Heaves 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
o-high-happy-bosom-heaves-when-love-is-in-dancer-witter-bynner
this-muck-heaves-palpitates-it-is-multidirectional-has-mayor-donald-barthelme
his-look-darkens-he-heaves-me-against-his-chest-forcing-me-to-look-at-him-what-i-do-know-is-that-you-are-disrespectful-disobedient-and-that-is-something-that-we-have-to-change-do
the-sea-heaves-up-hangs-loaded-oer-the-land-breaks-there-and-buries-its-tumultuous-strength
the-lake-my-mind-unbroken-by-oars-heaves-placidly-soon-sinks-into-oily-somnolence-that-will-be-useful-virginia-woolf
what-if-this-cursed-hand-were-thicker-than-itself-with-brothers-blood-is-there-not-rain-enough-in-sweet-heaves-to-wash-it-white-as-snow-william-shakespeare
on-wenlock-edge-woods-in-troublehis-forest-fleece-wrekin-heavesthe-wind-it-plies-saplings-double-and-thick-on-severn-snow-leaves-a-e-housman
the-end-is-near-moridin-said-the-wheel-has-groaned-its-final-rotation-clock-has-lost-its-spring-serpent-heaves-its-final-gasps-robert-jordan
like-mighty-eagle-soaring-light-oer-antelopes-on-alpine-height-the-anchor-heaves-ship-swings-free-the-sails-swell-full-to-sea-to-sea-thomas-lovell-beddoes
debarred-from-public-worship-david-was-heartsick-ease-he-did-not-seek-honour-he-did-not-covet-but-enjoyment-communion-with-god-was-urgent-need-his-soul-he-viewed-it-not-merely-as
But what might a woman say about church as she? What might a woman say about the church as body and bride? Perhaps she would speak of the way a regular body moves through the world-always changing, never perfect-capable of nurturing life, not simply through the womb, but through hands, feet, eyes, voice, and brain. Every part is sacred. Every part has a function. Perhaps she would speak of impossible expectations and all the time she's wasted trying to contort herself into the shape of those amorphous silhouettes that flit from magazines and billboards into her mind. Or of this screwed-up notion of purity as a status, as something awarded by men with tests and checklists and the power to give it and take it away. Perhaps she would speak of the surprise of seeing herself-flaws and all-in the mirror on her wedding day. Or of the reality that with new life comes swollen breasts, dry heaves, dirty diapers, snotty noses, late-night arguments, and a whole army of new dangers and fears she never even considered before because life-giving isn't nearly as glamorous as it sounds, but it's a thousand times more beautiful. Perhaps she would talk about being underestimated, about surprising people and surprising herself. Or about how there are moments when her own strength startles her, and moments when her weakness-her forgetfulness, her fear, her exhaustion-unnerve her. Maybe she would tell of the time, in the mountains with bare feet on the ground, she stood tall and wise and felt every cell in her body smile in assent as she inhaled and exhaled and in one loud second realized, I'm alive! I'm enfleshed! only to forget it the next. Or maybe she would explain how none of the categories created for her sum her up or capture her essence.

Rachel Held Evans
but-what-might-woman-say-about-church-as-she-what-might-woman-say-about-church-as-body-bride-perhaps-she-would-speak-way-regular-body-moves-through-worldalways-changing-never-per
The Friend of Your Youth is the only friend you will ever have, for he does not really see you. He sees in his mind a face that does not exist anymore, speaks a name - Spike, Bud, Snip, Red, Rusty, Jack, Dave - which belongs to that now nonexistent face but which by some inane doddering confusion of the universe is for the moment attached to a not happily met and boring stranger. But he humors the drooling doddering confusion of the universe and continues to address politely that dull stranger by the name which properly belongs to the boy face and to the time when the boy voice called thinly across the late afternoon water or murmured by a campfire at night or in the middle of a crowded street said, 'Gee, listen to this-'On Wenlock Edge the wood's in trouble; His forest fleece the Wrekin heaves-'' The Friend of Your Youth is your friend because he does not see you anymore. And perhaps he never saw you. What he saw was simply part of the furniture of the wonderful opening world. Friendship was something he suddenly discovered and had to give away as a recognition of and payment for the breathlessly opening world which momently divulged itself like a moonflower. It didn't matter a damn to whom he gave it, for the fact of giving was what mattered, and if you happened to be handy you were automatically endowed with all the appropriate attributes of a friend and forever after your reality is irrelevant. The Friend of Your Youth is the only friend you will ever have, for he hasn't the slightest concern with calculating his interest or your virtue. He doesn't give a damn, for the moment, about Getting Ahead or Needs Must Admiring the Best, the two official criteria in adult friendships, and when the boring stranger appears, he puts out his hand and smiles (not really seeing your face) and speaks your name (which doesn't really belong to your face), saying, 'Well, Jack, damned glad you came, come on in, boy!

Robert Penn Warren
the-friend-your-youth-is-only-friend-you-will-ever-have-for-he-does-not-really-see-you-he-sees-in-his-mind-face-that-does-not-exist-anymore-speaks-name-spike-bud-snip-red-rusty-j
A kind of northing is what I wish to accomplish, a single-minded trek towards that place where any shutter left open to the zenith at night will record the wheeling of all the sky's stars as a pattern of perfect, concentric circles. I seek a reduction, a shedding, a sloughing off. At the seashore you often see a shell, or fragment of a shell, that sharp sands and surf have thinned to a wisp. There is no way you can tell what kind of shell it had been, what creature it had housed; it could have been a whelk or a scallop, a cowrie, limpet, or conch. The animal is long since dissolved, and its blood spread and thinned in the general sea. All you hold in your hand is a cool shred of shell, an inch long, pared so thin that it passes a faint pink light. It is an essence, a smooth condensation of the air, a curve. I long for the North where unimpeded winds would hone me to such a pure slip of bone. But I'll not go northing this year. I'll stalk that floating pole and frigid air by waiting here. I wait on bridges; I wait, struck, on forest paths and meadow's fringes, hilltops and banksides, day in and day out, and I receive a southing as a gift. The North washes down the mountains like a waterfall, like a tidal wave, and pours across the valley; it comes to me. It sweetens the persimmons and numbs the last of the crickets and hornets; it fans the flames of the forest maples, bows the meadow's seeded grasses and pokes it chilling fingers under the leaf litter, thrusting the springtails and the earthworms deeper into the earth. The sun heaves to the south by day, and at night wild Orion emerges looming like the Specter over Dead Man Mountain. Something is already here, and more is coming.

Annie Dillard
a-kind-northing-is-what-i-wish-to-accomplish-singleminded-trek-towards-that-place-where-any-shutter-left-open-to-zenith-at-night-will-record-wheeling-all-skys-stars-as-pattern-pe
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