“Look how wildflowers bloom from your skin. So why hold back those tears when your soil needs them?”

The truth is your skin was my skin and shedding you is not an easy process.

My head screamed. I want to make them burn the way they did to me. My heart cried that’s not who you are.

Don’t strive to become more. Strive to become whole.

You were so gentle with my messy burdens, my tender wounds and the cracks in my broken soul that I became gentle with them, too.

I am mystic bones and a curious heart. Pain and joy and stardust skin. A sacred soul container. Time and space and matter and illusion. Expansion and contraction. A breathing universe.

I can feel hope beginning to sprout from all parts of me that were once punctured.

Choose to soften. Again and again and again. Despite, despite, despite.

Those who are unkind to themselves will not appreciate your kindness. Do it anyway.

I know our bodies were engagement in the act of sex. But did you hear how loudly our souls were making music?

Glass can shatter, yet still be created into nothing short of art. And so can you.

It is a paradox, you see the act of giving is what fills you.

It’s time for that spark that twinkles inside your stomach to become a roaring forest fire.

I have died and rebirth a million times inside this body, and I have met a million people because of it.

Take refuge in your own arms. Collapse into the protection of your own body. It’s the safest home you will ever know.

We remained youthful never aging a single second because we promised each other that we wouldn’t.

Beneath your mind chatter is your very own grounded wisdom. Open yourself to it.

Live now. When you are eating, eat. When you are loving, love. when you are talking with someone, talk. When you are looking at a flower, look. Catch the beauty of the moment!

Flowers are nice, but love is better.

I paint flowers so they will not die.

Flowers don’t worry about how they’re going to bloom. They just open up & turn toward the light & that makes them beautiful.

I will bring you flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.

Weeds are flowers, too, once you get to know them.

Love has to be flowering like the stars, and measureless as a kiss.

Love is like a beautiful flower which I may not touch, but whose fragrance makes the garden a place of delight just the same.