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.

Nothing can throw thee into the infernal abyss so much as this detested word - heed well! - this mine and thine.

Love is difficult, because loving is not enough: We must, like God, ourselves be Love.

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

The one awakened liberated sees all things as one unseparated.

If Christ were born in Bethlehem a thousand times and not in thee thyself; then art thou lost eternally.

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