Look, we don't love like flowers with only one season behind us; when we love, a sap older than memory rises in our arms.

The flower bends when the wind wants it to, and you must become like that-that is, filled with deep #‎ trust .

Perhaps the same bird echoed through both of us yesterday, seperate, in the evening.

Losing too is still ours; and even forgetting still has a shape in the kingdom of transformation. When something's let go of, it circles; and though we are rarely the center of the circle, it draws around us its unbroken, marvelous curve.

Every happiness is the child of a separation it did not think it could survive.

In the depths all becomes law.

You have had many and great sadnesses, which passed. And you say that even this passing was hard for you and put you out of sorts. But, please, consider whether these great sadnesses have not rather gone right through the center of yourself? Whether much in you has not altered, whether you have not somewhere, at some point of your being, undergone a change when you were sad?