Go forward with joyful confidence.
George EliotRead
Life began with waking up and loving my mother's face.
Interpretation
This quote emphasizes the deep bond and affection one has for their mother, symbolizing the start of life and love.
In this quote, George Eliot reflects on the fundamental connection between life and the love for one's mother. It suggests that the experience of awakening and recognizing the warmth and love in a mother's face is one of the first and most profound moments of consciousness, illustrating how love and family play a crucial role in shaping our lives from the very beginning.
In practice
During a Mother's Day speech, I could quote this to highlight the cherished moments with my mom.
Go forward with joyful confidence.
You must love your work, and not be always looking over the edge of it, wanting your play to begin. And the other is, you must not be ashamed of your work, and think it would be more honorable to you to be doing something else. You must have a pride in your own work and in learning to do it well.
She thought it was part of the hardship of her life that there was laid upon her the burthen of larger wants than others seemed to feel β that she had to endure this wide hopeless yearning for that something, whatever it was, that was greatest and best on this earth.
Life seems to go on without effort when I am filled with music.
I think I should have no other mortal wants, if I could always have plenty of music. It seems to infuse strength into my limbs and ideas into my brain. Life seems to go on without effort, when I am filled with music.
Our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them: they can be injured by us, they can be wounded; they know all our penitence, all our aching sense that their place is empty, all the kisses we bestow on the smallest relic of their presence.
Tying the little folks with the older folks is a great and powerful tool to preserve and to protect the family and the individual.
My mother was the first singer I had contact with. She sang constantly to us around the house, in church.
When I began writing these pages I believed their subject to be children, the ones we have and the ones we wish we had, the ways in which we depend on our children to depend on us, the ways in which we encourage them to remain children, the ways in which they remain more unknown to us than they do to their more casual acquaintances; the ways in which we remain equally opaque to them.
The thousands of possible lives that used to spread out in front of me have snapped shut into one, and all I get is what I've got. It's time to pass on the possibilities, all those deliciously half-open doors, to my children, and drive them to the airports, and wish them bon voyage.
Is my mother my friend? I would have to say, first of all she is my Mother, with a capital 'M'; she's something sacred to me. I love her dearly...yes, she is also a good friend, someone I can talk openly with if I want to.
When he died, I went about like a ragged crow telling strangers, "My father died, my father died." My indiscretion embarrassed me, but I could not help it. Without my father on his Delhi rooftop, why was I here? Without him there, why should I go back? Without that ache between us, what was I made of?
Subscribe for the occasional hand-picked quote. No noise.