Best 46 quotes in «pilgrimage quotes» category

Pilgrimage was a centrally important part of Christian life in the early twelfth century, and had been for nearly one thousand years. People traveled incredible distances to visit saints' shrines and the sites of famous Christian deeds. did it for the good of their souls: sometimes to seek divine relief from illness, sometimes as penance to atone for their sins. Some thought that praying at a certain shrine would ensure the protection of that saint in their passage through the afterlife. All believed that God looked kindly on pilgrims and that a man or woman who ventured humbly and faithfully to the center of the world would improve his or her standing in the eyes of God.

Pilgrimage: to journey to a sacred place. Pilgrim: a traveller or wanderer, a stranger in a foreign place. Crusaders: pilgrims with swords who attempted to conquer the Middle East. Hajj: the journey to Mecca, one of the five pillars of Islam. Shahadah, Salat, Zakat, Sawm, Hajj. Pleasant, perhaps, to say that I am a pilgrim, but looking at it, counting the swirl of white as the devout move round the sacred stone in Mecca, watching the fans scream at the movie premiere, listening to the old men sitting on their benches by the sea who report that everything changes, and that’s okay… fuck me who isn’t a fucking pilgrim anyway?

Praying is holy pilgrimage.

Queenie Hennessy - "I am here to die." Sister Mary Inconnue - "Pardon me but you are here to live until you die. There is a significant difference.

Self education is holy mission.

Renga with Katie There's no better place Than in each moment with you Traveling through life Regardless of place and time, Or seasons and location, I never look back To a time without you there And wish to return We are each other's constant In an ever changing world On a pilgrimage To no place particular, Destinationless Each moment we're arriving At another sacred place Appreciating, Remembering life before You opened my eyes It's both vivid and soothing Like I'd never had vision Now I see the way, As we travel together The fog is lifted Each sight reveals each other Each step reveals another

Seekers of wisdom, seekers of life.

Self-denial is spiritual.

Song for Lonely Roads Now let us understand each other, love, Long time ago I crept off home, To my own gods I went. The tale is old, It has been told By many men in many lands. The lands belong to those who tell. Now surely that is clear. After the plow had westward swept, The gods bestowed the corn to stand. Long, long it stood, Strong, strong it grew, To make a forest for new song. Deep in the corn the bargain hard Youth with the gods drove home. The gods remember, Youth forgets. Doubt not the soul of song that waits. The singer dies, The singer lives, The gods wait in the corn, The soul of song is in the land. Lift up your lips to that.

Sleep is a potential pilgrimage.

They were given one candle each and then a monk led them into the Caves of Saint Anthony and the Caves of Theodosius. They saw the relics of the Venerable Anthony and Theodosius. There were many other saints there, too, some of whom Arseny knew about, and occasionally some he did not know about… Arseny drew a candle toward the inscription near one of the shrines. Salutations, O beloved Agapit, Arseny quietly uttered. I had so hoped to meet you. To whom are you wishing health? asked Ambrogio. This is the Venerable Agapit, an unmercenary physician. Arseny dropped to his knees and pressed his lips to Agapit’s hand…

There is of course a deep spiritual need which the pilgrimage seems to satisfy, particularly for those hardy enough to tackle the journey on foot.

And may we find when ended is the page, Death but a tavern on our pilgrimage.

within minutes, the entire village was in the water, splashing about, falling over, getting up, moving steadily forwards towards the horizon; never looking back to shore ... "come back," he beseeched his wife: "nothing is happening. come back!

To feel the pull, the draw, the interior attraction, and to want to follow it, even if it has no name still, that is the "pilgrim spirit."The "why" only becomes clear as time passes, only long after the walking is over.

What lies ahead is often unknown. But keep traveling.

With great passion, observe every details of the sacred journey.

You see, during my pilgrimage it became increasingly apparent that I wasn't happy and I had to do something about it - stop making excuses. I realized that you don't have to jump through a series of complicated hoops to achieve a goal. You can just look at a mountain and get a connection with God; you don't have to understand the mountain to feel that.

A big wind came up and I hoped a storm would break the heat. But it just blew a lot of dust around, and at sunset we had to bar doors and windows against mosquitoes. It didn’t do much for our comfort level, but—here’s where the Chemin takes you—we were grateful. We were grateful because we had (albeit narrowly) escaped heatstroke; because the shelter, though unbelievably hot, was clean and quiet; and most of all, because it slept six but we had it to ourselves. No people to deal with at the end of your (and their) tether; no sodden bathrooms. No snoring. Pilgrim camaraderie was all very well, but sometimes it was too damn much.

A pilgrimage is an admirable remedy for over-fastidiousness and sickly refinement.

Nature is, in fact, a suggester of uneasiness, a promoter of pilgrimages and of excursions of the fancy which never come to any satisfactory haven.

Regret is a pilgrimage back to the place where I was free to choose.

The worth of my music will never be guessed or its value to mankind felt until the approach to it is consciously undertaken as a pilgrimage to sorrows.

Set out on pilgrimage and triumph gloriously over the infidels in the East.

This is the most joyful day that ever I saw in my pilgrimage on earth.

And he began, "What chance or destiny has brought you here before your final day? And who is he who leads your pilgrimage?" "Up there in life beneath the quiet stars I lost my way," I answered, "in a valley, before I'd reached the fullness of my age. I turned my shoulders on it yesterday: this soul appeared as I was falling back, and by the road through Hell he leads me home." "Follow your star and you will never fail to find your glorious port," he said to me

After many paths and many years, perhaps many lifetimes, we become aware of the sacredness of our suffering.

