Walks work for me. I enter some arena that is neither conscious or unconscious.

Every adjective and adverb is worth five cents. Every verb is worth fifty cents.

Hello, sun in my face. Hello you who made the morning and spread it over the fields...Watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness.

I know I can walk through the world, along the shore or under the trees, with my mind filled with things of little importance, in full self-attendance. A condition I can't really call being alive.

When will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks through the world, yourself included.

If I've done my work well, I vanish completely from the scene. I believe it is invasive of the work when you know too much about the writer.

A mind that is lively and inquiring, compassionate, curious, angry, full of music, full of feeling, is a mind full of possible poetry.