What always seems miraculous is when aesthetic necessities yield an insight which otherwise I would have missed.

A story is told as much by silence as by speech.

What is buried in the past of one generation falls to the next to claim.

But still, the other voice, the intuitive, returns, like grass forcing its way through concrete.

One can find traces of every life in each life.

we are nature. We are nature seeing nature. We are nature with a concept of nature. Nature weeping. Nature speaking of nature to nature.

This earth is my sister; I love her daily grace, her silent daring, and how loved I am. How we admire this strength in each other, all that we have lost, all that we have suffered, all that we know: We are stunned by this beauty, and I do not forget: what she is to me, what I am to her.