Cycle Of Life Quotes

“And there are never really endings, happy or otherwise. Things keep going on, they overlap and blur, your story is part of your sister's story is part of many other stories, and there is no telling where any of them may lead.”
― Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

“We say that flowers return every spring, but that is a lie. It is true that the world is renewed. It is also true that that renewal comes at a price, for even if the flower grows from an ancient vine, the flowers of spring are themselves new to the world, untried and untested.

The flower that wilted last year is gone. Petals once fallen are fallen forever. Flowers do not return in the spring, rather they are replaced. It is in this difference between returned and replaced that the price of renewal is paid.

And as it is for spring flowers, so it is for us.”
― Daniel Abraham, The Price of Spring

“There are some souls who develop a penchant and an unhealthy appetite for a certain kind of experience. So, they experience an awful lot of those experiences. These souls are addicted, just like a smoker is, to cigarettes. But it does not make them any less inferior or bad. It just delays their journey.”
― Abhaidev, The Gods Are Not Dead

“Their progeny has blossomed into adulthood
they’ve left the haven of the nest
bound to their mates
busy crafting a new abode afar.”
― Sanu Sharma

“Birth is painful and delightful. Death is painful and delightful. Everything that ends is also the beginning of something else. Pain is not a punishment; pleasure is not a reward.”
― Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times

“The perfect orchestration of the symphony of life is one of the Creator's greatest and most beautiful miracles.”
― Suzy Kassem, Rise Up and Salute the Sun: The Writings of Suzy Kassem

“Everything repeated and repeated again. My family had lived within these hills for centuries. I knew that there had been many other girls who had made their homes on this ground before me, girls who were grown now and gone into the ground themselves, their babies - my great-grandmothers - grown and gone the same way. Nothing I knew was ever truly new; every path I followed had been written by the bodies of others, the course of every track sculpted by the footfall of those who came before us.
For-ev-er. For-ev-er. To the well. To the haggart. To the shed. To the hill. Along these ways, grassed hummed their old tunes, blackthorns pointed their warnings, and every well held the memory of whispered human desire. Maybe I was a strange child, feeling the constant hum of the past just beyond me, real as a bee, or maybe every child shares that feeling. All I knew was that I felt safe there, in the echo of their company.”
― Doireann Ní Ghríofa, A Ghost in the Throat

“Humans like to consider everything as linear, when in reality everything is cyclic.

They are obsessed with straight lines. Straight roads, straight houses, straight pieces of steel, glass, and timber. Straight cut diamonds. Let’s get straight to the point. Be straight with me. I am straight, not gay.

And this is how they see their lives. A linear journey, along the road of life. That is where expressions such as Highway to Hell come from.

But what about other expressions, such as the life cycle, the cycle of nature, and the weather cycle?

Because of this obsession with straight lines, they view history and historical events, as existing way back along an imaginary path, one they are sure they are far away from. Like watching a fading wake from a ship.

So when they look at the religious wars, for example, the Christians versus the Muslims, the rise and fall of Empires, democracies and dictatorships, they seem blind when comparing present day situations with those of the past.

The majority of humans see evolution as a race along a straight race track, a race they are winning by a long margin, yet they are afraid to ever slow down, in case other life catches them.

If they did slow down long enough, they may observe that the track is actually cyclic.”
― Robert Black

“But then she thought about the falcon, how it was made to do what it did and had no choice in the matter. It was eat pigeon (or sparrow or rat or raccoon) or die, and Kid supposed that the beauty of the falcon was directly related to its ability to kill, a completely different kind of beauty than the beauty of the pigeon, and that humans' ability to recognize the two beauties and not to call one beautiful and the other ugly said a lot about humans in ways you could probably spend years contemplating.”
― Anne Fleming, The Goat

“When rude Boreas' oppresses,
Fall the leaves; they reappear,
Wooed by Zephyr's soft caresses.
Fields that Sirius burns deep grown
By Arcturus' watch were sown:
Each the reign of law confesses,
Keeps the place that is his own.”
― Boethius, Consolation of Philosophy

