Jim > Jim's Quotes

“You don't love someone because they're perfect, you love them in spite of the fact that they're not.”
― Jodi Picoult, My Sister's Keeper

“But is it such a bad thing to live like this for just a little while? Just for a few months of one's life, is it so awful to travel through time with no greater ambition than to find the next lovely meal? Or to learn how to speak a language for no higher purpose than that it pleases your ear to hear it? Or to nap in a garden, in a patch of sunlight, in the middle of the day, right next to your favourite fountain? And then to do it again the next day?”
― Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

“You're going to come across people in your life who will say all the right words at all the right times. But in the end, it's always their actions you should judge them by. It's actions, not words, that matter.”
― Nicholas Sparks, The Rescue

“Happiness [is] only real when shared”
― Jon Krakauer, Into the Wild

“Black bears rarely attack. But here's the thing. Sometimes they do. All bears are agile, cunning and immensely strong, and they are always hungry. If they want to kill you and eat you, they can, and pretty much whenever they want. That doesn't happen often, but - and here is the absolutely salient point - once would be enough.”
― Bill Bryson, A Walk in the Woods: Rediscovering America on the Appalachian Trail

“You've gotta dance like there's nobody watching,
Love like you'll never be hurt,
Sing like there's nobody listening,
And live like it's heaven on earth.”
― William W. Purkey

“When I have a little money, I buy books; and if I have any left, I buy food and clothes.”
― Desiderius Erasmus Roterodamus

“Hiranyagarbha”
― Richard Rosen, Yoga FAQ: Almost Everything You Need to Know about Yoga-from Asanas to Yamas

“guiding users through a process quickly and easily is good for business, because the fewer people who get frustrated or confused, the more sales or sign-ups are completed. The problem, though, is that making interactions feel smooth and simple sounds nice, but it starts to fail as soon as you’re asking users for messy, complicated information. And as you’ll see in this chapter, all kinds of everyday questions can be messy and complicated—often in ways designers haven’t predicted. NAMING THE PROBLEM Sara Ann Marie Wachter-Boettcher. That’s how my birth certificate reads: five names, one hyphen, and a whole lot of consonant clusters (thanks, Mom and Dad!). I was used to it being misspelled. I was used to it being pronounced all sorts of ways. I was even used to everyone who looks at my driver’s license commenting that it takes up two whole lines. But I didn’t expect my name to cause me so many problems online. As it turns out, tons of services haven’t thought much about the wide range of names out there. So, on Twitter I forgo spaces to fit my professional name in: SaraWachterBoettcher. On online bill pay, they’ve truncated it for me: Sara Wachter-Boettch. In my airline’s online check-in system, hyphens straight up don’t exist. The list goes on. It’s irritating. It takes some extra time (do I enter a space between my last names, or just squish them together?). I see more error messages than I’d like. But it’s still a minor inconvenience, compared to what other people experience.”
― Sara Wachter-Boettcher, Technically Wrong: Sexist Apps, Biased Algorithms, and Other Threats of Toxic Tech

“Progress remains equally sluggish when it comes to compensation. In 1970, American women were paid 59 cents for every dollar their male counterparts made. By 2010, women had protested, fought, and worked their butts off to raise that compensation to 77 cents for every dollar men made.10 As activist Marlo Thomas wryly joked on Equal Pay Day 2011, “Forty years and eighteen cents.”
― Sheryl Sandberg, Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead

“Sprouts then grow from the oak stumps and, over the years, mature into multiple trees sharing the same base and root system. These oaks are referred to as “coppice oaks” (Figure 10.6). Other trees can do this, but because oaks tend to be harvested the most, they are the most likely to reappear as coppice trees. Figure 10.6 Coppice oaks grown from the”
― Mark Mikolas, A Beginner's Guide to Recognizing Trees of the Northeast

