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Go for a short walk in a soft rain - lovely - so many wild flowers startling me through the woods and a lawn sprinkled with dandelions, like a night with stars. And through it all the sound of soft rain like the sound of innumerable earthworms stirring in the ground.

Anne Morrow Lindbergh

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Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Age: 94 †
Born: 1906
Born: June 22
Died: 2001
Died: February 7
Aircraft Pilot
Author
Diarist
Glider Pilot
Poet
Writer
Englewood
New Jersey
Anne Lindbergh
Anne Morrow
Anne Spencer Morrow
Anne Spencer Morrow Lindbergh
Anne Spencer Lindbergh
Short
Soft
Earthworms
Walk
Flowers
Sprinkled
Walks
Wild
Dandelions
Stars
Woods
Startling
Sound
Lovely
Lawn
Night
Ground
Innumerable
Many
Rain
Lawns
Like
Flower
Stirring

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The web of marriage is made by propinquity, in the day to day living side by side, looking outward in the same direction. It is woven in space and in time of the substance of life itself.
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One cannot collect all the beautiful shells on the beach. One can collect only a few, and they are more beautiful if they are few.
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Beauty cannot disguise nor music melt A pain undiagnosable but felt.
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Marriage should, I think, always be a little bit hard and new and strange. It should be breaking your shell and going into another world, and a bigger one.
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Life is a gift, given in trust - like a child.
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Yesterday I sat in a field of violets for a long time perfectly still, until I really sank into it - into the rhythm of the place, I mean - then when I got up to go home I couldn't walk quickly or evenly because I was still in time with the field.
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Lost time is like a run in a stocking. It always gets worse.
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Duration is not a test of truth or falsehood.
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Forsythia is pure joy. There is not an ounce, not a glimmer of sadness or even knowledge in forsythia. Pure, undiluted, untouched joy.
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Go with the pain, let it take you. Open your palms and your body to the pain. It comes in waves like the tide and you must be open as a vessel lying on the beach, letting it fill you up and then, retreating, leaving you empty and clear.
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Eternally, woman spills herself away in driblets to the thirsty, seldom being allowed the time, the quiet, the peace, to let the pitcher fill up to the brim.
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Communication with another person -- wasn't it the realest thing in life?
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For happiness one needs security, but joy can spring like a flower even from the cliffs of despair.
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Women need solitude in order to find again the true essence of themselves.
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If one talks to more than four people, it is an audience and one cannot really think or exchange thoughts with an audience.
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war is a thug's game. The thug strikes first and harder. He doesn't go by rules and he isn't afraid of hurting people.
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The world has been forced to its knees. Unhappily, we seldom find our way there without being beaten to it by suffering.
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I am most anxious to give my own children enough love and understanding so that they won't grow up with an aching void in them--like you and I and Harold and Martha. That can never be filled, and one goes around all one's life trying, trying to make up for what one didn't get that was one's birthright, asking the wrong people for it.
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