We spend our lives hurrying away from the real, as though it were deadly to us. It must be somewhere up there on the horizon, we think. And all the time it is in the soil, right beneath our feet.

We spend our lives hurrying away from the real, as though it were deadly to us. It must be somewhere up there on the horizon, we think. And all the time it is in the soil, right beneath our feet.

How can I stand on the ground every day and not feel its power? How can I live my life stepping on this stuff and not wonder at it?

Patience is the mother of joy.