“Vanity and ambition as education. - So long as a man has not yet become an instrument of general human utility let him be plagued by ambition; if that goal has been attained, however, if he is working with the necessity of a machine for the good of all, then let him be visited by vanity; it will humanize him and make him more sociable, endurable and indulgent in small things, now that ambition (to render him useful) has finished roughhewing him.”
― Friedrich Nietzsche, Human, All Too Human: A Book for Free Spirits

“The cycle of the seasons, to which poets have so often turned as a reminder that nothing in this world is stable, is in fact one of the great constants in life. In some ways, the thousand years or more that have elapsed since the poems in this book were written have changed our world beyond recognition - but every year, when the blossom springs and the leaves fall, we see what the Anglo-Saxon poets saw. The revolving cycle finds us each year at a different moment in the story of our own lives; the unfolding events of history change us, but the seasons do not change.”
― Eleanor Parker, Winters in the World: A Journey through the Anglo-Saxon Year

“Three years ago, my journey began with me stepping through that gate, and now, it comes to an end with me stepping through it again. Why does it feel as if the boundaries of the beginning and the end are so far apart, when in fact, they’re much too close together. The sense of distance probably comes from the human habit of separating and classifying and distinguishing, which sets the human heart at ease.”
― Jang Eun-Jin, No One Writes Back

“Cultivated crops, like words, like language, are things that glide into view out of the murkiness of the past. I think of my words as mine, but the chances are than even after fifty or sixty or seventy years of chewing on them, writing them down, word-processing them as a speaker and as a writer, I won't succeed in putting a single new one into circulation. Same with plants, with crops, as a gardener and farmer. What we're given in words and cultivated plants has been worked over for hundreds of generations before it comes to us, and the chances of our adding to it are very slim. What we add is illusion: each time we're born, the world looks new, is new, which gives us a strange kind of leverage against the weight of accumulated biological and cultural existence, which means for a while, off and on, now and then, under certain circumstances, we believe we are the owners or managers or the franchise operators of this world, not the other way around, and that we have invented almost everything in sight, from the words that drop so easily from our mouths to the plants we grow in our gardens.”
― Stanley Crawford, A Garlic Testament: Seasons on a Small New Mexico Farm

“I felt I was New Age before it became hip (and now passé), and disliked the name given to this 'recent' wave of spiritual interest in the 1980s because the word 'new' was in it: this word automatically implies that the phase will soon pass into something either “established” or stale, or will be chronicled as an ephemeral fad or phase to be found on some old bookshelf one day. Again, passé. For instance, the New Thought movement faded with the smoke of the Great War, the war to end all wars – which later was reclassified as WWI. Indeed, just a few years into the new 21st century, New Age was becoming old. Smooth jazz seemed to replace the name in music, and holistic and integral were the latest catch words describing the eclectic philosophy of the past decades. Astrologers were laughing: they knew the planetary alignments that predicted this network of integrated thought; it was the same inspiration behind the world wide web. Uranus (technological innovations, groups) and Neptune (images, imagination) reunited in the mid 1990s in the practical sign of Capricorn; we all became more connected with the next jump in electronics, technology and vision, right on cue. The world wide wave (www) was here. That wave came in, peaked in the 1990s, everyone was refreshed and expanded (some got drenched), and the promoters were now looking for new packaging. By the end of the 1990s, the Dot.com bubble burst. It was time for the next phase.”
― Stephen Poplin, Inner Journeys, Cosmic Sojourns: Life transforming stories, adventures and messages from a spiritual hypnotherapist's casebook

“She was no fool. She had never expected the future before them to be perfect. She knew life had its cycles. There would be War and there would be Peace. There would be victories as well as defeats, joys as well as sorrows. Griefs and celebrations would have their place, love and hate would have their times. Nesrin knew this and she accepted it. But, they did not matter. She did not need a happily ever after to be happy. She didn't live there, in the future. She lived here, in the present, where eternity touched the human soul. It was all that mattered.
 
