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

There are ways in, journeys to the center of life, through time; through air, matter, dream and thought. The ways are not always mapped or charted, but sometimes being lost, if there is such a thing, is the sweetest place to be. And always, in this search, a person might find that she is already there, at the center of the world. It may be a broken world, but it is glorious nonetheless.

Telling about our lives is important for those who come after as, for those who will see our experience as part of their own historical struggle.

The crocodile doesn't harm the bird that cleans his teeth for him. He eats the others but not that one.

There is a way that nature speaks, that land speaks. Most of the time we are simply not patient enough, quiet enough, to pay attention to the story.

Poetry has its own laws speaking for the life of the planet. It is a language that wants to bring back together what the other words have torn apart.

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