What was said to the rose that made it open, was said to me, here in my chest.

Iron was black and sheenless, but cleansing and polishing washed away its blackness.

Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation.

Rush out in the rain to be soaked with the sky.

Like a sculptor, if necessary, carve a friend out of stone. Realize that your inner sight is blind and try to see a treasure in everyone.

Let yourself become living poetry.

We are all bathed in the same light.