Miracles cannot be explained, that is their miraculous nature.

How unnatural the imposed view, imposed by a puritanical ethos, that passionate love belongs only to the young, that people are dead from the neck down by the time they are forty, and that any deep feeling, any passion after that age, is either ludicrous or revolting!

One has only to set a loved human being against the fact that we are all in peril all the time to get back a sense of proportion. What does anything matter compared to the reality of love and its span, so brief at best, maintained against such odds?

What we have not has made us what we are. / ... / What we are not drives us to consummation.

I asked myself the question, 'What do you want of your life?' and I realized with a start of recognition and terror, 'Exactly what I have - but to be commensurate, to handle it all better.

It is curious how any making of order makes one feel mentally ordered, ordered inside.

The garden is growth and change and that means loss as well as constant new treasures to make up for a few disasters.