Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?
And soon a branch, part of a hidden scene,The leafy mind, that long was tightly furled,Will turn its private substance into green,And young shoots spread upon our inner world.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
Fear was my father, Father Fear. His look drained the stones.
Too much reality can be a dazzle, a surfeit;Too close immediacy an exhaustion
But when I breath with the birds, The spirit of wrath becomes the spirit of blessings, And the dead begin from their dark to sing in my sleep.
(I measure time by how a body sways. )
Regardless of what is being discussed. . . the issue is never more important than the quality of the interaction.
It’s very dear to me, the issue of gay marriage. Or as I like to call it: 'marriage. ' You know, because I had lunch this afternoon, not gay lunch. I parked my car; I didn’t gay park it.
I asked my Dad once, "How did you and Mum stay married for 33 years?" He said. "Well, we never wanted to get divorced at the same time.
The world shows up for us, but it doesn't show up for free. We must show up, too, and bring along what knowledge and skills we've cultivated. As with a painting in a gallery, the world has no meaning-no presence to be experienced-apart from our ability to engagement with it.