The world is not a place but the vastness of the soul. And the soul is nothing more than love, limitless, all that moves us toward knowing what is true. I once thought love was supposed to be nothing but bliss. I now know it is also worry and grief, hope and trust. ... If people we love die, then they are lost only to our ordinary senses. If we remember, we can find them anytime with our hundred secret senses.
Much of our work is invisible and intangible. You cannot measure it by human means; and sometimes a period of silent reflection will accomplish more good than if the time had been spent in outward activity. Our work is immaterial where we are and what we do; the thing that matters is who we are and what we intend. Constant preoccupation with exterior work handicaps our knowledge of ourselves and of our intentions.