Calendars Quotes

Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
Categories: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z
and-i-have-couple-swimsuit-calendars-i-did-that-are-coming-out-trishelle-cannatella
i-try-to-hook-you-up-every-day-whats-point-calendars-without-dates-lauren-kate
life-is-not-dated-merely-by-years-events-are-sometimes-best-calendars-benjamin-disraeli
but-what-minutes-count-them-by-sensation-and-not-by-calendars-and-each-moment-is-a-day
there-is-wisdom-in-body-that-is-older-more-reliable-than-clocks-calendars-john-h-johnson
psych-ward-clocks-depressed-nudge-like-anxious-calendars-brian-spellman
announcing-withdrawal-date-that-was-wrong-the-taliban-may-not-have-watches-but-they-do-have-calendars-mitt-romney
clocks-calendars-do-not-exist-to-remind-us-time-weve-forgotten-but-to-regulate-our-relations-with-others-indeed-all-society-this-is-how-we-use-them-orhan-pamuk
i-get-her-to-school-we-do-homework-at-night-at-this-age-their-social-calendars-are-really-quite-hectic-shes-not-driving-yet-i-end-up-chauffeuring-her-around
calendars-clocks-exist-to-measure-time-but-that-signifies-little-because-we-all-know-that-hour-can-seem-as-eternity-pass-in-flash-according-to-how-michael-ende
smartphones-has-already-replaced-camera-calendars-notebooks-alarm-clocks-etc-in-our-life-dont-let-them-replace-you-in-your-family
i-drew-picture-on-back-calendar-in-pencil-in-those-days-they-used-to-give-out-free-calendars-i-had-no-art-paper-i-took-whatever-else-i-could
life-has-puffed-blown-itself-into-summer-day-clouds-spring-billow-over-heavens-as-if-calendars-were-listing-mathematical-errors-zelda-fitzgerald
most-modern-calendars-mar-sweet-simplicity-our-lives-by-reminding-us-that-each-day-that-passes-is-anniversary-some-perfectly-uninteresting-event-oscar-wilde
moving-to-one-show-each-season-will-significantly-help-to-simplify-many-aspects-our-business-maintaining-two-separate-disconnected-calendars-has-been-result-tradition-rather-than
i-hate-digital-calendars-i-use-pen-paper-palm-my-hand-for-my-daily-schedule-i-get-much-more-satisfaction-out-physically-crossing-things-out-than-deleting
here-at-carolina-our-world-cup-opponents-marked-their-calendars-obviously-other-nations-wanted-to-win-every-game-but-big-upset-over-us-was-something-we-knew-other-teams-would-che
when-i-left-eastenders-i-could-have-earned-absolute-fortune-from-sexy-calendars-shoots-for-lads-mags-fitness-videos-reality-shows-but-i-always-turned-them-down
i-had-forgotten-such-innocence-exists-forgotten-how-it-feels-to-live-with-neither-calendars-nor-clocks-pk-page
we-ought-to-arrange-calendars-as-we-arrange-art-on-our-walls-ask-how-does-this-task-fit-next-to-surrounding-ones
a-story-conducted-by-time-clock-calendars-alone-would-be-story-not-human-beings-but-mechanical-toys-mary-lascelles
the-bikers-love-it-when-i-had-to-cancel-first-date-they-said-oh-no-you-got-to-do-it-they-all-took-out-their-little-calendars-to-set-new-date-cathy-melanson
on-time-for-us-was-thirty-minutes-before-actually-started-because-half-hour-before-first-bell-was-highlight-our-social-calendars-standing-outside-side-door-that-led-into-band-roo
he-was-my-age-in-my-imagination-he-was-fireman-not-kind-that-actually-fights-fires-but-kind-who-travels-country-shirtless-posing-for-calendars-marika-christian
time-limits-are-fictional-losing-all-sense-time-is-actually-way-to-reality-we-use-clocks-calendars-for-convenience-sake-not-because-that-kind-time-leslie-marmon-silko
Nothing is a masterpiece - a real masterpiece - till it's about two hundred years old. A picture is like a tree or a church, you've got to let it grow into a masterpiece. Same with a poem or a new religion. They begin as a lot of funny words. Nobody knows whether they're all nonsense or a gift from heaven. And the only people who think anything of 'em are a lot of cranks or crackpots, or poor devils who don't know enough to know anything. Look at Christianity. Just a lot of floating seeds to start with, all sorts of seeds. It was a long time before one of them grew into a tree big enough to kill the rest and keep the rain off. And it's only when the tree has been cut into planks and built into a house and the house has got pretty old and about fifty generations of ordinary lumpheads who don't know a work of art from a public convenience, have been knocking nails in the kitchen beams to hang hams on, and screwing hooks in the walls for whips and guns and photographs and calendars and measuring the children on the window frames and chopping out a new cupboard under the stairs to keep the cheese and murdering their wives in the back room and burying them under the cellar flags, that it begins even to feel like a religion. And when the whole place is full of dry rot and ghosts and old bones and the shelves are breaking down with old wormy books that no one could read if they tried, and the attic floors are bulging through the servants' ceilings with old trunks and top-boots and gasoliers and dressmaker's dummies and ball frocks and dolls-houses and pony saddles and blunderbusses and parrot cages and uniforms and love letters and jugs without handles and bridal pots decorated with forget-me-nots and a piece out at the bottom, that it grows into a real old faith, a masterpiece which people can really get something out of, each for himself. And then, of course, everybody keeps on saying that it ought to be pulled down at once, because it's an insanitary nuisance.

