The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness; the mind wants to know all the world, and all eternity, and God.

I break up through the skin of awareness a thousand times a day, as dolphins burst through seas, and dive again, and rise, and dive.

The silence is all there is. It is the alpha and the omega, it is God's brooding over the face of the waters; it is the blinded note of the ten thousand things, the whine of wings. You take a step in the right direction to pray to this silence, and even to address the prayer to "World." Distinctions blur. Quit your tents. Pray without ceasing.

It is madness to wear ladies' straw hats and velvet hats to church; we should all be wearing crash helmets. Ushers should issue life preservers and signal flares; they should lash us to our pews. For the sleeping God may wake someday and take offense, or the waking God may draw us out to where we can never return.

Ecstasy, I think, is a soul's response to the waves holiness makes as it nears.

Art is like an ill-trained Labrador retriever that drags you out into traffic.

The way we live our days, is the way we live our lives.