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

A spoken story is larger than one unheard, unsaid. In nearly all creation accounts, words or songs are how the world was created, the animals sung into existence.

There is a geography of the human spirit, common to all peoples.

I resented my mother for guessing my innermost secrets. She was like God, everywhere at once knowing everything.

Between earth and earth's atmosphere, the amount of water remains constant; there is never a drop more, never a drop less. This is a story of circular infinity, of a planet birthing itself.

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

A woman once described a friend of hers as being such a keen listener that even the trees leaned toward her, as if they were speaking their innermost secrets into her listening ears. Over the years I’ve envisioned that woman’s silence, a hearing full and open enough that the world told her its stories. The green leaves turned toward her, whispering tales of soft breezes and the murmurs of leaf against leaf.