Best 226 quotes in «seeking quotes» category

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

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

Walk with those seeking truth...

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

We are not seeking to impose a recall.

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.

Seeking the good is not primarily about rules and commandments.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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?

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

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

Yes, it’s tough, it’s tough, that goes without saying. But isn’t waiting itself and longing a wonder, being played on by wind, sun, and shade?

This is what I had come for, just this, and nothing more. A fling of leafy motion on the cliffs, the assault of real things, living and still, with shapes and powers under the sky- this is my city, my culture, and all the world I need.

Singing at the Edge of Need by Susan Laughter Meyers (fragment) Three things I turned my back to: light, the past, the trunk of an old tree. One by one each unfastened itself. To sit is to present when the roll is called. I knew that. I wore my hat of straw, fringed like fingers sifting a breeze. My hat collecting a thousand thoughts… …I had no map and few lessons yet to guide me. I was a study of questions. O Grandmother, I was small, sitting in the midst of wildness, a child thrilling at the boss of thunder. A rustle of leaves, moss tipping at me- I was small, I was hunger, I was thirst- wings flitting in a brush pile. O Grandmother, I was small, kneeling in the midst of wonder, quaking and singing at the edge of need.

What is Required by Paul Allen (fragment) 1 All elsewhere being World, how many times have I stood in the bright shadows of a wood, no track or trail leading in, out- as though ground cover renewed as I went through? I sometimes own the moments where I stand alone. Everything else is air and arbitrary firings of neurons we call memory if they happened, fantasy if they didn’t- same pictures. Call it prayer, then, the moments where I’m not aware even of how lovely the moment is- not liking, not disliking- not aware there is a moment until I’m back in the world and remember it- construct it in my mind as having been beautiful. 4 I’m too often bitten by silence. My mother called it dawdling, the ex, brooding. My students call it absent-minded professor. The kindest students bring me back gently. But I live most when silence, shade, and light like this harvest me, a kind of prayer I’m gathered to, not the prayer I clutter with will or words.

Choose your counsel, company and companions wisely: beware seeking wise words of advice from a fool or expecting informed opinions or decisions from the ignorant.

Close your eyes Take a breath deep Your soul shall find for you Whatever you seek…

Dare to take chances; there is no limit to the opportunities waiting for you.

Dare to ask questions. There are answers to any question.

Daring soul has five diaries; gratitude, work, inspirational, prayer and language diaries.

Dear Baba Yaga, I feel like I'm forever missing something inside myself. With people, without people, wonderful job, jobless. I always feel like there's a gaping hole. What is missing? BABA YAGA: By rooting in the hole you make the hole wider; you scrape , its walls you open fresh soil--the earth of it smells blacker & blacker, you see the hole & the hole only, you live within it always; if you find yrself eating fruits in the good forest you remember the hole & go to look if it is still there dropping yr fruit-meat all the whiles. & if you think think think only of the hole it will become the great work & mystery of yr life, & you will die in the hole as you lived in it.

Deep down inside we always seek for our departed loved ones

Digging, one finds more rocks than gold.

Do not quarrel or restlessly seek for more knowledge, until you have given proper honor to what you already know.

Do not seek to control other souls. Seek to know your sacred soul

Don’t give up searching.

Don't look for gold where there is none.

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

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

Would there be this eternal seeking if the found existed?

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.

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.

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.

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.

Anagram of Seeking by Susan Laughter Meyers Sit, unplanted, with your back to a tree, or sink to your knees. If sorrow drowns the hour, let yourself keen, each hurt recalled, the heart a siege of old wounds. If startled by joy, let yourself sing. Light dims, the air cools your skin. Unclear , what it is you’re seeing- each monotone hoot of the owl, a sign- less clear what can’t be seen: the soul, a spirit, the king of kings? This density of leaves and skein of tenuous moss, yours. here and now, seine life’s good fish. Child, singe the night, boldly. O lost see, catch fire and seek.

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

Be the patience you seek

Be yourself.

Giving Birth by Marcus Amaker do you remember when the earth was just a baby, settling in its skin, safe in the arms of mother nature with fire breathing from within. you were not shackled by time and life roamed around your heart with the weight of dinosaurs, leaving footprints in your lungs. and the first time you saw the sun you could barely breathe because the possibility of endless light planted a seed so you admire the strength of trees, who naturally grew into unwavering beauty, staring down the mouth of time. do you remember being 11 years old when your mother told you “birth is more painful than dying” and you burst with dreams without even trying, seeking light in your heart, where shadows now rest comfortably next to fear. but you come out of the woods clear, with nature’s breath under your tongue, and a weightless bliss, no longer scared of death.

Dare to question.

Don't seek to become better than any other man, be just and be good. For God measures not individuals achievements nor goals, God will judge you by your heart, so everything you do, DO IT IN a hearty manner

Do you ever wonder about the fairy tales of life?