Best 306 quotes in «belonging quotes» category

Deep down in my heart I know How much it’s hard for me to belong Either to someone Or to somewhere. Because it has always been there in my heart; the desire to make a world of my own out of everyone I meet or everyplace I go. And maybe that’s why it has never worked out for me to belong To any place or to any other person in the whole world But myself …

Det var en uppväxt av brist. Inte en materiell sådan, där hade vi så vi klarade oss, utan en identitetsmässig. Vi var inga. Våra föräldrar var inga. Våra förfäder hade betytt noll och intet för den svenska historien. [...] Vi bröt på finska utan att vara finnar, vi bröt på svenska utan att vara svenskar. Vi var ingenting.

Don't belong; be.

Don’t ever forget why you’re doing what you’re doing. It provides the fuel that keeps you ­moving forward.

Especially at a time when one's life was new, roots helped.

Don't strive to belong, Parvin. Your effort is much better placed elsewhere.

Even though an entire journey still stretched out before us, the moment we actually faced that wall was the only moment that mattered. The commitment and effort we needed called for total focus and concentration. We believed in our capacity to take the next step, and then the next step. We trusted our guides, our preparation and, ultimately, ourselves. This fueled our forward momentum and, our ultimate success.

Even more essential, however, is the identification of the individuals in the masses with the "führer." The more helpless the "mass-individual" has become, owing to his upbringing, the more pronounced is his identification with the führer, and the more the childish need for protection is disguised in the form of a feeling at one with the führer. This inclination to identify is the psychological basis of national narcissism, i.e., of the self-confidence that individual man derives from the "greatness of the nation." The reactionary lower middle-class man perceives himself in the führer, in the authoritarian state. On the basis of this identification he feels himself to be a defender of the "national heritage," of the "nation," which does not prevent him, likewise on the basis of this identification, from simultaneously despising "the masses" and confronting them as an individual. The wretchedness of his material and sexual situation is so overshadowed by the exalting idea of belonging to a master race and having a brilliant führer that, as time goes on, he ceases to realize how completely he has sunk to a position of insignificant, blind allegiance. The worker who is conscious of his skills—he, in short, who has rid himself of his submissive structure, who identifies with his work and not with the führer, with the international working masses and not with the national homeland—represents the opposite of this. He feels himself to be a leader, not on the basis of his identification with the führer, but on the basis of his consciousness of performing work that is vitally necessary for society's existence.

Everyone had a place. Everyone fit. Everyone belonged. Everyone but Anna Mae.

Experiencing a sense of presence and belonging is challenging when we're stressed or distracted. Hygge isn't the complete absence of the usual demands of a fully engaged human life, but it is facilitated by a willingness to put down our problems and abandon our cares for a while.

Fitting is a luxury rarely given to immigrants, or children of immigrants. We are stuck in emotional purgatory. Home, somehow, is always the last place you left, and never the place you're in.

Fear-based images have tremendous influence over us. It’s correct that we can’t serve two masters at the same time. In this case it was fear or courage. At any given moment this choice shapes our lives. Choosing courage, when doom and gloom are all around, takes a very conscious decision to be and act differently.

Feeling rooted in the earth is soothing to the body, and it is our connection to the earth that gives us our most basic sense of belonging, home, resilience, and safety.

Focusing on each and every step you take on any of life’s treks reveals the essence of the work that is yours to do.

Here You always belonged here. You were theirs, certain as a rock. I’m the one who worries if I fit in with the furniture and the landscape. But I “follow too much the devices and desires of my own heart.” Already the curves in the road are familiar to me, and the mountain in all kinds of light, treating all people the same. and when I come over the hill, I see the house, with its generous and firm proportions, smoke rising gaily from the chimney. I feel my life start up again, like a cutting when it grows the first pale and tentative root hair in a glass of water.

For me, being inspired and challenged by nature’s adventures is as intriguing as figuring out how to find the depths and heights within. Why? I get to explore who I am at my deepest levels by taking myself into an environment or space that requires more of me. These explorations include both intimate and expansive goals.

From an anthropological perspective, identities are neither fixed nor inherent, but are created and reproduced continuously through social practice and in interaction with others.

Groups satisfy our brain's natural inclination to make sense of hordes of people we encounter and observe. This quality is so inherent that children intuitively understand the need to form groups without adults having to teach them.

Helping someone feel they belong is a magic all its own.

He said it was better to belong where you don't belong than not to belong where you used to belong, remembering when you used to belong there.

How could you ever feel comfortable if no matter where you went you felt like you belonged someplace else?

How can you lose me? You’ve owned me from the first moment I saw you.

How do you sell emptiness, vulnerability, and nonsuccess?

Home is that place where One Self feels that, that is His/Her Place.

How do you eat your roots?

i am in need of a sudden Shift, Your crimson lips. screaming at my Lips. Let me hold down That candle, and look away from Your light, The sight of You, everlasting, Melting in on my eyes. I see Your lips dripping roses, bleeding need all the night, Let me embrace You with touch, Let me love You all the night. I crave the crimson of Your lips, till they burn me out all white, Kiss me Deep under the ocean, Of a never-ending fire.

How shall I ever learn who I am when there is so much of me that belongs to someone else?

