Books arent written on whim or promises. Books are written on years turned inside out by ideas that never let go until you get them in print, and even then writings a last resort, a desperate ransom you pay to get your life back.

As long as we believe in sequential time, we see becoming instead of being. Beyond time, we are all one.

I have a way of finding what is true for me, and it’s not finished yet.

One of the cosmic laws, I think, is that whatever we hold in our thought will come true in our experience.

Every problem has a gift for you in its hands.

Whatever it is that calls us, that's our path. And as we walk that path, we have a chance to shine forth who we are. It affects other people around us.

How can we resent the life we've created for ourselves? Who's to blame, who's to credit, but us? Who can change it, any time we wish, but us?