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I can understand people simply fleeing the mountainous effort Christmas has become... but there are always a few saving graces and finally they make up for all the bother and distress.

May Sarton

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May Sarton
Age: 83 †
Born: 1912
Born: May 3
Died: 1995
Died: July 16
Diarist
Poet
Writer
May Eleanor Sarton
Effort
Fleeing
Understand
Distress
Become
Bother
Make
Saving
Always
Christmas
People
Finally
Grace
Mountainous
Simply
Graces

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It looks as if I were meant to be alone, and that any hope of happiness is not meant. Am I too old to acquire the knack for happiness?
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Miracles cannot be explained, that is their miraculous nature.
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Mountains define you. You cannot define / Them.
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A holiday gives one a chance to look backward and forward to reset oneself by an inner compass.
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Solitude is one thing and loneliness is another.
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What is destructive is impatience, haste, expecting too much too fast.
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making order out of disorder any time, anywhere, can be regarded as a sacrament.
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In the garden the door is always open into the holy - growth, birth, death. Every flower holds the whole mystery in its short cycle, and in the garden we are never far away from death, the fertilizing, good, creative death.
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He [the cat] wound himself around her legs, purring the purr of ardent desire like a kettle coming to a boil and then bubbling very fast.
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You can't plan for a seizure of feeling, and for this reason I put everything else aside when I'm inspired.
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Gardening gives one back a sense of proportion about everything - except itself.
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For inside all the weakness of old age, the spirit, God knows, is as mercurial as it ever was.
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Though friendship is not quick to burn it is explosive stuff.
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I sometimes imagine that as one grows older one comes to live a role which as a young person one merely 'played.
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The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.
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Love opens the doors into everything, as far as I can see, including and perhaps most of all, the door into one's own secret, and often terrible and frightening, real self.
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Love is our human miracle.
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About loving, I have little to learn from the young.
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The creative person, the person who moves from an irrational source of power, has to face the fact that this power antagonizes. Under all the superficial praise of the creative is the desire to kill. It is the old war between the mystic and the nonmystic, a war to the death.
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I suppose I envy painters because they can meditate on form and structure, on color and light, and not concern themselves with human torment and chaos. It is restful even to imagine expression without words.
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