If those whom we begin to love could know us as we were before meeting them they could perceive what they have made of us.
Our mothers and grandmothers. . . moving to music not yet written.
People who work hard often work too hard. . . . May we learn to honor the hammock, the siesta, the nap and the pause in all its forms.
Activism is my rent for living on the planet.
Nobody is as powerful as we make them out to be.
Any God I ever found in church, I brought in myself.
It has become a common feeling, I believe, as we have watched our heroes falling over the years, that our own small stone of activism, which might not seem to measure up to the rugged boulders of heroism we have so admired, is a paltry offering toward the building of an edifice of hope. Many who believe this choose to withhold their offerings out of shame. This is the tragedy of the world. For we can do nothing substantial toward changing our course on the planet, a destructive one, without rousing ourselves, individual by individual, and bringing our small, imperfect stones to the pile.
Actuality is when the lighthouse is dark between flashes: it is the instant between the ticks of the watch: it is a void interval slipping forever through time: the rupture between past and future: the gap at the poles of the revolving magnetic field, infinitesimally small but ultimately real. It is the interchronic pause when nothing is happening. It is the void between events.
He who is accustomed to give account of his life at confession here will not fear to give an answer at the terrible judgment-seat of Christ. It is for this purpose that the mild tribunal of penitence was here initiated, in order that we, being cleansed and amended through penitence here below, may give an answer without shame at the terrible judgment-seat of Christ.
There are cameras nowadays that have been developed to tell the difference between a squirrel and a bomb.
If words fall into disrepair, what will substitute? They are all we have