“When it’s gentle, you go sailing, have a picnic, take a swim.”

Death reminds us that we are part of the same river, the same flow from the same source, rushing towards the same destiny. Were you close? Yes, but we didn’t know it then.

The hot, moist smell of babies fresh from naps.

Discover that we are capable of solitary joy and having experienced it, know that we have touched the core of self.

Grief is like the wind. When it’s blowing hard, you adjust your sails and run before it. If it blows too hard, you stay in the harbor, close the hatches and don’t take calls.

From beginning to end this is a wet and blood smeared voyage, this begetting and birthing and moving away.

A red brick Presbyterian church… captured by kudzu vines as surely as a butterfly in a net.

Siblings may be ambivalent about their relationships in life, but in death the power of their bond strangles the surviving heart.

In the menu, there should be a climax and a culmination. Come to it gently. One will suffice.

Sometimes what’s needed is gentle truths; a soak in pure feelings that honor the real you.

Live a little kinder, a little braver, and a lot more gentle with yourself.

There is one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath.

The gentlest man cannot live in peace if it does not please his wicked neighbor.

Rest your head on his shoulder more often. Earth blushes when a snowflake gently dozes off on it.

Consider your honour, as a gentleman, of more weight than an oath.

Just because the world requires you to be tough doesn’t mean you can’t be gentle with yourself.