“How does one grow up?” I asked a friend the other day. There was a slight pause; then she answered, “By thinking.”

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

In the middle of the night, things well up from the past that are not always cause for rejoicing--the unsolved, the painful encounters, the mistakes, the reasons for shame or woe. But all, good or bad, give me food for thought, food to grow on.

There are some griefs so loud/They could bring down the sky/And there are griefs so still/None knows how deep they lie.

...I feel more alive when I'm writing than I do at any other time--except when I'm making love. Two things when you forget time, when nothing exists except the moment--the moment of writing, the moment of love. That perfect concentration is bliss.

And one cold starry night / Whatever your belief / The phoenix will take flight / Over the seas of grief / To sing her thrilling song / To stars and waves and sky / For neither old nor young / The phoenix does not die.

Flowers and plants are silent presences. They nourish every sense except the ear.