Maybe the desert wisdom of the Dakotas can teach us to love anyway, to love what is dying, in the face of death, and not pretend that things are other than they are. The irony and wonder of all of this is that it is the desert's grimness, its stillness and isolation, that brings us back to love.

If we are lucky, we can give in and rest without feeling guilty. We can stop doing and concentrate on being.

Changing husbands is only changing troubles.

I've come to see conspiracy theories as the refuge of those who have lost their natural curiosity and ability to cope with change.

Each and every one of us has one obligation, during the bewildered days of our pilgrimage here: the saving of his own soul, and secondarily and incidentally thereby affecting for good such other souls as come under our influence.

The ordinary activities I find most compatible with contemplation are walking, baking bread, and doing laundry.

I was taught that I had to 'master' subjects. But who can 'master' beauty, or peace, or joy?