comfort

It's ironic how your comfort zone can be tiring sometimes.

There are things that mothers can manage best when they do their duty.

Umbrella is comfort, rain is life! You must often leave comfort to touch the life!

We live in a world of paradox: the very opportunities some pilgrims of life wish to get to make great and awesome exploits and feel accomplished and comfortable, others get and they least see what they have and only abuse what they have!

. . . at this season, the blossom is out in full now, there in the west early. It's a plum tree, it looks like apple blossom but it's white, and looking at it, instead of saying "Oh that's nice blossom" ... last week looking at it through the window when I'm writing, I see it is the whitest, frothiest, blossomest blossom that there ever could be, and I can see it. Things are both more trivial than they ever were, and more important than they ever were, and the difference between the trivial and the important doesn't seem to matter. But the nowness of everything is absolutely wondrous, and if people could see that, you know. There's no way of telling you; you have to experience it, but the glory of it, if you like, the comfort of it, the reassurance ... not that I'm interested in reassuring people - bugger that. The fact is, if you see the present tense, boy do you see it! And boy can you celebrate it.

Here is a minute. It may be my love is dead, but here is a minute to kneel over the grave and pray by it.

Rest and comfort are two different things. Rest is a planned temporary time to refresh and refocus the leader. Comfort is when you settle into unproductive routines and accept satisfactory or unsatisfactory results.

from the prose poem "The Universe Thrums on regardless" in my book SPAN.We are almost nothing in the night. Reduced to warm blobs and the sound of breathing. There is comfort in that.

It all I can do not to cry. I make myself wood I say to myself, Celie, you a tree. That's how I come to know trees fear man.

We must intentionally push ourselves out of our comfort zones if we are to make any significant progress on this side of life.

The human race is a letdown, Ernest _ a bad, bad letdown. And I__ disgusted with it. It thinks it__ progressed, but it hasn__. It thinks it__ risen above the primeval slime, but it hasn__. It__ wallowing in it. It__ still clinging to us, clinging to our hair and to our eyes and to our souls. We__e invented a few things that make noises, but we haven__ invented one big thing that creates quiet. Endless, peaceful quiet. Something to pull over us like a gigantic eiderdown, something to deaden the sound of our emotional yellings and screechings and suffocate our psychological confusions.

My mother had comforted me with tales ever since I was small. Sometimes they helped me peel a problem like an onion, or gave me ideas about what to do; other times, they calmed me so much that I would fall into a soothing sleep. My father used to say that her tales were better than the best medicine. Sighing, I burrowed into my mother's body like a child, knowing that the sound of her voice would be a balm on my heart.

If you would really study my pleasure, mother, you must consider your own comfort and convenience a little more than you do.

This sense of my own weakness and emptiness comforts me. I feel myself a mere speck of dust lost in space, yet I am part of that endless grandeur which envelopes me. I could never see why that should be cause for despair, since there could very well be nothing at all behind the black curtain.

There's something comforting about the companionship of animals in a new place.

Dogs are like that, I guess__hey know how to fix you without ever saying a word.

Heaven is a place where all the dogs you've ever loved come to greet you.

The greatest Comfort in life is Christ On the Move For Our Redemption Timelessly! HS (EL)