Properly practiced, knitting soothes the troubled spirit, and it doesn't hurt the untroubled spirit either.

For people allergic to wool, one's heart can only bleed.

Knit on with confidence and hope through all crises.

Now, let us all take a deep breath and forge on into the future; knitting at the ready.

Really, all you need to become a good knitter are wool, needles, hands, and slightly below-average intelligence. Of course superior intelligence, such as yours and mine, is an advantage.

Really, handknitting is a dreamy activity, built into many people's thumbs and fingers by genes already there, itching to display their skills and achievement possibilities.

One tends to give one's fingers too little credit for their own good sense.

One un-vents something; one unearths it; one digs it up; one runs it down in whatever recesses of the eternal consciousness it has gone to ground.

I can knit. I knit all year, day in, day out. It is my passion, and I rarely knit the same thing twice the same way.

I know that spinning sets me in a trance; it soothes me and charges my batteries at the same time. When times are tough I sit down to spin during the news-broadcasts, with therapeutic results.

Love and kindness have no boundaries or borders.

Life, Stormy says, is not about how fast you run or even with what degree of grace. It's about perseverance, about staying on your feet and slogging forward no matter what.

Physical laws are ruled by logic, and are ungovernable: so when the die comes to rest on its edge, it owes neither apology nor account.

I'm not a centrist, and there's nothing about me that's centrist. I never have been.

There is only truth to be found - no lies, no shams, no illusions, no hypocrisy. Just a truthful place, where all beings are governed by a set of perfect laws that have never changed and never will.

A well-born man is fortunate, but so is the man about whom people no longer ask, 'is he well-born?'

Fast fading violets cover'd up in leaves; And mid-May's eldest child, The coming musk-rose, full of dewy wine, The murmurous haunt of flies on summer eves.

He who listens to truth is not less than he who utters truth.

Life is a gift. Never take it for granted.