Prayer is like water - something you can't imagine has the strength or power to do any good, and yet give it time and it can change the lay of the land.
I have built a city from the books I've read. A good book sings a a timeless music that is heard in the choir lofts, and balconies, and theaters that thrived within that secret city inside me.
Words should wander and meander. They should fly like owls and flicker like bats and slip like cats. They should murmur and scream and dance and sing.
What is it like to be so free - so trapped, but so free? What kind of bird sings only when caught? What kind of slave outshines and rises above her master?
The world is always full of the sound of waves. The little fishes, abandoning themselves to the waves, dance and sing, and play, but who knows the heart of the sea, a hundred feet down? Who knows it depth?
Concerning the popularity of vampire books: I don't get it. I think people should read about bloody, heart-singing, mind-searing spirituality. Live your heart’s song, not its drippings.
If one is going to spend her afternoon singing hymns to the great porcelain goddess, she might as well do it in a really plush ladies room. Stupid fear of public speaking.
Provided that any of those neighbours sing out of tune or have boots that squeak, or double chins, or odd clothes, the patient will quite easily believe that their religion must therefore be somehow ridiculous.
I keep going back as if Im looking for something I have lost back to the motherland, sisterland, fatherland back to the beacon, the breast the smell and taste of the breeze, and the singing of the rain.
It's the colors that will make you stray. They sing to you, the not-blue and the searing light, and no matter how tightly you tie yourself to the inbetween, eventually you will break free. No one swims only in the shallow water.
Then the singing enveloped me. It was furry and resonant, coming from everyone's very heart. There was no sense of performance or judgment, only that the music was breath and food.
I was born on the night of Samhain, when the barrier between the worlds is whisper-thin and when magic, old magic, sings its heady and sweet song to anyone who cares to hear it.
This beautiful body, sweetness? It’s made for pleasure. It’s singing to me, telling me what it wants and needs. Those other idiots you were with weren’t fuckin listening.
The wine must have done its job, because I am relaxed and finally at ease. Yes, it’s definitely the wine. Otherwise I wouldn't have started singing out of the blue in a million years.
My Solitude is my Treasure, the best thing I have. I hesitate to go out. If you opened the little gate, I would not hop away—but oh how I sing in my gold cage.
just a little bit longer, sing: like rain, like sand, like wind in the night, prickling" from the poem - STAY from the book "Riding the Escalator
I think about my mother singing after lunch on a Summer afternoon, twirling in blue dress across the floor of her dressing room
Tucker: "Today we ran into a mama grizzly with two cubs at the ridge off Colter Bay and Clara sang to it to make it go away." Mrs. Avery: You sang to it? Tucker: Her singing is that bad.
Her voice is raw. She sings from the deepest cracks of her heart and her soul. When she closes her eyes, I know she has lost herself in the music. - Unrequited
I was especially perceptive to all things beautiful that morning—raspberries in blue china bowls were enough to make the heart sing.
Each soul has its own note to sing in the divine chorus and no voice is more important than another. (94)
