Go for a short walk in a soft rain - lovely - so many wild flowers startling me through the woods and a lawn sprinkled with dandelions, like a night with stars. And through it all the sound of soft rain like the sound of innumerable earthworms stirring in the ground.

Flowers always have it - poise, completion, fulfillment, perfection . . .

One learns first of all in beach living the art of shedding; how little one can get along with, not how much.

Nothing feeds the center of being so much as creative work.

Can one make the future a substitute for the present? And what guarantee have we that the future will be any better if we neglect the present?

One writes not to be read but to breathe...one writes to think, to pray, to analyze. One writes to clear one's mind, to dissipate one's fears, to face one's doubts, to look at one's mistakes--in order to retrieve them. One writes to capture and crystallize one's joy, but also to disperse one's gloom. Like prayer--you go to it in sorrow more than joy, for help, a road back to 'grace'.

To be deeply in love is, of course, a great liberating force.