our opinions are false and don’t matter in the grand scheme of things. We live ,we die. We as individuals don’t matter in this world ,we will be a memory if anyone does remember us. We will be lucky.But soon , our memory will die with them and maybe someone will utter our name in passing in this age of technology ,as a footnote to something that grabbed more of their attention. Ultimately in this world our lives do not matter. So why do we feel we are in a one man play? Why do we want to accomplish so much just to be bellowed as heroes or heroines, to be adored or thought highly of by other people who do not even have favorable opinions of themselves? You see the truth is that the trace we leave In this world do not matter in this world, the track we leave in this world is what matters in the afterlife and it will be mirror in the memory of your future. Everything we do today is either for our own comforts or to avoid discomfort we are living in a perpetual state of pleasing ourselves , self gratification and being busy bodies for the momentarily exhalation of relief that will almost always follow up with a crisis. No one will have a continuous state of bliss as the pendulum swings up it will eventually come down before it comes back up again, yet we act surprised and devastated. This life is a perpetual test to try to develop and polish your outlook and inner life so you may be the lucky ones to develop the acuteness to see this world for what it is, and not lose that vision. An illusion of forms presenting the beauty and ugliness of our souls to us on a platter and tempting us to forget we are mortal. You don’t finish school when you graduate with that degree. You finish school when you die.

All our sentiments - religious, romantic or any other - are born in the neurons.

All our unique human achievements may seem to be the creation of the unique human mind, but they are simply the by- products of our neurobiological response to the environment.

All personal god, yours or mine, are false. Unto existence nothing but an infinite oneness walks.

All realities are really tricks of consciousness.

All that exists is the present moment

All states of consciousness, no matter how mystical, ecstatic or divine, are gloriously born through the protoplasmic activity of the brain.

All the world's been a stage. Now it's also a tell-a-vision set and the internet.

All you need to get by in this world is the memory of love

Always live in the here and now

Always have a list of what you want to achieve in life

Always listen to your HEART. The wisdom of your heart is the connection to your authentic power — the true home of your spirit. Quieten your inner critic, and be still... In serenity you see and feel this power. The most essential dimension within us. The essence of who we really are. To tap in and connect to this SACRED place, it brings you to a conscious of the impermanence and divine essence of everything you truly are. Knowing yourself deeply, is to be rooted in Being. A sense of JOY. Tap in to your heart, and listen. Its higher consciousness will whisper to you intuitively.

Always take an inventory of your life

A man's best friend is his consciousness. In a nanosecond, his consciousness transforms him in what he wants to be.

A man's shortcoming lies in the belief that he must always assert his manliness. A woman's shortcoming lies in the belief that she must always repress it.

Always put your heart into and show commitment in whatever you do

A mind is a simulation that simulates itself.

A mission of over abundant crops, it's a vision of mansions and Ferrari drop tops. Lay me in a tomb wearing a crown with a serpent on its midpoint; it's a symbol of perfect consciousness, a knowledge of my power as limitless. Take a look to the Bible and turn back to Yahweh standard of perfectionists.

A mystical symphony permeates my senses and a holy lullaby embraces me.

An act of mastery is mastery itself.

An aware mind absent of thought is not thoughtlessness; it’s alert awareness.

And he knew he would not be travelling home. If he had to wear a donkey jacket and wait for fifty years, then he would wait. At last there was a place in the world where he had reason to be, a place that had meaning. For days, without realising it, he had sensed this meaning everywhere, in the streets, houses, ruins and temples of Rome. It could not be said of the feeling that it was 'filled with pleasurable expectation'. Rome and its millennia were not by nature associated with happiness, and what Mihály anticipated from the future was not what is usually conjured up by 'pleasurable expectation'. He was awaiting his fate, the logical, appropriately Roman, ending.

And he was. Suddenly. From not being to being conscious that he was.

And in a flash I understood the meaning of sex. It is a craving of mingling of consciousness, whose symbol is the mingling of bodies. Every time a man and a woman slake their thirst in the strange waters of the other's identity, they glimpse the immensity of their freedom.

