Without darkness, nothing comes to birth, As without light, nothing flowers.

when I am working I immediately feel hopeful.

In the garden the door is always open into the "holy" - growth, birth, death. Every flower holds the whole mystery in its short cycle, and in the garden we are never far away from death, the fertilizing, good, creative death.

And I refuse to feel guilty about not letter-writing either. There are times when one can, times when one can't. In the times when an enormous amount of living is going on, one can't.

It is, I assume, quite easy to wither into old age, and hard to grow into it.

The ambience here is order and beauty. That is what frightens me when I am first alone again. I feel inadequate. I have made an open place, a place for meditation. What if I cannot find myself inside it?

About loving, I have little to learn from the young.