For It Is Only Framed In Space

One Writes Not To Be Read But To Breathe...one Writes To Think, To Pray, To Analyze. One Writes To Clear One's Mind, To Dissipate One's Fears, To Face One's Doubts, To Look At One's Mistakes--in Order To Retrieve Them. One Writes To Capture And Crystallize One's Joy, But Also To Disperse One's Gloom. Like Prayer--you Go To It In Sorrow More Than Joy, For Help, A Road Back To 'grace'.

Nothing Feeds The Center Of Being So Much As Creative Work.

These Bright Roofs, These Steep Towers, These Jewel-lakes, These Skeins Of Railroad Line - All Spoke To Her And She Answered. She Was Glad They Were There. She Belonged To Them And They To Her. . . . She Had Not Lost It. She Was Touching It With Her Fingertips. This Was Flying: To Go Swiftly Over The Earth You Loved, Touching It Lightly With Your Fingertips, Holding The Railroads Lines In Your Hand To Guide You, Like A Skein Of Wool In A Spider-web Game - Like Following Ariadne's Thread Through The Minotaur's Maze, Where Would It Lead, Where?

We Have So Little Faith In The Ebb And Flow Of Life, Of Love, Of Relationships. We Leap At The Flow Of Time And Resist In Terror Its Ebb. We Are Afraid It Will Never Return. We Insist On Permanency, On Duration, On Continuity; When The Only Continuity Possible In Life, As In Love, Is In Growth, In Fluidity - In Freedom.

When One Is A Stranger To Oneself Then One Is Estranged From Others Too. If One Is Out Of Touch With Oneself, Then One Cannot Touch Others. Only When One Is Connected To One's Own Core Is.