Gardening gives one back a sense of proportion about everything - except itself.
The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.
One of the springs of poetry is joy.
There the door is always open into the “holy” — growth, birth, death.
Wrinkles here and there seem unimportant compared to the Gestalt of the whole person I have become in this past year.
Where joy in an old pencil is not absurd.