To be an artist means not to compute or count.

I think of you often, dear, and with such concentrated wishes that it really must help you in some way.

Trees do not force their sap, nor does the flower push its bloom.

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.

Love the questions, themselves.

And you suddenly know: It was here! You pull yourself together, and there stands an irrevocable year of anguish and vision and prayer.

Think... of the world you carry within you, and call this thinking whatever you want to: a remembering of your own childhood or a yearning toward a future of your own - only be attentive to what is arising within you, and place that above everything you perceive around you. What is happening in your innermost self is worthy of your entire love; somehow you must find a way to work at it.