Lord make me satisfied with small things. Make me content to live on the outside of life. God make me love the rind!

The question we do not see when we are young is whether we own pride or are owned by it.

things that have cost more than they're worth leave a bitter taste. A taste of salt and sweat.

The woods seemed all answer and healing and more than enough to live for.

And blessed are they who have learned the rhythms of the invisible clock whose hours and minutes are immense and soundless. The great clock of the seasons and the years, and the small clock of the intuition, whose timing is guided by the heart.

I cannot believe this is the end. Nor can I believe that death is more than the blindness of those living. And if this is only the consolation of a heart in its necessity, or that easy faith born of despair, it does not matter, since it gives us courage somehow to face the mornings. Which is as much as the heart can ask at times.

I am sick of war. Every woman of my generation is sick of war. Fifty years of war. Wars rumored, wars beginning, wars fought, wars ending, wars paid for, wars endured.