Best 226 quotes in «seeking quotes» category

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    I'd searched everywhere for this thing called love. I went through life seeking something that would be the ultimate.

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    If I wasn't so insecure about myself I wouldn't work as hard as I do. I am constantly seeking approval.

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    If you are seeking the right path, you are already on the right path.

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    If you're conscientiously seeking approval, you're not being true to yourself.

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    In seeking success you must also seek fulfillment. Ask yourself not only what you want to be but who you want to be.

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    I love rollercoasters, thrill-seeking, all of that is fun.

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    In the family, happiness is in the ratio in which each is serving the others, seeking one another's good, and bearing one another's burdens.

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    I have only been seeking to get them to the negotiating table and, thank God, that's where they are.

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    Light, seeking light, doth light of light beguile

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    Jacopo Belbo didnt understand that he had had his moment and that it would have to be enough for him, for all his life. Not recognizing it, he spent the rest of his days seeking something else, until he damned himself.

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    Just be. Let your true nature emerge. Don't disturb your mind with seeking.

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    Listening is seeking synchronicity with the speaker.

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    Nobody is driven by abstractions like 'seeking truth.

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    Make your blade a water-seeking missle

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    No civilization other than that which is Christian, is worth seeking or possessing.

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    My work has also motivated me to put a lot of time into seeking out good food and to spend more money on it.

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    Man at his best is a system-breaker, an iconoclast seeking not only variety, but destruction.

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    Seeking love keeps you from the awareness that you already have it—that you are it.

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    Seeking is not always the way to find.

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    Seeking happiness, I passed many travelers headed in the opposite direction, seeking happiness.

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    Seeking revenge: what a lack of foresight.

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    The recovery of freedom is so splendid a thing that we must not shun even death when seeking to recover it.

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    The truth about who we really are, beyond all appearances, is knowledge worth seeking.

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    The truth is that you already are what you are seeking.

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    They were seeking out the treasure of their destiny, without actually wanting to live out their destiny.

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    To someone seeking power, the poorest man is the most useful.

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    We have come to a place now where our search for Truth must no longer be for the rewards; it must no longer be our seeking a creed to follow, but it must be our living a life.

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    What ever we embrace eventually reveals the place we have been seeking.

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    What I am seeking... is a motionless movement, something equivalent to what is called the eloquence of silence.

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    Spirituality means seeking experience. Not just belief.

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    Walk with those seeking truth...

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    We are always seeking for those things which are in the clouds, not for those that lie at our feet.

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    We are not seeking to impose a recall.

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    When speed dating I'm seeking my equal or at least one in the making.

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    Seeking the good is not primarily about rules and commandments.

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    When you are at one with the world, you often find that the thing you seek is seeking you.

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    When we pray to God we must be seeking nothing - nothing.

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    What is creative is the seeking of perfection - and not attaining it.

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    When you're the son of an immigrant who came here seeking freedom, it makes you appreciate.

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    Would there be this eternal seeking if the found existed?

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    A game like sardines is scary, not so much for the hider but for the seekers. It's scary because you lose your companions and the whole world creeps up quiet and you slowly realize you're going to stumble upon a secret place where everyone will jump out at you. And then, when you are the very last seeker, you start to wonder if you're the only person in the world. If the hiding place somehow sucked up the players and the last one has to decide to run away or get sucked up, too.

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    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.

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    All night I hear the voice of someone seeking me out. All night you abandon me slowly like the water that sobs slowly falling. All night I write luminous messages, messages of rain, all night someone checks for me and I check for someone.

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    Allow yourself to grow. When you think you've seen it all, this is far beyond the truth... There is so much more out there seeking you.

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    You prove but too clearly that seeking to know Is too frequently learning to doubt.

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    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.

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    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?

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    A spark of every fire we seek is already within us.

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    Be a believer in true love. Seek deep communication with others and with yourself.

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    As I explored my soul, now I know I have survived schizophrenia; hearing voices, reduced social engagement, emotional expression and lack of motivation.