The rose is without 'why'; it blooms simply because it blooms. It pays no attention to itself, nor does it ask whether anyone sees it.

The rose does not have a why; it blossums without reason, forgetful of self and oblivious to our vision.

God is a pure no-thing, concealed in now and here; the less you reach for him, the more he will appear.

Springtime is at hand. When will you ever bloom, if not here and now?

What is outside yourself does not convey much worth; Clothes do not make the man, the saddle not the horse.

The Rose is without 'why'—she blooms because she blooms.

We keep so busy talking we are so keen to act that we forget that in the heart lies all we need untapped, intact.