“I must start to build again after this long period of anguish and despair. […] Keep silent—and have confidence in myself.”

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers flow in the right direction, will the earth turn as it was taught, and if not how shall I correct it? Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven, can I do better? Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows can do it and I am, well, hopeless. Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it, am I going to get rheumatism, lockjaw, dementia? Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing. And gave it up. And took my old body and went out into the morning, and sang.

“The language of birds is very ancient, and like other ancient modes of speech, very elliptical; little is said, but much is meant and understood.”

“I do not write every day, I read every day, think every day, work in the garden every day, and recognize in nature the same slow complicity. The same inevitability. The moment will arrive, always it does, it can be predicted but it cannot be demanded. I do not think of this as inspiration. I think of it as readiness.”

“…the beautiful garden, its silence and its peace, the lovely leisure, the solitude of which we are unworthy.”