Human beings have a natural urge to worship that “something greater” which coheres us, but we, in modernity, are living in a kind of spiritual cul-de-sac where our gifts only serve the human community. Unlike the many shamanic cultures that practice dreamwork, ritual, and thanksgiving, Westerners have forgotten what indigenous people understand to be cardinal: that this world owes its life to the unseen. Every hunt and every harvest, every death, and every birth is distinguished by ceremony for that which we cannot see, feeding back that which feeds us. I believe our epidemic alienation is, in good part, the felt negligence of that reciprocity.

Human connection is based on trust, and it is trust that is continually violated when people do not practice setting aside their narrow self-interests in consideration of the needs and interests of others, such as their coworkers, family, neighbours, and community.

I belong therefore I exist.

I'd chosen the regret I could live with best, that's all. I'd chosen the life I belonged to.

I could tell he was just as scared to love as I, But we still both carelessly climbed into eachothers arms and before we knew it, love had found us.

I don’t belong to anyone! I’m not a thing, to be kept or ordered or driven to such despair that I open my own veins. Look at me, Aoife. Look at me! I’m a woman.

I didn't belong Because maybe I never wanted To belong. When everybody else danced and sang, I sat silently in my room with books, Books, and books. I used books for self-defense And as stealth bombers: I am better than you Because I have read more books than you; I am Beloved by these books; I am beloved by words.

I didn't belong as a kid, and that always bothered me. If only I'd known that one day my differentness would be an asset, then my early life would have been much easier.

I didn't just see a child in my dreams—I felt it in my heart.

I don’t know how many evenings we’d spent in here talking, or like tonight, sitting quietly like two solitudes. Lucretia and I had formed a bond that went beyond friends. And yet I felt the difference between us. I noticed it at Meetings when I saw her on the Facing bench, the only female minister among all those men, the way she rose and spoke with such fearless beauty, and every morning when I went downstairs and there were her children sticky with oat gruel. I would get a faintly vacuous feeling in the pit of my stomach, not from envy that she had a profession, or these little ones, or even James, who was not like other men, but of some unknown species, a husband who beamed over her profession and made the oat gruel himself. No, it wasn’t that. It was the belonging I envied. She’d found her belonging.

I feel like I'm supposed to make some comment to underscore the ridiculousness of it all, but honestly? It's sort of nice not to have to be cynical for a change. I guess it feels like I'm a part of something.

I don't think you really belong here, Aviger." Xoxarle nodded wisely, slowly. Aviger shrugged, and did not raise his eyes. "I don't think any of us do." "The brave belong where they decide." Some harshness entered the Idiran's voice.

If our mind remains freeze-framed by inhibiting and hampering habits, in an ever-changing world, we won’t be able to get rid of that weird feeling of not belonging anywhere and not taking part in authentic life challenges. ("Not on the shortlist")

If I exist, then surely there must be someone else out there like me.

If I were a heroine in a fairy tale, I often thought, and a fairy godmother offered to grant me wishes, I would ask for peaches-and-cream skin, eyes like deep blue pools, hair like spun gold instead of blackest ink. I knew I would be worthy of it all. There was nothing I wouldn’t trade for that kind of magic, that kind of beauty. If you were pretty, if you were normal, if you were white, then the good things everyone saw on the outside would match the goodness you knew existed on the inside. And wouldn’t it be wonderful to go to sleep one night and wake up an entirely different person, one who would be loved and welcomed everywhere? Wouldn’t it be wonderful to look at your face in the mirror and know you would always belong?

If we come to love nature not only when it is rare and beautiful, but also when it is commonplace and even annoying, I believe it will heal the great wound of our species: our self-imposed isolation from the rest of life, our loneliness for nature. We might remember that we are no different from our surroundings, that the trees and birds are as much our neighbors as other humans. We might remember that before the land belonged to us, we belonged to it. We could belong again.

I hate feeling like I don't belong.

I had come alive here...this was my home, and though one day it would all trickle through my fingers like so much red dust, for as long as childhood lasted it was a heaven fitted exactly to me. A place I knew by heart. The one place in the world I'd been made for.

I have an idea that some men are born out of their due place. Accident has cast them amid certain surroundings, but they have always a nostalgia for a home they know not. They are strangers in their birthplace, and the leafy lanes they have known from childhood or the populous streets in which they have played, remain but a place of passage. They may spend their whole lives aliens among their kindred and remain aloof among the only scenes they have ever known. Perhaps it is this sense of strangeness that sends men far and wide in the search for something permanent, to which they may attach themselves. Perhaps some deep-rooted atavism urges the wanderer back to lands which his ancestors left in the dim beginnings of history.

I have no definable history before I was abandoned and taken in by the orphanage in Hong Kong. I truly am a blank sheet. I have been disconnected from my ancestors. I don't know who they are, where they came from or whether any of their line still exists. The ancestral umbilical cord that would have connected me to my past and linked me to my future, was permanently severed. It cannot be reattached

I have sometimes sacrificed freedom in order to belong, but more often I have given up all hope of belonging.

I learned the joke at the core of American self-improvement: knowledge was so much junk to be processed one way or another at great universities. The real treasure the great universities offered was a lifelong membership in a respected artificial extended family.

I lean back and tilt my head so all I see are the clouds in the sky. I'm looking back inside my head with my eyes wide open. I still don't know where I'm going; I decided I'm not crazy or alien. It's just that I'm more like one of those kids they find in remote jungles or forests []. A wolf child. And they've dragged me into this fucking schizo-culture, snarling and spitting and walking around on curled knuckles.