The world is mud-luscious and puddle-wonderful.
When you reach for the stars you may not quite get one, but you won't come up with a handful of mud either.
Walk through the mud in life, if you ever want to get to the higher ground”
You pray for rain, you gotta deal with the mud too. That's a part of it.
It would seem that Our Lord finds our desires not too strong, but too weak. We are half-hearted creatures, fooling about with drink and sex and ambition when infinite joy is offered us, like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.
Even in the mud and scum of things, something always, always sings.
We sit in the mud... and reach for the stars.
We can't blame children for occupying themselves with Facebook rather than playing in the mud. Our society doesn't put a priority on connecting with nature. In fact, too often we tell them it's dirty and dangerous.
Sometimes the whole world is mud luscious and puddle wonderful
He who slings mud generally loses ground.
Mud-pies gratify one of our first and best instincts. So long as we are dirty, we are pure.
Nature is imperfectly perfect, filled with loose parts and possibilities, with mud and dust, nettles and sky, transcendent hands-on moments and skinned knees.
Trying to understand is like straining through muddy water. Be still and allow the mud to settle.
Let all the poison that lurks in the mud, hatch out.
But the wicked are like the tossing sea, which cannot rest, whose waves cast up mire and mud.
The word of God came down to man as rain to soil, and the result was mud, not clear water. (Bistami) Pg. 128
Some ideas take you to the stars; some sinks you to the mud!
You are so afraid of losing your moral sense that you are not willing to take it through anything more dangerous than a mud-puddle.
There is the mud, and there is the lotus that grows out of the mud. We need the mud in order to make the lotus.
One thing I would never photograph is a dog lying in the mud.
There is an eagle in me that wants to soar, and there is a hippopotamus in me that wants to wallow in the mud.
My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?
If there comes a little thaw, Still the air is chill and raw, Here and there a patch of snow, Dirtier than the ground below, Dribbles down a marshy flood; Ankle-deep you stick in mud In the meadows while you sing, This is Spring.
If you pray for rain, be prepared to deal with some mud.
Life is made up of marble and mud.
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