And now you'll be telling stories of my coming back and they won't be false, and they won't be true but they'll be real

Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do With your one wild and precious life?

What can we do about God, who makes and then breaks every god-forsaken, beautiful day?

And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.

Still, what I want in my life is to be willing to be dazzled-to cast aside the weight of facts and maybe even to float a little above this difficult world. I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery. I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing-that the light is everything-that it is more than the sum of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

Of course! The path to heaven doesn't lie down in flat miles. It's in the imagination with which you perceive this world, and the gestures with which you honor it.

This is the first, wildest, and wisest thing I know, that the soul exists, and that it is built entirely out of attention.