... old clothes, old friends, old books. One needs constants in a traveling life.

Perhaps we clutch at life only when we have never lived or trusted it. Then death seems the last and greatest defeat, the end of something never felt.

What continues to astonish me about a garden is that you can walk past it in a hurry, see something wrong, stop to set it right, and emerge an hour or two later breathless, contented, and wondering what on earth happened.

We overlook how much in our lives is invisible; love, for instance; thought, God, the future, time, faith, hope and even the electricity that brings us light.

... old clothes, old friends, old books. One needs constants in a traveling life.

Both therapy and friendship possessed the common denominator of discovering a self.

Everything matters terribly to children, you know, they're fresh and unformed.