We think of a miracle, such as a sudden physical healing, as an event. Actually, the real miracle is not the event, but how we perceive the event in our lives. Ask yourself which is the real miracle: when the check finally arrives, the deadline is extended, the lawsuit is settled, the exception is made? Or when you cope, serene and smiling in the face of unbearable circumstances, triumphantly blowing everybody’s mind—including your own—with your poise and courage? (November 14)
If we seek divine revelation, we’ll find it, even if it occurs during a bus ride or while folding laundry. (November 28)
You can never lose something if you never had it to begin with. You were never in control and never will be. Let go of that illusion so that you can cut your losses and move on. Acceptance of the inevitable—as difficult and painful it might be today—is the first step toward an authentic trade-off. (November 30)
It is virtually impossible to write a book on authenticity as a spiritual and creative path and not be profoundly changed by it. (December 4)
Hold a birthday tea on July 15 in honor of the Reverend Clement Clark Moore, the author of “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” and start planning homemade presents. (December 11)
I've actually marked my calendar and, while I doubt I'll have a "birthday tea" or particularly consider honoring Moore, I like the idea of thinking about homemade presents. I always say I want to do it but then one thing and then another sneak up on me and before you know it Christmas is next week leaving not nearly enough time to make anything.
You think the dead we have loved ever truly leave us? (427)
. . . I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with novel writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be ready by their own heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over its insipid pages with disgust. . . . Let us leave it to the Reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which the press now groans. (26)
There is nothing I would not do for those who are really my friends. I have no notion of loving people by halves, it is not my nature. (29)
In a few moments Catherine, with unaffected pleasure, assured her that she need not be longer uneasy, as the gentlemen had just left the Pump-room.
“And which way are they gone?” said Isabella, turning hastily round. “One was a very good-looking young man.”
“They went towards the churchyard.”
“Well, I am amazingly glad I have got rid of them! And now, what say you to going to Edgar’s Buildings with me, and looking at my new hat? You said you should like to see it.”
Catherine readily agreed. “Only,” she added, “perhaps we may overtake the two young men.”
“Oh! Never mind that. If we make haste, we shall pass by them presently, and I am dying to shew you my hat.”