What happens when you let an unsatisfactory present go on long enough? It becomes your entire history.
Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth.
Things which do not grow and change are dead things.
Can you stop your mother from singing to you? Who would do such a thing?
Your life feels different on you, once you greet death and understand your heart’s position.
You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart.
We do know that no one gets wise enough to really understand the heart of another, though it is the task of our life to try.
Our songs travel the earth. We sing to one another. Not a single note is ever lost and no song is original. They all come from the same place and go back to a time when only the stones howled.
Love won’t be tampered with, love won’t go away. Push it to one side and it creeps to the other.
So what is wild? What is wilderness? What are dreams but an internal wilderness and what is desire but a wildness of the soul?
There are ways of being abandoned even when your parents are right there.
I stood there in the shadowed doorway thinking with my tears. Yes, tears can be thoughts, why not?
By writing I can live in ways that I could not survive.
It kills your writing if you try to manipulate it with crude politics.
Women don’t realize how much store men set on the regularity of their habits. We absorb their comings and goings into our bodies, their rhythms into our bones.
History works itself out in the living.
Every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware.
I got well by talking. Death could not get a word in edgewise, grew discouraged, and traveled on.
The contents of a house can trigger all sorts of revisions to family history.
Ravens are the birds I’ll miss most when I die. If only the darkness into which we must look were composed of the black light of their limber intelligence. If only we did not have to die at all. Instead, become ravens.