Everything is gestation and then birthing.

At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.

No great art has ever been made without the artist having known danger.

Dig deep into your heart, where the answer spreads its roots in your being, and ask yourself solemnly, Must I write?

If we surrendered to earth’s intelligence we could rise up rooted, like trees. Instead we entangle ourselves in knots of our own making and struggle, lonely and confused. So like children, we begin again... to fall, patiently to trust our heaviness. Even a bird has to do that before he can fly. (from the poem "How Sure Gravity's Law")

Only those sadnesses are dangerous and bad which one carries about among people in order to drown them out.

Truly it is glorious, our being here.