“Bless the words I write. May they be beautiful in your sight. May they be visible to eyes not yet born. When I am dust, sing these words over my bones: she was a voice. I gazed upon the prayer and the girl and the dove, and a sensation billowed in my chest, a small exultation like a flock of birds lifting all at once from the trees. I wished God might notice what I’d done and speak from the whirlwind. I wished him to say: Ana, I see you. How pleasing you are in my sight. There was only silence. It was while I busied myself putting away my writing tools that the second commandment appeared in my mind as if God had spoken after all, but it was not what I wished to hear. Thou shalt not make a graven image of anything living in heaven, or on the earth, or in the sea.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“oldest brother, Haran, is on the Jewish council in Alexandria and he struck a deal with the Romans to allow the council to determine my fate. They sent me away to the Therapeutae.” “Therapeutae?” I repeated, feeling how thick the word was on my tongue. “What is it?” “It’s a community of Jews. Philosophers, mostly. Like me, like you, they come from educated and affluent families with servants”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“When you love, you remember everything. The way his eyes rested on me for the first time. The yarns he held in the market, fluttering now in hidden places in my body. The sound of his voice on my skin. The thought of him like a diving bird in my belly. I loved others—Yaltha, Judas, my parents, God, Lavi, Tabitha—but not in this way, not with ache and sweetness and flame. Not more than I loved words. Jesus had put his hand to the latch and I was flung open. I set it all down. I filled the papyrus. When the ink was dry, I rolled it up and slid it into the bundle beneath the bed. The air in the room felt dangerous. My writings could not remain in the house much longer.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“A woman pushed her way through the swarm of people. “She’s the daughter of Matthias, head scribe to Herod Antipas, and known to be a fornicator.” I called out again in protest, but my denial was swallowed by the black odium that boiled out of their hearts. “Show us your pocket!” a man yelled. One by one, they took up the petition. Gripping my forearm, Chuza let their shouts grow fevered before he reached for my sleeve. I writhed and kicked. I was a fluttering moth, a hapless girl. My skirmish yielded nothing but jeers and laughter. He snatched the sheet of ivory from my coat and lifted it over his head. A roar erupted. “She is a thief, a blasphemer, and a fornicator!” Chuza cried. “What would you do with her?” “Stone her!” someone cried. The chant began, the dark prayer. Stone her. Stone her. I shut my eyes against the dazzling blur of anger. Their hearts are boulders and their heads are straw. They seemed to be not a multitude of persons, but a single creature, a behemoth feeding off their combined fury. They would stone me for all the wrongs ever done to them. They would stone me for God. Most often victims were dragged to a cliff outside the city and thrown off before being pelted, which lessened the laborious effort of having to throw so many stones—it was in some way more merciful, at least quicker—but I saw I would not be accorded that lenience. Men and women and children plucked stones from the ground. These stones, God’s most bountiful gift to Galilee. Some rushed into the building site, where the stones were larger and more deadly. I heard the sizzle of a rock fly over my head and fall behind me. Then the commotion and noise slowed, elongating, receding to some distant pinnacle, and in that strange slackening of time, I no longer cared to fight. I felt myself bending to my fate. I ached for the life I would never live, but I yearned even more to escape it. I sank onto the ground, making myself as small as I could, my arms and legs tucked beneath my chest and belly, my forehead pressed to the ground. I fashioned myself into a walnut shell. I would be broken apart and God could have the meat. A stone struck my hip in a sunburst of pain. Another fell beside my ear. I heard the stomp of sandals running toward me, then a voice glittering with indignation. “Cease your violence! Would you stone her on the word of this man?” The mob quieted, and I dared to raise my head. Jesus stood before them, his back to me. I stared at the bones in his shoulders. The way his hands were drawn into fists. How he’d planted himself between me and the stones.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“I would not speak of a betrothal to you if I weren’t also compelled by what’s in my heart.” And what’s in your heart, I wanted to ask, but the question was brash and dangerous and I sensed that what lay there was a difficult puzzle—a jumble of God, destiny, duty, and love that couldn’t be solved, much less explained. If we married, I would always look over my shoulder for God. “I’m unsuited for you,” I said. “Certainly you know this.” I couldn’t think why I would try to discourage him, except to test his resolve. “I don’t just refer to my family’s wealth and ties to Herod Antipas, but to myself. You said you’re not like other men. Well, I’m not like other women—you’ve said so yourself. I have ambitions as men do. I’m racked with longings. I’m selfish and willful and sometimes deceitful. I rebel. I’m easy to anger. I doubt the ways of God. I’m an outsider everywhere I go. People look on me with derision.” “I know all of this,” he said. “And you would still have me?” “The question is whether you will have me.” I heard Sophia sigh into the wind—Here, Ana, here it is. And despite all that Jesus had just said, all his prevarication and provisos, the most curious feeling came over me, that I was always meant to arrive at this moment. I said, “I will have you.