So every day So every day I was surrounded by the beautiful crying forth of the ideas of God, one of which was you.
When When it’s over, it’s over, and we don’t know any of us, what happens then. So I try not to miss anything. I think, in my whole life, I have never missed The full moon or the slipper of its coming back. Or, a kiss. Well, yes, especially a kiss.
How heron comes It is a negligence of the mind not to notice how at dusk heron comes to the pond and stands there in his death robes, perfect servant of the system, hungry, his eyes full of attention, his wings pure light.
Emerson, I am trying to live, as you said we must, the examined life. But there are days I wish there was less in my head to examine, not to speak of the busy heart.
I try to be good but sometimes a person just has to break out and act like the wild and springy thing one used to be. It’s impossible not to remember wild an want it back.
Look, I want to love this world as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get to be alive and know it.
When I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing.
I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery.
This is the first, wildest, and wisest thing I know, that the soul exists, and that it is built entirely out of attention.
My first two books are out of print and, okay, they can sleep there comfortably. It’s early work, derivative work.
I was very careful never to take an interesting job. If you have an interesting job, you get interested in it.
To find a new word that is accurate and different, you have to be alert for it.
And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.
Don’t we all die someday and someday comes all too soon? What will you do with your own wild, glorious chance at this thing we call life.
Each body is a lion of courage, something precious of the earth.
Come with me into the woods where spring is advancing, as it does, no matter what, not being singular or particular, but one of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.
It is what I was born for – to look, to listen, to lose myself inside this soft world – to instruct myself over and over...
Who knows what will happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting to be told to pack nothing, except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning.
Belief isn’t always easy. But this much I have learned – if not enough else – to live with my eyes open.
Of course! The path to heaven doesn’t lie down in flat miles. It’s in the imagination with which you perceive this world, and the gestures with which you honor it.