Best 1516 quotes in «reflection quotes» category

¿Por qué el ser humano es tan cruel,joder? ¿Por qué?

Prayer does not blind us to the world, but it transforms our vision of the world, and makes us see it, all men, and all the history of mankind, in the light of God. To pray 'in spirit and in truth' enables us to enter into contact with that infinite love, that inscrutable freedom which is at work behind the complexities and the intricacies of human existence. This does not mean fabricating for ourselves pious rationalizations to explain everything that happens. It involves no surreptitious manipulation of the hard truths of life.

Prepare in the morning; reflect at night.

Que dificil resulta ser capaz de desconstruirse, para luego construirse de nuevo. con una visión más libre y personal de la vida.

Quien conozca a su adversario como a sí mismo no deberá temer nada.

Raciocinai assim com a vida: Se te perco, perco uma coisa que somente os loucos querem conservar. Não passas de um sopro, exposto a todas as influências do ar e que, hora após hora, deterioram esta habitação em que moras. És meramente o joquete da morte, pois procuras sempre evitá-la pela fuga e, apesar disto, corres sempre em direção a ela. Não és nobre, porque todas as voluptuosidades, que são teu patrimônio, são acalentadas pelas baixezas. Estás longe de ser valente, pois temes o aguilhão terno e brando de um verme. O que tens de melhor em ti é o sono e que tantas vezes provocas; entretanto, temes grosseiramente a morte que não passa de um sono. Tu não és tu mesmo, pois tua existência é o resultado de milhares de grãos que saem do pó. Não és feliz, porque o que tu não tens, tu te esforças para adquirir e o que possuis, tu esqueces. Não és constante, pois tua natureza, segundo as fases da Lua, sofre estranhas alterações. Se és rico, és pobre; pois, semelhante a um asno cujo lombo está vergado ao peso de lingotes, só carregas as tuas riquezas um único dia e a morte te livra delas. Não tens amigos, pois o fruto de tuas próprias entranhas que te chama de ''pai'', o mais puro de teu sangue saído de teus próprios rins, maldiz a gota, a lepra e o catarro, que não te acabam bem depressa. Não tens juventude nem velhice, e, por assim dizer, não passas de um sesta depois do jantar que sonha um pouco com as duas idades; pois toda tua feliz juventude é passada fazendo-se velha e solicitando esmolas da paralítica velhice. Quando, no fim, fores velho e rico, já não terás calor, sentimento, força, nem beleza, para tornares agradáveis tuas riquezas. Que te sobra ainda nisto que traz o nome de Vida? Outras mil formas de morte ainda estão ocultas nesta vida e, contudo tememos a morte que nivela todas estas misérias.

Raciocinai assim com a vida: Se te perco, perco uma coisa que somente os loucos querem conservar. Não passas de um sopro, exposto a todas as influências do ar e que, hora após hora, deterioram esta habitação em que moras. És meramente o joquete da morte, pois procuras sempre evitá-la pela fuga e, apesar disto, corres sempre em direção a ela. Não és nobre, porque todas as voluptuosidades, que são teu patrimônio, são acalentadas pelas baixezas. Estás longe de ser valente, pois temes o aguilhão terno e brando de um verme. O que tens de melhor em ti é o sono e que tantas vezes provocas; entretanto, temes grosseiramente a morte que não passa de um sono. Tu não és tu mesmo, pois tua existência é o resultado de milhares de grãos que saem do pó. Não és feliz, porque o que tu não tens, tu te esforças para adquirir e o que possuis, tu esqueces. Não és constante, pois tua natureza, segundo as fases da Lua, sofre estranhas alterações. Se és rico, és pobre; pois, semelhante a um asno cujo lombo está vergado ao peso de lingotes, só carregas as tuas riquezas um único dia e a morte te livra delas. Não tens amigos, pois o fruto de tuas próprias entranhas que te chama de ''pai'', o mais puro de teu sangue saído de teus próprios rins, maldiz a gota, a lepra e o catarro, que não te acabam bem depressa. Não tens juventude nem velhice, e, por assim dizer, não passas de um sesta depois do jantar que sonha um pouco com as duas idades; pois toda tua feliz juventude é passada fazendo-se velha e solicitando esmolas da paralítica velhice. Quando, no fim, fores velho e rico, já não terás calor, sentimento, força, nem beleza, para tornares agradáveis tuas riquezas.Que te sobra ainda nisto que traz o nome de Vida? O outras mil formas de morte ainda estão ocultas nesta vida e, contudo tememos a morte que nivela todas estas misérias.