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“He was met with silent stares. I asked, “When John immerses people in the river, does it mean the same as entering the mikvah?” Jesus let his gaze rest on me. He smiled at my effort. “According to them, it represents a far more radical cleansing than the mikvah. John’s immersion is an act of repentance, a turning away from one’s sins.” The hush returned, even more smothering. Jesus squatted before the fire. I watched the reflection of the embers flick in his eyes and felt how incendiary our lives seemed right then. He looked very alone, almost lonely. I tried again. “This John the Immerser—does he believe that the apocalypse is upon us?” There wasn’t one of us who didn’t know what the apocalypse meant. It would be a great catastrophe and a great ecstasy. The men spoke of it at synagogue, parsing the prophecies of Isaiah, Daniel, and Malachi. When it came, God would establish his kingdom on earth. Governments would crumble. Rome would be overthrown. Herod removed. Corrupt religious leaders driven out. The two Messiahs would appear, the kingly one from the line of David and the priestly one from the line of Aaron, who together would oversee the coming of God’s kingdom. It would be perfect. I didn’t know what to think of such things or of the frenzy of longing that surrounded them. Long ago, trying to explain it to me, Yaltha said our people were desolated by so much suffering, that it created in them a deep hope for an ideal future.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“A tremulous feeling swept over me. Whoever this Messiah king was, he was somewhere in Judea or Galilee, going about his life. I wondered if he knew who he was, or if God had yet to break the terrible news to him.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“Jesus stood and placed his hand on his mother’s arm. “Mother, you are right to ask these questions. James, you are right, too. Sitting here, we cannot know.” I sensed what he was about to say. My heart quickened. “I’ve decided to travel to Judea and discover for myself,” he said. “I will leave tomorrow at dawn.” • • • FOLLOWING HIM TO OUR ROOM, I was shaking with anger, furious that he would leave—no, furious that he could leave, while I had no such glorious freedom. I would remain here forever tending to yarn, animal dung, and wheat kernels. I wanted to scream at the sky. Did he not see how it wounded me to be left behind, to have no freedom to go and do, to always long for one day? When I stomped through the doorway, he was already preparing his travel pouch. He said, “Fetch salt-fish, bread, dried figs, cheese, olives, whatever can be spared from the storeroom. Enough for both of us.” Both? “You wish to take me with you?” “I want you to come, but if you’d rather stay here and milk the goat . . .” I flung myself at him, covering his face with kisses. “I would always take you with me if I could,” he said. “Besides, I wish to hear what you think of John the Immerser.” I packed our pouches with food and waterskins, tying them with leather thongs.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“the walls came alive with brightly hued paintings of ibis-headed men and lion-headed women. We moved along a dazzling corridor covered with Gods, Goddesses, solar disks, and all-seeing eyes. There were boats, birds, chariots, harps, plows, and rainbow wings—thousands of glyphs. I had the sensation of floating through a storied world. When we arrived in the first hall, I could barely take in the sprawling room with its cubicles reaching toward the ceiling, each one labeled and stuffed with scrolls and leather-bound codices. Enheduanna’s exaltation to Inanna was likely in here, as well as at least a few works by female Greek philosophers. It seemed absurd to think my own writings might be housed here one day, too, but I stood there and let myself imagine it. As we moved from hall to hall, I became aware of young men in short white tunics dashing about, some carrying armloads of papyri, others on ladders arranging scrolls in cubicles or dusting them with tufts of feathers. I noticed that Lavi watched them intently. “You are very quiet,” Yaltha said, sidling next to me. “Is the library all you hoped?” “It’s a holy of holies,” I said. And it was, but I could feel the tiny lump of anger tucked beneath my awe. A half million scrolls and codices were within these walls, and all but a handful were by men. They had written the known world.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“Christian New Testament Scripture does not say he was married, but neither does it say he was single. The Bible is silent on the matter. “If Jesus had a wife, it would be recorded in the Bible,” someone explained to me. But would it? The invisibility and silencing of women were real things. Compared to men in Jewish and Christian Scriptures, women rarely have speaking parts, and they are not mentioned nearly as often. If they are referenced, they’re often unnamed. It could also be argued that in the first-century Jewish world of Galilee, marriage was so utterly normative, it more or less went without saying. Marriage was a man’s civic, family, and sacred duty.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“from that first moment of inspiration to write this story, I felt the importance of imagining a married Jesus. Doing so provokes a fascinating question: How would the Western world be different if Jesus had married and his wife had been included in his story? There are only speculative answers, but it seems plausible that Christianity and the Western world would have had a somewhat different religious and cultural inheritance. Perhaps women would have found more egalitarianism.”
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Book of Longings

