I thought I would love you forever—and, a little, I may, in the way I still move toward a crate, knees bent, or reach for a man: as one might stretch for the three or four fruit that lie in the sun at the top of the tree; too ripe for any moment but this, they open their skin at first touch, yielding sweetness, sweetness and heat, and in me, each time since, the answering yes.

Zen is less the study of doctrine than a set of tools for discovering what can be known when the world is looked at with open eyes.

as some strings, untouched, sound when no one is speaking. So it was when love slipped inside us.

Within the silence, expansion, and sustained day by day concentration, I grow permeable.

Passion does not make careful arguments: it declares itself, and that is enough.

I will never become a horse trainer, a biologist, a person competent with a hammer. My loves were my loves.

An ordinary hole beside a path through the woods might begin to open to altered worlds.