Rather than walk about holy places we can thus pause in our thoughts, examine our heart, and visit the wheel promised land.

Rarely if ever, moments come that are so defining in our lives. The years are glutted with benign matters which impact us more deeply than we could have ever imagined in our youth.

Reading all my old love letters was disorienting. You remember thinking the thoughts and writing the words but, man, you can't TOUCH those feelings. Its like they belonged to someone else. Someone you don't even know. I'm aware, in an intellectual way. That I felt all those things about him, but this emotions are far away now. What's so strange to me is that I can't even force my heart back to that place where I felt that all consuming passion. That makes me feel distant from myself. Who WAS I then? Will I ever be able to get back to that place? Reading the letters again made me wonder: Which is the real me? The one who saw the world in that emotionally saturated way, or the me who sees it the way I do now?

Read not to contradict and confute; nor to believe and take for granted; nor to find talk and discourse; but to weigh and consider.

...real childhood scars heal, but not when band-aids replace self-reflection.

Real change will come when you focus on yourself - not on changing him, Real change comes when you are willing and able to state your claim on what you are and are not willing to live with. Just remember to let him in on it

Reality always reflects back intent.

Real life, life finally uncovered and clarified, the only life in consequence lived to the full, is literature. Life in this sense dwells within all ordinary people as much as the artist. But they do not see it because they are not trying to shed light on it.

Reflection is a blessing and reflection happens not only when one sees himself on a mirror or on the windowpane or on a puddle, but it also happens when someone criticises you! In every true critique made on you, you will see yourself and you will obtain a good chance to make corrections on yourself! Reflection happens even in the books you read! Reflection is a blessing; when it happens, you discover yourself, you face yourself!

Reflection is an all-consuming, in-depth, and serious thought process that is required in a paradigm shift.

Reflection can be its own reward.

Reflection can be painful, but reflection can also be productive.

...reflection can transform something familiar.

Reflection is an underlining theme of Design Thinking.

Reflection is time sensitive; and with the realization that the 'present' and 'future' can be altered, it is also purposeful, for we can set goals to grow into a graceful work of art. Reflection is deliberate and purposeful. It is our past that provides us the wisdom and experience when to bloom and show everyone "I am a beautiful flower.

Reflect within yourself for that reflection is far better than when what you see in the mirror.

Reflection and learning are lifelong processes...

Reflection ingeniously knows how to convert a beauty into a super beauty!

Reflection is a good reminder of the truth! You may turn your eyes away from the truths, but the reflections will remind them to you! And anything which describes a truth well is a reflection of that truth! Turn your eyes away from the Moon, then the lake will remind the Moon to you, the shadows of the wolves howling against the Moon will remind the truth to you, even in the eyes of a frog, you shall see the Moon! Thus, if you turn your face away from the truth, it will never work! Because the reminders of truth are everywhere and they are as strong as the truth itself!

Reflection is a good thing. It allows us to look back in time so we can connect the dots between specific memories to reveal the purpose and meaning behind synchronistic events.

Reflection offers a retrospective exploration, a way to figure out how everything fits and connects now on your journey- and being done so without regret or remorse. Reflection is the birthplace of discernment, an insightful and awakening place that grants you to keep what you need and smartly sift away the rest.

Seperti cermin yang merefleksikan sosok kita, orang juga merefleksikan perasaannya

Religion is, in reality, living. Our religion is not what we profess, or what we say, or what we proclaim; our religion is what we do, what we desire, what we seek, what we dream about, what we fantasize, what we think - all these things - twenty-four hours a day. One's religion, then, is ones life, not merely the ideal life but the life as it is actually lived. Religion is not prayer, it is not a church, it is not theistic, it is not atheistic, it has little to do with what white people call "religion." It is our every act. If we tromp on a bug, that is our religion; if we experiment on living animals, that is our religion; if we cheat at cards, that is our religion; if we dream of being famous, that is our religion; if we gossip maliciously, that is our religion; if we are rude and aggressive, that is our religion. All that we do, and are, is our religion.

Remember your connection with the cosmos. Remember your connection with the infinity and that remembrance will give you the freedom.

Remembrance and reflection how allied! What thin partitions Sense from Thought divide!

Ruin still used Reen’s voice—it was familiar, something that had always seemed a part of her. Discovering that it belonged to that thing…it was like finding out that her reflection really belonged to someone else, and that she’d never actually seen herself.

[S]cience has contributed a great deal to war and violence, and people well trained in science are sometimes not entirely rational and are even dogmatic. We have to find a way to teach reflectively, not just scientifically.