“As the children grew, Goldilocks took great joy in introducing them to the stories she had loved as a child. When her son went off to kindergarten, Goldilocks thought about looking for a job. But her resume now had a seven-year hole in it, and her practical skills were long out of date. The only jobs Goldilocks could qualify for were minimum wage. She suddenly realized that being practical had made her horribly unhappy. On a whim, Goldilocks decided to do the one thing she had always wanted more than anything else—she was finally going to write a novel. She didn’t care if it was impractical. She didn’t care if nobody would ever read her novel. She was going to do it just because she wanted to.”
― Randy Ingermanson, How to Write a Novel Using the Snowflake Method

“Baby Bear scratched his furry chin and looked at the class. “How many of you want your work to be read by millions?” Every student in the room raised their hands. “And what’s the best-selling novel series of the last twenty years?” Baby Bear asked. Mrs. Hubbard scowled. “It was those dreadful books about that Harvey Potter child. Witches and wizards and all sorts of wickedness.” “A very stupid book,” growled Little Pig. “I stopped reading after the first page, when I saw how that woman maligned those respectable Dursleys.” “And who was the target audience for the Harry Potter series?” asked Baby Bear. Nobody said anything. Goldilocks timidly raised her hand. “Wasn’t it … eleven-year-old boys?” Baby Bear began jumping up and down, clapping his fat little paws. “Yes! Boys, aged eleven. The smallest niche market you can imagine. Everybody knows that boys don’t read. Everybody knows that eleven-year-old boys absolutely, positively won’t read anything. Especially a book written by a woman. And yet …” “Harrumph!” Little Pig snorted. “Lots of people read the Harry Potter series. Although God only knows why anyone would read such nonsense.” Baby Bear scratched his ears. “The author wrote her books for a very tight niche market. Eleven-year-old boys. But she delighted those boys, and they talked about it to eleven-year-old girls. They were also delighted and talked about it to twelve-year-olds. Who talked about it to thirteen-year-olds. And so on, until everybody was talking about it. What made that work?” “A wicked spell?” said Mrs. Hubbard. “Great marketing of an inferior product,” said Little Pig. “Good writing that delighted her target audience?” said Goldilocks. “Exactly!” said Baby Bear. “So when you go to write your story, you are not going to write for the whole world. You are going to choose your target audience and define it as tightly as you know how. You are going to write your story to delight your target audience. You will not care about anybody else.” “But what if other people … hate my writing?” Goldilocks said. She couldn’t bear the thought of anybody not liking her novel. “You. Don’t. Care.” Baby Bear got so excited, he began running in tight little circles.”
― Randy Ingermanson, How to Write a Novel Using the Snowflake Method

