Days pass when I forget the mystery. Problems insoluble and problems offering their own ignored solutions jostle for my attention, they crowd its antechamber along with a host of diversions, my courtiers, wearing their colored clothes; caps and bells. And then once more the quiet mystery is present to me, the throng's clamor recedes: the mystery that there is anything, anything at all, let alone cosmos, joy, memory, everything, rather than void: and that, 0 Lord, Creator, Hallowed one, You still, hour by hour sustain it.

We must breathe time as fishes breathe water.

Very few people really see things unless they've had someone in early life who made them look at things. And name them too. But the looking is primary, the focus.

There is no savor more sweet, more salt than to be glad to be what, woman, and who, myself, I am.

In city, in suburb, in forest, no way to stretch out the arms - so if you would grow, go straight up or deep down.

There comes a time when only anger is love.

I thought I was growing wings— it was a cocoon. I thought, now is the time to step into the fire— it was deep water. Eschatology is a word I learned as a child: the study of Last Things; facing my mirror—no longer young, the news—always of death, the dogs—rising from sleep and clamoring and howling, howling.... ("Seeing For a Moment")