Best 193 quotes in «rebirth quotes» category

It has been said that life only gives us what we can handle. But this is not the case. Life often kills us, that's the truth. But that's how phoenixes are born.

It is the tears of the earth that keep her smiles in bloom.

It’s hard to walk briskly at this time of year; the accelerating pace of unfolding spring slows my own. I repeatedly stop- to watch what’s moving. Soon the torrent of migrants will completely overwhelm my ability to keep up with all the changes. But it’s easy to revel in the exuberance and the sense of rebirth, renewal.

I thought I would die without you, in reality I was reborn...

It's through the darkness that deep healing comes to enlighten us. Don't be afraid of the dark and keep your Faith high instead. A healing process will only take place when we surrender to our own rebirth and a new Life will come from a stronger heart.

I will look for you in every lifetime and love you there.

I wondered about my inner child. In fact, I was troubled. Did I even have an inner child, I asked myself, given that, in essence, I’d just been born?

Live for what you love, and die for what you're unwilling to live without...

Long sleeps the summer in the seed. Verse CIV

Love shapes who you are in many ways. Its presence or absence in our youth impacts our adulthood, which impacts our future generations; the cycle has to be restarted somewhere.

Man, when he is re-born, passes through the ages as he who is born; and the preceding state is always as an egg in respect to the subsequent one, thus he is continually conceived and born: and this not only when he lives in the world, but also when he comes into another life to eternity: and still when he cannot be further perfected, then to be as an egg to those things which remain to be manifested, which are indefinite.

My father liked to wonder aloud whether the phoenix was re-created by the fire of its funeral pyre or transformed so that what emerged was a soulless shadow of its former being, identical in appearance but without the joy in life its predecessor had had. He wondered alternatively whether the fire might be purificatory, a redemptive, rejuvenating blaze that destroyed the withered shell of the old phoenix and allowed the creature’s essence to emerge stronger than it was before in a young, new body. Or, he would ask, was the fire a manifestation of entropy, slowly sapping the life-energy of the phoenix over the eons, a little death in a life that could know no beginning and no end but which could nonetheless be subject to an ever-decreasing magnitude? He asked me once if I thought the fires in our lives, the traumas, increased our fulfillment by setting up contrasts that illuminated more clearly our everyday joys; or perhaps I viewed them instead as tests that made us stronger by teaching us to endure; or did I believe, rather, that they simply amplified what we already were, in the end making the strong stronger, the weak weaker, and the dangerous deadly?

Next time I cry, it won’t be because I have fallen in love and can’t get up.

Nothing can dwindle to nothing, as Nature restores one thing from the stuff of another, nor does she allow a birth, without a corresponding death.

Old friend, I am writing to you again The infamous tale of squandered love To have my denial broken by myself To have accepted past for my behove To have grown into a man of honor To have embraced the code of chivalry To have been reborn as a bird of myth To have caught lies in nightly reverie Lost myself in this chronic transition I regret the love wasted, in-between Who knew life can just be happy or full If only the great men ere had foreseen As humbled as I have become due this I’m failing to see the point of these rhymes So old friend, do tell me what is better Death, endured once or a zillion times?

Outside november night gathers With a harmony of autumn leaves Blown down a wind. Quietly by the fire Taliesin Humming from within his closing hood Places the seeing child on to a chair. And the glowing head is clothed In a vestment with bright Colours spreading. Together two voices rise Until at the end of breath one soars And one falls away......echoing. - Circle of Gold

Rebirth always follows death.

Rebirth is born of God.

Redemption in Christ Jesus is the grace rebirth.

Look to the east," she said, "for always, while the light dies in the west, there is the promise of rebirth from the east.

– Mi a halál? – folytatta anyám baljós vidámsággal. – Mit jelent meghalni? Hát először is: mi egy ember? Legnagyobb részben víz. Egyszerűen víz. Nincs az emberben semmi rendkívüli. Szén. A legegyszerűbb elem. Mit is mondanak? Kilencvennyolc százalék? Ennyi az egész. Az a figyelemre méltó, ahogy az egészet összerakták. Ahogy összerakták, hogy van szívünk meg tudónk. Van májunk. Hasnyálmirigyünk. Gyomrunk. Agyunk. És ez mind micsoda? Az elemek vegyülete! Vegyítsd őket – vegyítsd a vegyületet –, és megkapod az embert! Mondhatjuk rá, hogy Craig, az apád, vagy én vagyok. Pedig csak a vegyület, csak ezek az összerakott részek, amelyek valamilyen konkrét módon működnek, egyelőre. És aztán annyi történik, hogy az egyik rész elromlik, tönkremegy. Craig nagybátyád esetében a szív. És akkor azt mondjuk, Craig meghalt. Az ember meghalt. De csak mi látjuk így. A magunk emberi módján. Ha nem gondolkodnánk állandóan egyes emberekben, ha a természetre gondolnánk, ahogy az egész természet működik tovább, bár egyes részei meghalnak – na, nem is meghalnak, átváltoznak, ezt a szót kerestem, átváltoznak, átváltoznak valami mássá, mindaz a sok elem, amiből az illető ember állt, átváltozik, és visszatér a természetbe, és újra meg újra megjelenik madarak meg állatok meg virágok formájában – Craignek nem kell Craignek lennie! Craig lehet virág is!

My chains are broken!

O Earth, lie heavily upon her eyes; Seal her sweet eyes weary of watching Earth; Lie close around her; leave no room for mirth With its harsh laughter, nor for sound of sighs. She hath no questions, she hath no replies.

One must be a lotus to emerge from mucky waters clean.

Perhaps the various burnings of the Alexandria Library were necessary, like those Australian Forest Fires without which the new seeds cannot burst their shells and make a young, healthy forest.

