Exuberant 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
id-forgotten-how-exuberant-you-are-stephenie-meyer
exuberant-health-is-always-as-such-sickness-also
janis-was-exuberant-in-way-its-sad-to-see-her-happy-dick-cavett
on-tony-gwynn-it-was-wonder-that-such-exuberant-man-could-be-patient-jeremy-rozansky
when-im-up-im-over-exuberant-when-im-down-i-just-wander-round-on-my-own-i-have-no-middle-space
performance-is-better-than-promise-exuberant-assurances-are-cheap
designers-have-always-shown-outlandish-exuberant-clothes-but-that-hasnt-always-translated-to-streets
i-tend-to-think-of-action-movies-as-exuberant-morality-plays-in-which-good-triumphs-over-evil
human-vitality-is-exuberant-that-in-sorriest-desert-it-still-finds-pretext-for-glowing-trembling-jose-ortega-y-gasset
we-always-got-strong-response-but-i-think-in-this-day-in-age-there-is-less-marijuana-fog-at-concerts-more-people-just-more-naturally-exuberant-james-young
the-spirit-southwest-airlines-is-exuberant-its-caring-its-dedicated-its-diligent-its-fun-its-rewarding-its-joy
you-sort-fell-in-love-with-jane-when-you-met-her-she-was-exuberant-original-strongminded-kind-woman-jacob-epstein
the-rosenberg-case-had-been-orchestrated-to-anti-communist-frenzy-that-matched-exuberant-hysteria-nazi-horror
lyda-was-exuberant-even-dramatic-gardener-she-was-always-holding-up-lettuce-bunch-radishes-with-air-resolute-courage-as-though-she-had-shot-renata-adler
the-simple-sense-wonder-at-shapes-things-at-their-exuberant-independence-our-intellectual-standards-our-trivial-definitions-is-basis-gilbert-k-chesterton
seeks-to-grow-improve-oneself-through-creative-activity-freely-expressing-ones-exuberant-vitality-through-warm-supportive-encouragement-others-stephen-arroyo
one-strengths-belief-in-antinous-was-its-appeal-to-most-sensitive-inward-mystical-natures-as-well-as-to-exuberant-joyous-ecstatic-sides-human-experience-royston-lambert
mans-chief-difference-from-brutes-lies-in-exuberant-excess-his-subjective-propensities-prune-his-extravagance-sober-him-you-undo-him-william-james
though-i-would-have-died-rather-than-told-anyone-i-was-worried-my-exuberant-drug-use-had-damaged-my-brain-my-nervous-system-maybe-even-my-soul-in-some-irreparable-perhaps-not-rea
look-at-darkest-hit-musicals-cabaret-west-side-story-carousel-they-are-exuberant-experiences-they-send-you-out-theater-filled-with-music
nothing-is-more-endangered-in-modern-world-than-powerful-combination-hard-work-toward-meaningful-goals-joined-with-exuberant-embrace-present-old-tom-morris
as-american-productivity-once-exuberant-engine-national-wealth-has-dipped-to-embarrassingly-uncompetitive-low-americans-have-shaken-their-heads-lance-morrow
be-sure-to-enjoy-language-experiment-with-ways-talking-be-exuberant-even-when-you-dont-feel-like-it-because-language-can-make-your-world-better-place-to-live-deborah-levy
i-put-on-such-good-show-story-is-outrageous-people-dont-want-to-hear-that-im-basically-reasonable-human-being-as-long-as-it-continues-to-get-me-print-ill-continue-to-perform-in-e
i-suppose-good-artists-righteous-artists-somehow-manage-to-be-exuberant-embarrassed-artist-has-this-idea-that-everybody-has-to-stop-being-excited-john-currin
metal-isnt-necessarily-aggressive-theres-metal-thats-contemplative-theres-metal-thats-sad-theres-metal-thats-exuberant-no-genre-is-limited-in-what-it-can-express
keep-up-your-enthusiasm-there-is-nothing-more-contagious-than-exuberant-enthusiasm-harry-houdini
poetry-i-think-intensifies-readers-experience-if-its-humorous-facet-story-poetry-makes-it-more-exuberant-if-its-sad-facet-poetry-can-make-it-more-poignant
MOTHER - By Ted Kooser Mid April already, and the wild plums bloom at the roadside, a lacy white against the exuberant, jubilant green of new grass and the dusty, fading black of burned-out ditches. No leaves, not yet, only the delicate, star-petaled blossoms, sweet with their timeless perfume. You have been gone a month today and have missed three rains and one nightlong watch for tornadoes. I sat in the cellar from six to eight while fat spring clouds went somersaulting, rumbling east. Then it poured, a storm that walked on legs of lightning, dragging its shaggy belly over the fields. The meadowlarks are back, and the finches are turning from green to gold. Those same two geese have come to the pond again this year, honking in over the trees and splashing down. They never nest, but stay a week or two then leave. The peonies are up, the red sprouts, burning in circles like birthday candles, for this is the month of my birth, as you know, the best month to be born in, thanks to you, everything ready to burst with living. There will be no more new flannel nightshirts sewn on your old black Singer, no birthday card addressed in a shaky but businesslike hand. You asked me if I would be sad when it happened and I am sad. But the iris I moved from your house now hold in the dusty dry fists of their roots green knives and forks as if waiting for dinner, as if spring were a feast. I thank you for that. Were it not for the way you taught me to look at the world, to see the life at play in everything, I would have to be lonely forever.

