Motivation is like gasoline; you really can’t go anywhere without it. But unlike gasoline, which we have to buy, motivation is something we have to make for ourselves, sometimes out of the broken remnants of what used to fuel us.
Sometimes we wonder about things, questions to which there seem to be no answers. That is okay, though: wondering, even when no answers seem forthcoming, is no less useless than eating, knowing we’ll just be hungry again.
Silence is not a passive thing; it is, or can be, the very active pursuit of listening, of integrating completely with one’s surroundings. As such, it takes a tremendous amount of effort.
I can smell the pizza baking in the oven, and I wonder: how often do I pass by, not just good things, but favorite things, without really stopping to notice?
It might be daily.
The sea, like life itself, gives and takes in equal measures, always. The sea also – like life itself – occasionally shows itself as a thing far beyond our ability to master, or even comprehend in its immensity.
“Why did I go after her,” he asked me, “and follow her all the way to Europe, when I knew how it was going to turn out?”
“Because stories need endings,” I said, “and because love is a story we never really stop writing.”
Human lives are imperfect: in fact, they are markedly so. Yet, whatever perfection there is in each, or any, of our lives, it is characterized by our adding to the world’s often meager store of truth, or goodness, or beauty; or, perhaps, just not ruining true, good or beautiful things when we happen to find them.