It's about waking up. A child wakes up over and over again, and notices that she's living. She dreams along, loving the exuberant life of the senses, in love with beauty and power, oblivious to herself -- and then suddenly, bingo, she wakes up and feels herself alive. She notices her own awareness. And she notices that she is set down here, mysteriously, in a going world.

Divinity is not playful. The universe was not made in jest but in solemn incomprehensibl e earnest. By a power that is unfathomably secret, and holy, and fleet. There is nothing to be done about it, but ignore it, or see.

I woke at intervals until . . . the intervals of waking tipped the scales, and I was more often awake than not.

We wake, if ever at all, to mystery.

Every day is a god, each day is a god, and holiness holds forth in time.

It's a little silly to finally learn how to write at this age. But I long ago realized I was secretly sincere.

Write about winter in the summer.