“here’s where it gets confusing. In spiritual life, the same word is used to describe both the archetype of the divine Guide and a human teacher—who may or may not be enlightened. In India, your music teacher, your Sanskrit teacher, or even your biology teacher might be addressed as guruji, because all teachers are considered worthy of respect. In the same way, in spiritual life, you may first meet the guru-principle through a teacher or mentor who happens to be a fairly ordinary human being with some spiritual knowledge. In Sanskrit, one name for this kind of teacher is acharya, meaning “the one who instructs.” The therapist who introduces you to deep breathing, the yoga teacher who takes you into your first meditative shavasana, and the author of your favorite meditation book are all important for your practice at different stages. (And any of them, in traditional India, might be addressed as “guruji” or “respected teacher.”) Different acharyas can provide particular kinds of instruction. If you’re a serious student, you’ll learn to recognize who can help you at each stage, when to stay with a teacher despite doubts or resistances, and when it might be time to move on.”
― Sally Kempton, Meditation for the Love of It: Enjoying Your Own Deepest Experience

“May the light of your soul guide you; May the light of your soul bless the work you do with the secret love and warmth of your heart; May you see in what you do the beauty of your own soul; May the sacredness of your work bring healing, light and renewal to those who work with you and to those who see and receive your work; May your work never weary you; May it release within you wellsprings of refreshment, inspiration and excitement; May you be present in what you do. May you never become lost in the bland absences; May the day never burden; May dawn find you awake and alert, approaching your new day with dreams, possibilities and promises; May evening find you gracious and fulfilled; May you go into the night blessed, sheltered and protected; May your soul calm, console and renew you.”
― John O'Donohue

“iccha”
― Sally Kempton, Meditation for the Love of It: Enjoying Your Own Deepest Experience

“Suppose a soft glow appears behind your eyes. Very gently you bring your attention to the light. You don’t try to hold it or cling to it to make it stay. You just softly move your attention close to it. (Often, the best way to do this is not to observe it frontally, but as if you were watching it from the side.) Perhaps you gently breathe into it and let the breath merge your awareness into it. Or you explore it. How does it look? What is its texture? What do you see or hear? You might also try shifting your perspective. Instead of feeling that you are outside this vision, observing it, imagine that you are inside it. With a sound, imagine that you are hearing it all around you. Letting yourself be with an experience allows you to move much deeper into your inner field. Perhaps there is a sensation of expanding awareness, but the expansion stops at a certain point. You can let yourself linger on the edge of that expanded awareness, sensing the subtle texture of the consciousness that is expanding, or you can enter the field of consciousness that stretches within you, unfurling itself to the inner senses. The way to enter it is to become it. It’s not your physical self that becomes the expanded awareness, of course. It’s your mind-sense, your subtle self. You become it by identifying yourself with it. First, you identify yourself as awareness, as attention. (For some people, this may mean quickly going through a process in which you disengage from identifying with your body, perhaps thinking, “I am not my skin, my bones, my blood, or my organs. I am not my senses, my breath, my mind, or my thoughts. I am not my emotions or my sensations. I am Awareness. I am energy.”) Then you move as awareness into this subtle field within yourself, as if you were a snowball picking up more snow as you roll.”
― Sally Kempton, Meditation for the Love of It: Enjoying Your Own Deepest Experience

“a frozen pizza cooking in the oven, filling the kitchen with the tantalizing smell of melted cheese and sizzling pepperoni. Six beers cool in the fridge. A map of Glacier National Park is spread on the table, accompanied by sheets of paper filled with scribbled notes and calculations. Sitting around all day is not healthy for any human, but it is certainly not healthy for thru-hikers. After spending the day brainstorming possibilities, sharing ideas, and speaking our desire to finish the hike, Koozie and I decide to get all logistics down on paper. During our most recent conversation, we were both moved to tears expressing how important hiking this trail is and what it means for us. Working for 5 months toward this goal, only to be halted 75 miles from the finish, is an insult to the previous 2,460 miles hiked and every sacrifice made to get to this point. Our determination is not to be doubted, but our finish-vision can easily get us into trouble that would be better to avoid.”
― Brian Cornell, Divided: A Walk on the Continental Divide Trail

“That was how I learned that the world changes between heartbeats; that life is never an absolute, but always a wager.”
― Jodi Picoult, Wish You Were Here