... Writing Letters Is Thinking,

I Am Very Fond Of The Oyster Shell. It Is Humble And Awkward And Ugly. It Is Slate-colored And Unsymmetrical. Its Form Is Not Primarily Beautiful But Functional. I Make Fun Of Its Knobbiness. Sometimes I Resent Its Burdens And Excrescences. But Its Tireless Adaptability And Tenacity Draw My Astonished Admiration And Sometimes Even My Tears. And It Is Comfortable In Its Familiarity, Its Homeliness, Like Old Garden Gloves When Have Molded Themselves Perfectly To The Shape Of The Hand. I Do Not Like To Put It Down. I Will Not Want To Leave It.

Life Itself Is Always Pulling You Away From The Understanding Of Life.

After All, I Don't See Why I Am Always Asking For Private, Individual, Selfish Miracles When Every Year There Are Miracles Like White Dogwood.

Not Knowing How To Feed The Spirit, We Try To Muffle Its Demands In Distraction...what Matters Is That One Be For A Time Inwardly Attentive.

Woman Must Be The Pioneer In This Turning Inward For Strength. In A Sense, She Has Always Been The Pioneer.