And there you are on the shore, fitful and thoughtful, trying to attach them to an idea — some news of your own life. But the lilies are slippery and wild—they are devoid of meaning, they are simply doing, from the deepest spurs of their being, what they are impelled to do every summer. And so, dear sorrow, are you.

A dog is adorable and noble, a dog is a true and loving friend. A dog is also a hedonist.

GOING TO WALDEN It isn't very far as highways lie. I might be back by nightfall, having seen The rough pines, and the stones, and the clear water. Friends argue that I might be wiser for it. They do not hear that far-off Yankee whisper: How dull we grow from hurrying here and there! Many have gone, and think me half a fool To miss a day away in the cool country. Maybe. But in a book I read and cherish, Going to Walden is not so easy a thing As a green visit. It is the slow and difficult Trick of living, and finding it where you are.

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

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

Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forests of our lives.

And who will care, who will chide you if you wander away from wherever you are, to look for your soul?