Springtime is at hand. When will you ever bloom, if not here and now?

I am like God and God like me. I am as large as God. He is as small as I. He cannot above me nor I beneath him be.

Paradise is at your own center; unless you find it there, there is no way to enter.

If Christ were born in Bethlehem a thousand times and not in thee thyself; then art thou lost eternally.

By the will art thou lost, by the will art thou found, by the will art thou free, captive, and bound.

The rose is without 'why'; it blooms simply because it blooms. It pays no attention to itself, nor does it ask whether anyone sees it.

A monk asks:Is there anything more miraculous than the wonders of nature?The master answers:Yes, your awareness of the wonders of nature.

Do not seek God in outer space-- Your heart is the only place in which to meet Him face to face.

God does not care what good you did, but why you did it. He does not grade the fruit but probes the core and tests the root.

If in your heart you make a manger for his birth then God will once again become a child on earth.

Love is difficult, because loving is not enough: We must, like God, ourselves be Love.

Plant the seeds of desire in the field of imagination to grow the harvest of invention.

What would be awful would be to die and look back miserably - seeing only the bad things, the opportunities missed, or what could have been.

I was not a natural. . . . This is the story of becoming . . . the Hard Way.

Don't be sucked in by the su-superior, don't swallow the culture bait, don't drink, don't drink and get beerier and beerier, do learn to discriminate.

I can't move my body slowly. I can't move the line slowly. So I end up with way too much, often opaque to me later.

Donald Trump is a racist. Donald Trump in fact is making fascist appeals. That's why many self-respecting Republicans are not supporting Donald Trump for president.

Love and forgiveness is not for the faint-hearted.

Literary poetry in a painter is something special, and is neither illustration nor the translation of writing by form.

A garden is never finished.

Write till your ink be dry, and with your tears Moist it again, and frame some feeling line That may discover such integrity.