Believe is confident hope. Hope is faith. Faith is timeless possibility. Possibility is spiritual. Spiritual is divine

How could we have discovered great lands, if we dare not travel?

Be on pilgrimage To a place that's undefined, Destinationless

Frequently we do not leave the past behind. We clasp on to it. We dissect it, and let fears for the future, tempered by the past, unconsciously prevent us from taking up the task eternal.

Her eyes are full of sadness, I am on a pilgrimage since millennia.

He seems in these verses to capture something of the nature of pilgrimage - the precise directions to somewhere often awkward to find; and you're not sure quite why you came or what it was you're looking for. If you find it, or it finds you, words cannot easily convey what has happened but it becomes part of the journey that continues." (Daily Celtic Prayer book)

For pilgrims walking...every footfall is doubled, landing at once on the actual road and also on the path of faith.

It’s funny how you doubt yourself through & through, when the sun & the moon are parabolically on a pilgrimage, encircling the mecca of you.

I am on pilgrim to self-realisation.

If you want to hear the distant voice of the ocean put your ear to the lips of a seashell. If you want to hear the voice of God place your ear upon the chest of any living being. If you want to be awakened from slumbering through life, place your ear up to the core of a corpse because the voice of honesty can clearly be heard there and the fingers of such a ribcage love to pinch dreamers into action. But if you want to hear the voice that directs your personal pilgrimage, you must find a way to keep your ear glued to your body’s fragile shell.

I don’t know who I am. And I don’t think people ever will know who they are. We have to be humble enough to learn to live with this mysterious question. Who am I? So, I am a mystery to myself. I am someone who is in this pilgrimage from the moment that I was born to the day to come that I’m going to die. And this is something that I can’t avoid, whether I like it or not, or — I’m going to die. So, what I have to do is to honor this pilgrimage through life. And so I am this pilgrim — if I can somehow answer your question — who’s constantly amazed by this journey. Who is learning a new thing every single day. But who’s not accumulating knowledge, because then it becomes a very heavy burden in your back. I am this person who is proud to be a pilgrim, and who’s trying to honor his journey.

I like the idea that when I die, I will have a long sit-down chat with God and get answers to all my questions. For example, those apple cores that I threw out of car windows when I was a child—did any of them become trees? Few boys or men had ever asked me out. I told myself that it was because I was almost 6-feet tall. Was that true or was there something humbling I needed to know?

One of the open secrets of life on earth is that the answer to life’s burning question has been inscribed in one’s soul all along. The soul is a kind of ancient vessel that holds the exact knowledge we seek and need to find our way in life. Each life is a pilgrimage intended to arrive at the center of the pilgrim’s soul. From that vantage point, the issue is not whether we managed to choose the right god or the only way to live righteously; such notions fail to recognize the inborn intimacy each soul already has with the divine.

It was a perfect spring day. The air was sweet and gentle and the sky stretched high, an intense blue. Harold was certain that the last time he had peered through the net drapes of Fossebridge Road (his home), the trees and hedges were dark bones and spindles against the skyline; yet now that he was out, and on his feet, it was as if everywhere he looked, the fields, gardens, trees, and hedgerows and exploded with growth. A canopy of sticky young leaves clung to the branches above him. There were startling yellow clouds of forsythia, trails of purple aubrietia; a young willow shook in a fountain of silver. The first of the potato shoots fingered through the soil, and already tiny buds hung from the gooseberry and currant shrubs like the earrings Maureen used to wear. The abundance of new life was enough to make him giddy.

May my soul radiate light and love.

Mountains have long been a geography for pilgrimage, place where people have been humbled and strengthened, they are symbols of the sacred center. Many have traveled to them in order to find the concentrated energy of Earth and to realize the strength of unimpeded space. Viewing a mountain at a distance or walking around its body we can see its shape, know its profile, survey its surrounds. The closer you come to the mountain the more it disappears, the mountain begins to lose its shape as you near it, its body begins to spread out over the landscape losing itself to itself. On climbing the mountain the mountain continues to vanish. It vanishes in the detail of each step, its crown is buried in space, its body is buried in the breath. On reaching the mountain summit we can ask, “What has been attained?” - The top of the mountain? Big view? But the mountain has already disappeared. Going down the mountain we can ask, “What has been attained?” Going down the mountain the closer we are to the mountain the more the mountain disappears, the closer we are to the mountain the more the mountain is realized. Mountain’s realization comes through the details of the breath, mountain appears in each step. Mountain then lives inside our bones, inside our heart-drum. It stands like a huge mother in the atmosphere of our minds. Mountain draws ancestors together in the form of clouds. Heaven, Earth and human meet in the raining of the past. Heaven, Earth and human meet in the winds of the future. Mountain mother is a birth gate that joins the above and below, she is a prayer house, she is a mountain. Mountain is a mountain.

Mexico, as it was in the 1970s—and isn’t now—was my Paris. With Mexicans, Europeans, and Americans I celebrated life and the journey, which took on qualities of a pilgrimage in which every moment was a movable feast and every place was a shrine. Among the intricately carved ruins in the jungle at Palenque, I partook of the Mayan sacrament, the sacred psilocybin mushroom, and there I learned to see.

Mountain’s realization comes through the details of the breath, mountain appears in each step. Mountain then lives inside our bones, inside our heart-drum. It stands like a huge mother in the atmosphere of our minds. Mountain draws ancestors together in the form of clouds. Heaven, Earth and human meet in the raining of the past. Heaven, Earth and human meet in the winds of the future. Mountain mother is a birth gate that joins the above and below, she is a prayer house, she is a mountain. Mountain is a mountain.

My prayer is my pilgrimage.