A Quote by Edward Conlon
On Sunday mornings, as the dawn burned into day, swarms of gulls descended on the uncollected trash, hovering and dropping in the cold clear light.
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A great sadness welled up in Magnus at the sight of him. It was human to age and die, and Jem stood outside that humanity now, outside the light that burned so brightly and so briefly. It was cold outside that light and fire. No one had greater cause to know that cold than Magnus did.
Dawn's faint breath breathes with your mouth at the ends of empty streets. Gray light your eyes, sweet drops of dawn on dark hills. Your steps and breath like the wind of dawn smother houses. The city shudders, Stones exhale— you are life, an awakening. Star lost in the light of dawn, trill of the breeze, warmth, breath— the night is done. You are light and morning.
These worst mornings with cold floors and hot windows and merciless light - the soul's certainty that the day will have to be not traversed but sort of climbed, vertically, and then that going to sleep again at the end of it will be like falling, again, off something tall and sheer.
Seeing the moon, he becomes the moon, the moon seen by him becomes him. He sinks into nature, becomes one with nature. The light of the "clear heart" of the priest, seated in the meditation hall in the darkness before the dawn, becomes for the dawn moon its own light.
Cause I am strong and I can prove it And I got my dreams to see me through It's just a mountain, I can move it And with faith enough there's nothing I can't do And I can see the light of a clear blue morning And I can see the light of brand new day I can see the light of a clear blue morning And everything's gonna be all right It's gonna be okay [lyrics from "Light of a Clear Blue Morning"]
A lot of my friends, when I was 14 or 15, they were all up and down, wanting to go out on a Friday night, and my dad had me working really late on Fridays and Saturday mornings and even on Sunday mornings. And when I'd finished all that, we used to spend the rest of the time talking about boxing.
The light that burned twice as bright burned half as long.
I eye 'Modern Love' warily between that second and third cup of coffee on Sunday mornings, calculating how much of a push I need to get through the day's unhurriedly earnest saga of heartbreak and recovery.
Life reorders you when you go into the clear light. Even the causal structure is liquefied. The clear light of reality, the dharmakaya, changes us into beings of light.
I suppose everybody has a mental picture of the days of the week, some seeing them as a circle, some as an endless line, and others again, for all I know, as triangles and cubes. Mine is a wavy line proceeding to infinity, dipping to Wednesday which is the colour of old silver dark with polishing and rising again to a pale gold Sunday. This day has a feeling in my picture of warmth and light breezes and sunshine and afternoons that stretch to infinity and mornings full of far-off bells.
The best times to visit the Gobi and Three Camel Lodge are June, and September through October. By the beginning of November, it is ferociously cold, while October can swing surreally between warm days and clear, chilly nights and frosty mornings dusted with snow - perfect.
My Sunday mornings are spent in a recovery meeting in Pacific Palisades.
Life is the lust of a lamp for the light that is dark till the dawn of the day that we die.
Sunday is the day I connect with Buenos Aires. I speak to or text my mother every day, but on Sunday I phone everyone.
Momma told me, 'I'm going to town. Don't touch the trash in the backyard,' because we used to burn our trash. So I'm going to do mama a favor. I light the trash and go back inside to watch Ohio State and LSU play. And something said, 'You know what, at halftime, go check on it.' And fire is about 8 feet from the back door.
God said,--"Let there be light!"
Grim darkness felt His might,
And fled away;
Then startled seas and mountains cold
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold,
And cried--"'Tis day! 'tis day!"
"Hail, holy light!" exclaim'd
The thunderous cloud that flam'd
O'er daisies white;
And lo! the rose, in crimson dress'd,
Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast;
And blushing murmur'd--Light!
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