Ted Kooser
mother-by-ted-kooser-mid-april-already-wild-plums-bloom-at-roadside-lacy-white-against-exuberant-jubilant-green-new-grass-dusty-fading-black-burnedout-ditches-no-leaves-not-yet-o
There is a bench in the back of my garden shaded by Virginia creeper, climbing roses, and a white pine where I sit early in the morning and watch the action. Light blue bells of a dwarf campanula drift over the rock garden just before my eyes. Behind it, a three-foot stand of aconite is flowering now, each dark blue cowl-like corolla bowed for worship or intrigue: thus its common name, monkshood. Next to the aconite, black madonna lilies with their seductive Easter scent are just coming into bloom. At the back of the garden, a hollow log, used in its glory days for a base to split kindling, now spills white cascade petunias and lobelia. I can't get enough of watching the bees and trying to imagine how they experience the abundance of, say, a blue campanula blosssom, the dizzy light pulsing, every fiber of being immersed in the flower... Last night, after a day in the garden, I asked Robin to explain (again) photosynthesis to me. I can't take in this business of _eating light_ and turning it into stem and thorn and flower... I would not call this meditation, sitting in the back garden. Maybe I would call it eating light. Mystical traditions recognize two kinds of practice: _apophatic mysticism_, which is the dark surrender of Zen, the Via Negativa of John of the Cross, and _kataphatic mysticism_, less well defined: an openhearted surrender to the beauty of creation. Maybe Francis of Assissi was, on the whole, a kataphatic mystic, as was There¨se of Lisieux in her exuberant momemnts: but the fact is, kataphatic mysticism has low status in religious circles. Francis and There¨se were made, really made, any mother superior will let you know, in the dark nights of their lives: no more of this throwing off your clothes and singing songs and babbling about the shelter of God's arms. When I was twelve and had my first menstrual period, my grandmother took me aside and said, 'Now your childhood is over. You will never really be happy again.' That is pretty much how some spiritual directors treat the transition from kataphatic to apophatic mysticism. But, I'm sorry, I'm going to sit here every day the sun shines and eat this light. Hung in the bell of desire.

Mary Rose O'Reilley
there-is-bench-in-back-my-garden-shaded-by-virginia-creeper-climbing-roses-white-pine-where-i-sit-early-in-morning-watch-action-light-blue-bells-dwarf-campanula-drift-over-rock-g
I was standing lost, sunk, my hands in my pockets, gazing toward Tinker Mountain and feeling the earth reel down. All at once, I saw what looked like a Martian spaceship whirling towards me in the air. It flashed borrowed light like a propeller. Its forward motion greatly outran its fall. As I watched, transfixed, it rose, just before it would have touched a thistle, and hovered pirouetting in one spot, then twirled on and finally came to rest. I found it in the grass; it was a maple key... Hullo. I threw it into the wind and it flew off again, bristling with animate purpose, not like a thing dropped or windblown, pushed by the witless winds of convection currents hauling round the world's rondure where they must, but like a creature muscled and vigorous, or a creature spread thin to that other wind, the wind of the spirit that bloweth where it listeth, lighting, and raising up, and easing down. O maple key, I thought, I must confess I thought, o welcome, cheers. And the bell under my ribs rang a true note, a flourish of blended horns, clarion, sweet, and making a long dim sense I will try at length to explain. Flung is too harsh a word for the rush of the world. Blown is more like it, but blown by a generous, unending breath. That breath never ceases to kindle, exuberant, abandoned; frayed splinters spatter in every direction and burgeon into flame. And now when I sway to a fitful wind, alone and listing, I will think, maple key. When I see a photograph of earth from outer space, the planet so startlingly painterly and hung, I will think, maple key. When I shake your hand or meet your eyes, I will think two maple keys. If I am maple key falling, at least I can twirl. Thomas Merton wrote, 'There is always a temptation to diddle around in the contemplative life, making itsy-bitsy statues.' There is always an enormous temptation in all of life to diddle around making itsy-bitsy friends and meals and journeys for itsy-bitsy years on end. It's no self-conscious, so apparently moral, simple to step aside from the gaps where the creeks and winds pour down, saying, I never merited this grace, quite rightly, and then to sulk along the rest of your days on the edge of rage. I won't have it. The world is wilder than that in all directions, more dangerous and bitter, more extravagant and bright. We are making hay when we should be making whoopee; we are raising tomatoes when we should be raising Cain, or Lazarus. Ezekiel excoriates false prophets who have 'not gone up into the gaps.' The gaps are the thing. The gaps are the spirit's one home, the altitudes and latitudes so dazzlingly spare and clean that the spirit can discover itself for the first time like a once blind man unbound. The gaps are the cliffs in the rock where you cower to see the back parts of God; they are the fissures between mountains and cells the wind lances through, the icy narrowing fjords splitting the cliffs of mystery. Go up into the gaps. If you can find them; they shift and vanish too. Stalk the gaps. Squeak into a gap in the soil, turn, and unlock- more than a maple- a universe. This is how you spend the afternoon, and tomorrow morning, and tomorrow afternoon. Spend the afternoon. You can't take it with you.

Annie Dillard
i-was-standing-lost-sunk-my-hands-in-my-pockets-gazing-toward-tinker-mountain-feeling-earth-reel-down-all-at-once-i-saw-what-looked-like-martian-spaceship-whirling-towards-me-in-
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