Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, Creeps in this petty pace from day to day, To the last syllable of recorded time; And all our yesterdays have lighted fools The way to dusty death. - Macbeth Act V, Scene V
Dreaming is another form of thinking, more concrete, more economical, more visual, and often more emotional than the thoughts of the day, but a thinking through of the day, nevertheless.
I'm an atheist, but I believe in art. I go to galleries like my mother went to church. It helps me understand the way I live.
There are far too many silent sufferers. Not because they don't yearn to reach out, but because they've tried and found no one who cares.
Every now and then I sit and watch the sun rise to remind myself how it's done—peacefully, steadily, warmly, and in beautiful color.
Trust in the silent doers. It is far more difficult to put your dreams into action than into flowery words.
You pierce me with a look, a word, a gesture. And yet those same weapons could shield me from hurt if you so choose.
It's a waste of time worrying about something that worry won't fix; it's about as useful as trying to feed your pet rock.
Gratitude doesn't change the scenery. It merely washes clean the glass you look through so you can clearly see the colors.
Gratitude is the real treasure God wants us to find, because it isn't the pot of gold but the rainbow that colors our world.
One grateful thought is a ray of sunshine. A hundred such thoughts paint a sunrise. A thousand will rival the glaring sky at noonday - for gratitude is light against the darkness.
Mother nature changes her looks for the same reason any woman changes her looks—to be noticed.
It's good to look at life from the bottom up so you can see that things have risen above what they once were.
You were born and with you endless possibilities, very few ever to be realized. It's okay. Life was never about what you do, but what you do.
To punish someone for your own mistakes or for the consequences of your own actions, to harm another by shifting blame that is rightly yours; this is a wretched and cowardly sin.
A single act of kindness is like a drop of oil on a patch of dry skin—seeping, spreading, and affecting more than the original need.
When a person boldly declares, he might as well add on, , knowing that this spoken roadblock only serves to fuel a challenge in naturally stubborn souls.
We hunger after the sweet nectar of happiness without understanding that it is harvested from the flowering field of good deeds.
I'm starting to think this world is just a place for us to learn that we need each other more than we want to admit.
Christmas is like candy; it slowly melts in your mouth sweetening every taste bud, making you wish it could last forever.
Christmas is our annual reminder to —pondering celestial stars, to —serving those in need, and to —glorifying our Lord in humble prayer.
