When I write, I don't know what is going to emerge. I begin in a condition of complete unknowing, an utter nakedness of concept or goal. A word appears, another word appears, an image. It is a moving into mystery.
Something looks back from the trees, and knows me for who I am. - Jane Hirshfield
Something looks back from the trees, and knows me for who I am.
- Jane Hirshfield
Sam Hamill is a writer unabashedly taking his place within the community of literature and the community of all sentient beings-his fidelity is to th… - Jane Hirshfield
Sam Hamill is a writer unabashedly taking his place within the community of literature and the community of all sentient beings-his fidelity is to th…
A tree lives on its roots. If you change the root, you change the tree. Culture lives in human beings. If you change the human heart the culture will… - Jane Hirshfield
A tree lives on its roots. If you change the root, you change the tree. Culture lives in human beings. If you change the human heart the culture will…
At some point I realized that you don't get a full human life if you try to cut off one end of it, that you need to agree to the entire experience, t… - Jane Hirshfield
At some point I realized that you don't get a full human life if you try to cut off one end of it, that you need to agree to the entire experience, t…
This garden is no metaphor - more a task that swallows you into itself, earth using, as always, everything it can. - Jane Hirshfield
This garden is no metaphor - more a task that swallows you into itself, earth using, as always, everything it can.
Metaphors get under your skin by ghosting right past the logical mind. - Jane Hirshfield
Metaphors get under your skin by ghosting right past the logical mind.
How fragile we are, between the few good moments. - Jane Hirshfield
How fragile we are, between the few good moments.
Habit, laziness, and fear conspire to keep us comfortably within the familiar. - Jane Hirshfield
Habit, laziness, and fear conspire to keep us comfortably within the familiar.
How silently the heart pivots on its hinge. - Jane Hirshfield
How silently the heart pivots on its hinge.
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