Four hundred year old trees, who draw aliveness from the earth like smoke from the heart of God, we come, not knowing you will hush our little want to be big; we come, not knowing that all the work is so much busyness of mind; all the worry, so much busyness of heart. As the sun warms anything near, being warms everything still and the great still things that outlast us make us crack like leaves of laurel releasing a fragrance that has always been.

What is not ex-pressed is de-pressed.

there is a great choice that awaits us every day: whether we go around carving holes in others because we have been so painfully carved ourselves, or whether we let spirit play its song through our tender experience, enabling us to listen, as well, to the miraculous music coming through others.

Even if one glimpses God, there are cuts and splinters and burns along the way.

Living is the original art. As a young man I wanted to be a poet and I learned along the way that I already was a poet.

We're quietly aching for something to celebrate

We are broken open, or we willfully shed.