And right here, right now, all was right with the world.”
― May K., Rename the Stars

“In some respects, generations revolting against their parents result in resemblance to their grandparents.”
― Criss Jami

“The Cycle will never end!”
― Neda Aria, Rythm of Missing Pieces

“When my men touched you, it gave me the power to see you such susceptible. It made me forget myself. It separated you from me, from the shame of having you. From the unbreakable cycle of repetition.”
― Neda Aria, Rythm of Missing Pieces

“People die. Times end. Suffering and war circle into being like the rains of autumn and the winds of spring. You know this. We did not, and do not, bring evil into these realms. It is already here. How many cities had you burned before you took this penitent path? How much blood have you seen our enemies spill? How much suffering fills life without the True Gods ever lifting a finger?”
― John French, Tower of Empty Mirrors

“Neither birth nor deah, is the beginning or end; it’s the cycle of life.”
― Vikrmn: CA Vikram Verma, Krishna Crux

“I come from a long line of forever people. We are forever. Here at the bottom of heaven we live in the circle. We back and gone and back again.”
― Phyllis Alesia Perry, Stigmata

“Sentenced to fade under the weight of external pressures—the eternal cycle of life at its most poignant. Whether we embrace it or not, there it stands—the somber truth that everything changes, and everything will one day succumb to decay and demise.”
― Ryan Gelpke, Peruvian Days

“I deserve it all, the good and the bad.”
― Mitta Xinindlu

“Life, one ultimately learns, is nothing but an eternal cycle of birth, living and death. Nature is in a perpetual dance of impermanence."
– Neena Verma, Grief ~ Growth ~ Grace – A Sacred Pilgrimage, Page 11”
― Neena Verma, GRIEF GROWTH GRACE

“It is perfectly normal if your philosophies have shifted since your last book. You are human. Therefore, you are forever evolving. In my opinion, this actually makes for a more intriguing piece because people resonate with these natural cycles of life.”
― Robin S. Baker

“A heron flew over the bamboo forest—and Siddhartha took the heron into his soul, he flew over the forest and the mountains, was a heron, gobbled fish, hungered as a heron hungers, spoke heron croak, died the death of a heron. A dead jackal lay on the sandy shore, and Siddhartha's soul slipped inside its corpse, became a dead jackal, lay on the strand, swelled up, stank, putrefied, was dismembered by hyenas, skinned by vultures, became bones, dust, blew in open country. And Siddhartha's soul returned, died, decayed, turned to dust, tasted the muddy rush of the cycle, waiting in new thirst like a hunter for the gap where the cycle could be escaped, where the end of causes, where eternity free of suffering would begin. He mortified his senses, he slew his memory, he slid out of his I into a thousand alien shapes, became beast, carrion, stone, wood, water, and found himself every time awakening again, in the light of the sun or the moon, again he was I, whirling around in the round, he felt thirst, conquered thirst, felt thirst anew.”
― Hermann Hesse, Siddhartha

“Man is born,
then man cuts wood.
Man makes shelf, and paper,
so he could write a book.
Man writes, then dies,
returns to soil—as one should.
And the tree above him grows,
from all the nourishment it took;
Until the man’s reborn,
to cut it down again.”
― Anca-Valeria Bancila, My Last Week

“Sorry, moth,' he said. 'I'm afraid I've rather spoiled your night out. Presumably I've made some other moth a widow, or a widower—I've no idea what sex you are... were, I mean. But I didn't do you in with malice aforethought, old moth, take my word for it. I have no grudge against you, old moth, I do assure you. On the contrary, what I feel for you is love, the love of a tender morsel of moth-meat. I am a great lover of tender morsels, of vole-meat and mouse-meat, of the flesh of little birds and the innards of beetles, and of bite-sized bits of the wriggling worm. All must die to keep Eustace in good nick. And lastly I console you, my lepidopterous friend, with the thought that some day or night Eustace will drop off his perch and be loved in his turn, by the ants and the maggots.”
― Dick King-Smith, Godhanger

“BOSCH DID NOT BEGIN TO FEEL WHOLE again until he reached the smogged outskirts of L.A. He was back in the nastiness again but he knew that it was here that he would heal. He skirted downtown on the freeway and headed up through Cahuenga Pass. Midday traffic was light. Looking up at the hills he saw the charred path of the Christmas-night fire. But he even took some comfort in that. He knew that the heat of the fire would have cracked open the seeds of the wildflowers and by spring the hillside would be a riot of colors. The chaparral would follow and soon there would be no scar on the land at all.”
― Michael Connelly, The Black Ice