We are full of bread and gas, getting fat on the outside while inside we grow thin

Once a century, all of a certain kind of bamboo flower on the same day. Whether they are in Malaysia or in a greenhouse in Minnesota makes no difference, nor does the age or size of the plant. They flower. Some current of an inner language passes between them, through space and separation, in ways we cannot explain in our language. They are all, somehow, one plant, each with a share of communal knowledge.

There is a language beyond human language, an elemental language, one that arises from the land itself.

It has seemed so strange to me that the larger culture, with its own absence of spirit and lack of attachment for the land, respects these very things about Indian traditions, without adopting those respected ways themselves.

Death is dancing me ragged.

It is a paradox in the contemporary world that in our desire for peace we must willingly give ourselves to struggle.

We are full of bread and gas, getting fat on the outside while inside we grow thin