I always forget how important the empty days are, how important it may be sometimes not to expect to produce anything, even a few lines in a journal. A day when one has not pushed oneself to the limit seems a damaged damaging day, a sinful day. Not so! The most valuable thing one can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of a room.
I think of the trees and how simply they let go, let fall the riches of a season, how without grief (it seems) they can let go and go deep into their roots for renewal and sleep.... Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember that nothing stays the same for long, not even pain, psychic pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.
Everything that slows us down and forces patience, everything that sets us back into the slow circles of nature, is a help. Gardening is an instrument of grace.
I would like to believe when I die that I have given myself away like a tree that sows seed every spring and never counts the loss, because it is not loss, it is adding to future life. It is the tree's way of being. Strongly rooted perhaps, but spilling out its treasure on the wind.
We have to dare to be ourselves, however frightening or strange that self may prove to be.
People who cannot feel punish those who do.
Do not deprive me of my age. I have earned it.
Without darkness, nothing comes to birth, As without light, nothing flowers.
One thing is certain, and I have always known it - the joys of my life have nothing to do with age. They do not change. Flowers, the morning and evening light, music, poetry, silence, the goldfinches darting about
It is only when we can believe that we are creating the soul that life has any meaning, but when we can believe it - and I do and always have - then there is nothing we do that is without meaning and nothing that we suffer that does not hold the seed of creation in it.
Read between the lines.Then meet me in the silence if you can.
There are some griefs so loud/They could bring down the sky/And there are griefs so still/None knows how deep they lie.
Loneliness is the poverty of self; solitude is the richness of self.
Love is our human miracle.
The most valuable thing we can do for the psyche, occasionally, is to let it rest, wander, live in the changing light of room, not try to be or do anything whatever.
Now I become myself. It’s taken time, many years and places.
One of the good elements of old age is that we no longer have to prove anything, to ourselves or to anyone else. We are what we are.
Most people have to talk so they won't hear.
Joy, happiness ... we do not question. They are beyond question, maybe. A matter of being. But pain forces us to think, and to make connections ... to discover what has been happening to cause it. And, curiously enough, pain draws us to other human beings in a significant way, whereas joy or happiness to some extent, isolates.
Revision is not going back and fussing around, but going forward into the process of creation
What is there to do when people die - people so dear and rare - but bring them back by remembering?
Keep busy with survival. Imitate the trees. Learn to lose in order to recover, and remember nothing stays the same for long, not even pain. Sit it out. Let it all pass. Let it go.
Whatever peace I know rests in the natural world, in feeling myself a part of it, even in a small way.
No partner in a love relationship... should feel that he has to give up an essential part of himself to make it viable.
The poet must be free to love or hate as the spirit moves him, free to change, free to be a chameleon, free to be an enfant terrible. He must above all never worry about this effect on other people.
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