Every morning I walk like this around the pond, thinking: if the doors of my heart ever close, I am as good as dead.

I have a notion that if you are going to be spiritually curious, you better not get cluttered up with too many material things.

I've always wanted to write poems and nothing else.

What can we do but keep on breathing in and out, modest and willing, and in our places?

I want to believe I am looking into the white fire of a great mystery.

Can one be passionate about the just, the ideal, the sublime, and the holy, and yet commit no labor in its cause? I don't think so. All summations have a beginning, all effect has a story, all kindness beings with the sown seed. Thought buds toward radiance. The gospel of light is the crossroads of - indolence, or action. Be ignited or be gone.

At Blackwater Pond the tossed waters have settled after a night of rain. I dip my cupped hands. I drink a long time. It tastes like stone, leaves, fire. It falls cold into my body, waking the bones. I hear them deep inside me, whispering oh what is that beautiful thing that just happened?