Rebirth is neither born of blood nor flesh or human origin. But born of God.

Reborn here in this grubby old hospital, surrounded by the sick and the dying, people who deserve a second chance far more than he does. But it isn't the pink-and-white cooing kind of rebirth. It's more like being wrenched from a warm, dark, comfortable place and forced out into a bright, frightening world where nothing is certain.

Rebellion is like a second birth.

Repentance leads to rebirth.

Sanctification is rebirth of spirit of soul by the power of the Holy Spirit,

Repent heart, rebirth of spirit.

Resurrection, rebirth, reincarnation, resprout, revive! All these words can be summarised only in one word: Vacation!

Se nu er jeg borte fra byens larm og trængsel og aviser og mennesker, jeg er flygtet fra det altsammen fordi det igjen kaldte på mig fra landet og ensomheten hvor jeg er fra. Du skal se det kommer til å gå godt! Tænker jeg og har atter det bedste håp. Ak jeg har gjort en slik flugt før og er atter vendt tilbake til byen. Og atter flyktet.

She pulled herself through the narrow window into the darkness, midwife to her own rebirth.

Shout out to everyone transcending a mindset, mentality, desire, belief, emotion, habit, behavior or vibration, that no longer serves them.

She remembered who she was and the game changed.

Soon the air of the high place was blowing in through the gaps in the masonry, the open bays, where the wind flowed like water round the arches of a bridge. Borluut felt refreshed fanned by this sea-breeze coming from the beaches of the sky: It seemed to be sweeping up dead leaves inside him. New paths, leading elsewhere, appeared in his soul; fresh clearings were revealed. Finally he found himself. Total oblivion as a prelude to taking possession of one's self! He was like the first man on the first day to whom nothing has yet happened. The delights of metamorphosis. He owed them to the tall tower, to the summit he had gained where the battlemented platform was ready for him, a refuge in the infinite. From that height he could no longer see the world, he no longer understood it. Yes, each time he was seized with vertigo, with a desire to lose his footing, to throw himself off, but not towards the ground, into the abyss with its spirals of belfries and roofs over the depths of the town below. It was the abyss above of which he felt the pull. He was more and more bewildered. Everything was becoming blurred - before his eyes, inside his head - because of the fierce wind, the boundless space with nothing to hold on to, the clouds he had come too close to, which long continued to journey on inside him. The delights of sojourning among the summits have their price.

Solo los cambios disruptivos provocan cambios significativos

Také letos stromy, které zůstaly naživu, opět rozkvetou a obalí se listím, přemítal. Na větvích bude viset zase o pár plodů méně než vloni a ty pak spadnou a shnijí. Tak budou stromy odcházet jeden za druhým. A na jejich místě vyraší nová tráva a nové stromy.

The desire for liberation arises in human beings at the end of many births, through the ripening of their past virtuous conduct.

Sometimes what’s dead must be burned away to make room for new life. Sometimes you just have to step back and let the brittle bits ignite - but once those flames begin to dance their caustic dance, don’t you dare look the other way. Don’t close your eyes. Watch closely and let that image seer itself forever on your mind. Remember what it looked like in the midst of the soot, the smoke, and the haze. Remember, so you don’t repeat the same conditions that required such a blaze.

Suppose a man threw into the sea a yoke with one hole in it, and the east wind carried it to the west, and the west wind carried it to the east, and the north wind carried it to the south, and the south wind carried it to the north. Suppose there were a blind turtle that came up once at the end of each century. What do you think, bhikkhus? Would that blind turtle put his neck into that yoke with one hole in it?" "He might, venerable sir, sometime or other at the end of a long period." "Bhikkhus, the blind turtle would sooner put his neck into that yoke with a single hole in it than a fool, once gone to perdition, would take to regain the human state, I say. Why is that? Because there is no practising of the Dhamma there, no practising of what is righteous, no doing of what is wholesome, no performance of merit. There mutual devouring prevails, and the slaughter of the weak.

Tears ache in my throat and each time his lips caress mine I’m closer to the dam within me bursting open. He’s undoing me, tearing out my demons with burning strokes of his lips and the salty taste of his mouth. In his arms, I’m changing, becoming anew.

Tell a wise person, or else keep silent, because the mass man will mock it right away. I praise what is truly alive, what longs to be burned to death. In the calm water of the love-nights, where you were begotten, where you have begotten, a strange feeling comes over you, when you see the silent candle burning. Now you are no longer caught in the obsession with darkness, and a desire for higher love-making sweeps you upward. Distance does not make you falter. Now, arriving in magic, flying, and finally, insane for the light, you are the butterfly and you are gone. And so long as you haven't experienced this: to die and so to grow, you are only a troubled guest on the dark earth.

Thank God forgiven me of my many sins.

That’s what winter is: an exercise in remembering how to still yourself then how to come pliantly back to life again.

The amorous shepherd has lost his staff, And his sheep are straying on the hillside, And he didn’t even play the flute he brought to play because he was thinking so much. No one came to him or went away. He never found his staff again. Others, cursing at him, gathered his sheep for him. No one had loved him, in the end. When he got up from the hillside and the false truth, he saw everything: The great valleys full of the same green as always, The great distant mountains, more real than any feeling, All reality, with the sky and the air and the fields that exist, is present. (And once again the air, that he’d missed for so long, entered coolly into his lungs) And he felt that the air was opening again, but with pain, a liberty in his chest. (7/10/1930)

The fate of your next birth is written by the karma of this birth

The more I see the sea the more I want to give myself away to its lovely current. But then I realize. I am the current. I am the sea. It is that what is me.

The night kisses the fading day whispering to his ear, “I am death, your mother. I am to give you fresh birth.