Joyce Cary
nothing-is-masterpiece-real-masterpiece-till-its-about-two-hundred-years-old-a-picture-is-like-tree-church-youve-got-to-let-it-grow-into-masterpiece-same-with-poem-new-religion-t
I saw a banner hanging next to city hall in downtown Philadelphia that read, "Kill them all, and let God sort them out." A bumper sticker read, "God will judge evildoers; we just have to get them to him." I saw a T-shirt on a soldier that said, "US Air Force... we don't die; we just go to hell to regroup." Others were less dramatic- red, white, and blue billboards saying, "God bless our troops." "God Bless America" became a marketing strategy. One store hung an ad in their window that said, "God bless America-$1 burgers." Patriotism was everywhere, including in our altars and church buildings. In the aftermath of September 11th, most Christian bookstores had a section with books on the event, calendars, devotionals, buttons, all decorated in the colors of America, draped in stars and stripes, and sprinkled with golden eagles. This burst of nationalism reveals the deep longing we all have for community, a natural thirst for intimacy... September 11th shattered the self-sufficient, autonomous individual, and we saw a country of broken fragile people who longed for community- for people to cry with, be angry with, to suffer with. People did not want to be alone in their sorrow, rage, and fear. But what happened after September 11th broke my heart. Conservative Christians rallies around the drums of war. Liberal Christian took to the streets. The cross was smothered by the flag and trampled under the feet of angry protesters. The church community was lost, so the many hungry seekers found community in the civic religion of American patriotism. People were hurting and crying out for healing, for salvation in the best sense of the word, as in the salve with which you dress a wound. A people longing for a savior placed their faith in the fragile hands of human logic and military strength, which have always let us down. They have always fallen short of the glory of God... The tragedy of the church's reaction to September 11th is not that we rallied around the families in New York and D.C. but that our love simply reflected the borders and allegiances of the world. We mourned the deaths of each soldier, as we should, but we did not feel the same anger and pain for each Iraqi death, or for the folks abused in the Abu Ghraib prison incident. We got farther and farther from Jesus' vision, which extends beyond our rational love and the boundaries we have established. There is no doubt that we must mourn those lives on September 11th. We must mourn the lives of the soldiers. But with the same passion and outrage, we must mourn the lives of every Iraqi who is lost. They are just as precious, no more, no less. In our rebirth, every life lost in Iraq is just as tragic as a life lost in New York or D.C. And the lives of the thirty thousand children who die of starvation each day is like six September 11ths every single day, a silent tsunami that happens every week.

Shane Claiborne
i-saw-banner-hanging-next-to-city-hall-in-downtown-philadelphia-that-read-kill-them-all-let-god-sort-them-out-a-bumper-sticker-read-god-will-judge-evildoers-we-just-have-to-get-t
On the first day of November last year, sacred to many religious calendars but especially the Celtic, I went for a walk among bare oaks and birch. Nothing much was going on. Scarlet sumac had passed and the bees were dead. The pond had slicked overnight into that shiny and deceptive glaze of delusion, first ice. It made me remember sakes and conjure a vision of myself skimming backward on one foot, the other extended; the arms become wings. Minnesota girls know that this is not a difficult maneuver if one's limber and practices even a little after school before the boys claim the rink for hockey. I think I can still do it - one thinks many foolish things when November's bright sun skips over the entrancing first freeze. A flock of sparrows reels through the air looking more like a flying net than seventy conscious birds, a black veil thrown on the wind. When one sparrow dodges, the whole net swerves, dips: one mind. Am I part of anything like that? Maybe not. The last few years of my life have been characterized by stripping away, one by one, loves and communities that sustain the soul. A young colleague, new to my English department, recently asked me who I hang around with at school. "Nobody," I had to say, feeling briefly ashamed. This solitude is one of the surprises of middle age, especially if one's youth has been rich in love and friendship and children. If you do your job right, children leave home; few communities can stand an individual's most pitiful, amateur truth telling. So the soul must stand in her own meager feathers and learn to fly - or simply take hopeful jumps into the wind. In the Christian calendar, November 1 is the Feast of All Saints, a day honoring not only those who are known and recognized as enlightened souls, but more especially the unknowns, saints who walk beside us unrecognized down the millennia. In Buddhism, we honor the bodhisattvas - saints - who refuse enlightenment and return willingly to the wheel of karma to help other beings. Similarly, in Judaism, anonymous holy men pray the world from its well-merited destruction. We never know who is walking beside us, who is our spiritual teacher. That one - who annoys you so - pretends for a day that he's the one, your personal Obi Wan Kenobi. The first of November is a splendid, subversive holiday. Imagine a hectic procession of revelers - the half-mad bag lady; a mumbling, scarred janitor whose ravaged face made the children turn away; the austere, unsmiling mother superior who seemed with great focus and clarity to do harm; a haunted music teacher, survivor of Auschwitz. I bring them before my mind's eye, these old firends of my soul, awakening to dance their day. Crazy saints; but who knows what was home in the heart? This is the feast of those who tried to take the path, so clumsily that no one knew or notice, the feast, indeed, of most of us. It's an ugly woods, I was saying to myself, padding along a trail where other walkers had broken ground before me. And then I found an extraordinary bouquet. Someone had bound an offering of dry seed pods, yew, lyme grass, red berries, and brown fern and laid it on the path: "nothing special," as Buddhists say, meaning "everything." Gathered to formality, each dry stalk proclaimed a slant, an attitude, infinite shades of neutral. All contemplative acts, silences, poems, honor the world this way. Brought together by the eye of love, a milkweed pod, a twig, allow us to see how things have been all along. A feast of being.

Mary Rose O'Reilley
on-first-day-november-last-year-sacred-to-many-religious-calendars-but-especially-celtic-i-went-for-walk-among-bare-oaks-birch-nothing-much-was-going-on-scarlet-sumac-had-passed-
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