There comes a moment when the things one has written, even a traveler's memories, stand up and demand a justification. They require an explanation. They query, 'Who am I? What is my name? Why am I here?

Cut asparagus at night - in desperation. When one is very tired one always does one more thing.

If you surrender completely to the moments as they pass, you live more richly those moments.

Only with winter-patience can we bring the deep-desired, long-awaited Spring.

For in our family an experience was not finished, not truly experienced, unless written down or shared with another.

Forsythia is pure joy. There is not an ounce, not a glimmer of sadness or even knowledge in forsythia. Pure, undiluted, untouched joy.

Those fields of daisies we landed on, and dusty fields and desert stretches. Memories of many skies and earths beneath us - many days, many nights of stars.