Can words describe the fragrance of the very breath of spring?
~ Neltje Blanchan
Spring work is going on with joyful enthusiasm.
~ John Muir
We are not separate from this Earth; we are a part of it, whether we fully feel it in our bodies yet or not.
~ Sharon Blackie, If Women Rose Rooted
Earth has many voices. Those who understand that Earth is a living being know this because they have translated themselves to the humble grasses and old trees. They know that Earth is a community that is constantly talking to itself; a communicating universe. And whether we know it or not, we are participating in the web of this community.
~ Joan Halifax
Book collecting is an obsession, an occupation, a disease, an addiction, a fascination, an absurdity, a fate. It is not a hobby. Those who do it must do it. Those who do not do it, think of it as a cousin of stamp collecting, a sister of the trophy cabinet, bastard of a sound bank account and a weak mind.
~ Jeanette Winterson
In the morning, wonder and be generous like the sun. In the evening, meditate and be kind like the moon.
~ Debasish Mridha
Sometimes the soul takes pictures of things it has wished for, but never seen.
~ Anne Sexton
What else is going on right this minute while ground water creeps under my feet? The galaxy is careening in a slow, muffled widening. If a million solar systems are born every hour, then surely hundreds burst into being as I shift my weight to the other elbow. The sun’s surface is now exploding; other stars implode and vanish, heavy and black, out of sight. Meteorites are arcing to earth invisibly all day long. On the planet, the winds are blowing: the polar easterlies, the westerlies, the northeast and southeast trades. Somewhere, someone under full sail is becalmed, in the horse latitudes, in the doldrums; in the northland, a trapper is maddened, crazed, by the eerie scent of the chinook, the sweater, a wind that can melt two feet of snow in a day. The pampero blows, and the tramontane, and the Boro, sirocco, levanter, mistral. Lick a finger; feel the now.
Spring is seeping north, towards me and away from me, at sixteen miles a day…
~ Annie Dillard