Seen no matter how and said as seen. Dread of black. Of white. Of void. Let her vanish. And the rest. For good.

Shall I run back into the desert ... and stay there until the devil has passed out of me and I am fit to meet human kind again without driving it to despair at the first look? I haven't had enough desert yet.

Reflection the blood of mirrors

Relax, Recharge and Reflect. Sometimes it’s OK to do nothing.

Roots cannot grow into trees if there are no supernatural elements in the soil. Man cannot grow wealthy and famous if he doesn't contribute to either, the good or evil.

Saldrán un montón de chicos hambrientos de poder, hartos de que les digan que tienen que ser más sensibles. Y no creas que todos serán hombres. También las Amas de Casa Perfectas estarán de su parte

Set a daily solitude time for reflection and rethinking.

She found herself too visible in silence; exposed in the quiet of reflection.

She had the world’s worst poker face: her feelings floated across them like reflections on a still pond.

She knew me beyond my actions Beyond my shallow attempts at happiness. She knew I had darkness And when I undressed And showed her what I was made of She nodded Knowing I was unrepairable And said 'I'll be here for you anyway

She looked into the mirror, wiping the mascara that was running down her cheeks with her tears and she saw him standing behind her. With that smile he always had. She touched his reflection and turned around to hug him just to see no one there. She turned back around and looked at the mirror, there he was still standing with that smile. She fell on her knees and said in a feeble voice "come back".

She sighs and the small release of breath bothers me. This girl needs to be off doing things that make her happy. Not standing here with me, confused and torn. It’s just further proof that I’m no good to be around. I’m turning one of the happiest people I know into something she was never meant to be. I’m turning her into me.

She said once that time is nothing to me but a series of bookmarks that I use to jump back and forth through the text of my life, returning again and again to the events that mark me in the eyes of my more astute colleagues, as bearing all the characteristics of the classic melancholic.

She started to head out, but she passed her room. It was the same as she'd left it: a pile of cushions by her bed for Little Brother to sleep on, a stack of poetry and famous literature on her desk that she was supposed to study to become a "model bride," and the lavender shawl and silk robes she'd worn the day before she left home. The jade comb Mulan had left in exchange for the conscription notice caught her eye; it now rested in front of her mirror. Mulan's gaze lingered on the comb, on its green teeth and the pearl-colored flower nestled on its shoulder. She wanted to hold it, to put it in her hair and show her family- to show everyone- she was worthy. After all, her surname, Fa, meant flower. She needed to show them that she had bloomed to be worthy of her family name. But no one was here, and she didn't want to face her reflection. Who knew what it would show, especially in Diyu? She isn't a boy, her mother had told her father once. She shouldn't be riding horses and letting her hair loose. The neighbors will talk. She won't find a good husband- Let her, Fa Zhou had consoled his wife. When she leaves this household as a bride, she'll no longer be able to do these things. Mulan hadn't understood what he meant then. She hadn't understood the significance of what it meant for her to be the only girl in the village who skipped learning ribbon dances to ride Khan through the village rice fields, who chased after chickens and helped herd the cows instead of learning the zither or practicing her painting, who was allowed to have opinions- at all. She'd taken the freedom of her childhood for granted. When she turned fourteen, everything changed. I know this will be a hard change to make, Fa Li had told her, but it's for your own good. Men want a girl who is quiet and demure, polite and poised- not someone who speaks out of turn and runs wild about the garden. A girl who can't make a good match won't bring honor to the family. And worse yet, she'll have nothing: not respect, or money of her own, or a home. She'd touched Mulan's cheek with a resigned sigh. I don't want that fate for you, Mulan. Every morning for a year, her mother tied a rod of bamboo to Mulan's spine to remind her to stand straight, stuffed her mouth with persimmon seeds to remind her to speak softly, and helped Mulan practice wearing heeled shoes by tying ribbons to her feet and guiding her along the garden. Oh, how she'd wanted to please her mother, and especially her father. She hadn't wanted to let them down. But maybe she hadn't tried enough. For despite Fa Li's careful preparation, she had failed the Matchmaker's exam. The look of hopefulness on her father's face that day- the thought that she'd disappointed him still haunted her. Then fate had taken its turn, and Mulan had thrown everything away to become a soldier. To learn how to punch and kick and hold a sword and shield, to shoot arrows and run and yell. To save her country, and bring honor home to her family. How much she had wanted them to be proud of her.

She wanted to reach up to the night and dig her fingers into it, beg it to stay just a little bit longer.

She wasn't being methodological. She was being autobiographical.