Surely all art is the result of one's having been in danger, of having gone through an experience all the way to the end, where no one can go any further.

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

The quieter we are, the more patient and open we are in our sadnesses, the more deeply and serenely the new presence can enter us, and the more we can make it our own, the more it becomes our fate.

Go on loving what is good, simple, and ordinary.

May I strike my heart's keys clearly, and may none fail because of slack, uncertain, or fraying strings. May the tears that stream down my face make me more radiant: may my hidden weeping bloom.... How we waste our afflictions!... [T]hey're really our wintering foliage, our dark greens of meaning, one of the seasons of the clandestine year—; not only a season—: they're site, settlement, shelter, soil, abode.

Our heart always transcends us.

the knowledge of impermanence that haunts our days is their very fragrance.