Innocence is not pure so much as pleased, Always expectant, bright-eyed, self-enclosed
making order out of disorder any time, anywhere, can be regarded as a sacrament.
In the novel or the journal you get the journey. In a poem you get the arrival.
Women's work is always toward wholeness.
The garden is growth and change and that means loss as well as constant new treasures to make up for a few disasters.
An old body when it is loved becomes a sacred treasure; and sex itself must always, it seems to me, come to us as a sacrament and be so used or it is meaningless. The flesh is suffused by the spirit, and it is forgetting this in the act of love-making that creates cynicism and despair.