And that is very important for the thriving of a relationship. To be able to see things (w)holistically, and that requires both individuals to hear each other’s communication clearly, and for a solution then to arise and to be accepted.

and I told myself -- as I've told myself before -- that the body shuts down then the pain gets too bad, that consciousness is temporary, that this will pass. But just like always, I didn't slip away. I was left on the shore with the waves washing over me, unable to drown.

And one of my firmest conclusions is that we always think by seeking and drawing parallels to things we know from our past, and that we therefore communicate best when we exploit examples, analogies, and metaphors galore, when we avoid abstract generalities, when we use very down-to-earth, concrete, and simple language, and when we talk directly about our own experience.

And perhaps there is none, no morrow anymore, for one who has waited so long for it in vain. And perhaps he has come to that stage of his instant when to live is to wander the last of the living in the depths of an instant without bounds, where the light never changes and the wrecks all look alike. Bluer scarcely than white of egg the eyes stare into the space before them, namely the fullness of the great deep and unchanging calm. But at long intervals they close, with the gentle suddenness of flesh that tightens, often without anger, and closes on itself.

. . . And the consequence to that is, you can never attain a Clear Awareness of life’s flow by absorbing and following Old Teachings, however revered by our culture, however vaunted by institutions and fancy buildings, however nice they sound, because you must already hold adequate wisdom in order to even identify it. Unless you can tell which expressions are wise because you are aware of life’s nature yourself, you will invariably be soundly, profoundly fooled.

And we have the tools. We have the tools to choose. They are free, and within you now! It is the tool of conscious thought. Imagine your life and how it could be better if you used the power of conscious thought effectively?

And under the cicadas, deeper down that the longest taproot, between and beneath the rounded black rocks and slanting slabs of sandstone in the earth, ground water is creeping. Ground water seeps and slides, across and down, across and down, leaking from here to there, minutely at a rate of a mile a year. What a tug of waters goes on! There are flings and pulls in every direction at every moment. The world is a wild wrestle under the grass; earth shall be moved. What else is going on right this minute while ground water creeps under my feet? The galaxy is careening in a slow, muffled widening. If a million solar systems are born every hour, then surely hundreds burst into being as I shift my weight to the other elbow. The sun’s surface is now exploding; other stars implode and vanish, heavy and black, out of sight. Meteorites are arcing to earth invisibly all day long. On the planet, the winds are blowing: the polar easterlies, the westerlies, the northeast and southeast trades. Somewhere, someone under full sail is becalmed, in the horse latitudes, in the doldrums; in the northland, a trapper is maddened, crazed, by the eerie scent of the chinook, the sweater, a wind that can melt two feet of snow in a day. The pampero blows, and the tramontane, and the Boro, sirocco, levanter, mistral. Lick a finger; feel the now. Spring is seeping north, towards me and away from me, at sixteen miles a day. Along estuary banks of tidal rivers all over the world, snails in black clusters like currants are gliding up and down the stems of reed and sedge, migrating every moment with the dip and swing of tides. Behind me, Tinker Mountain is eroding one thousandth of an inch a year. The sharks I saw are roving up and down the coast. If the sharks cease roving, if they still their twist and rest for a moment, they die. They need new water pushed into their gills; they need dance. Somewhere east of me, on another continent, it is sunset, and starlings in breathtaking bands are winding high in the sky to their evening roost. The mantis egg cases are tied to the mock-orange hedge; within each case, within each egg, cells elongate, narrow, and split; cells bubble and curve inward, align, harden or hollow or stretch. And where are you now?

... And when the time comes to choose yet another dream, I shall smile knowing that I had a life with no less challenges than others, but I chose to respond to them with love.

And what agony, thought Krug the thinker, to love so madly a little creature, formed in some mysterious fashion (even more mysterious to us than it had been to the very first thinkers in their pale olive gloves) by the fusion of two mysteries, or rather two sets of a trillion of mysteries each; formed by a fusion which is, at the same time, a matter of choice and a matter of chance and a matter of pure enchantment; thus formed and then permitted to accumulate trillions of its own mysteries; the whole suffused with consciousness, which is the only real thing in the world and the greatest mystery of all.

And most people who run into communication issues do not realize that they actually do not know how to properly communicate or get the transmission across properly. Communication is clear knowingness and the expression of that knowingness to another.