Love makes you see a place differently, just as you hold differently an object that
belongs to someone you love. If you know one landscape well, you will look at all other landscapes differently. And if you learn to love one place, sometimes you can also learn to love another.
There's a moment when love makes you believe in death for the first time. You recognize the one whose loss, even contemplated, you'll carry forever, like a sleeping child. All grief, anyone's grief...is the weight of a sleeping child.
Hold a book in your hand and you're a pilgrim at the gates of a new city.
If love wants you; if you've been melted down to stars, you will love with lungs and gills; with feathers and scales; with warm blood and cold.
Important lessons: look carefully; record what you see. Find a way to make beauty necessary; find a way to make necessity beautiful.
Trees, for example, carry the memory of rainfall. In their rings we read ancient weather—storms, sunlight, and temperatures, the growing seasons of centuries. A forest shares a history, which each tree remembers even after it has been felled.
Like other ghosts, she whispers; not for me to join her, but so that, when I'm close enough, she can push me back into the world.