Rebekah

“Was there some deeper, level some plane upon which the consciousness of mountains responded to death and waste and pain? Was there a compassion embedded in the very rocks, so that they offered their beauty in compensation for human loss?”
― Starhawk, Walking to Mercury

“The woman. I did carry a few of her images in my head, for example the recurrent image of the forest, the word 'coniferous,' the word 'boreal.' The word 'footpath.' All together, they constituted something like a mantra, or the sentimental beads of a rosary. When nothing else seemed to make sense, sense was hidden in irrefutable words: a sliver or the space for a sliver.”
― Cristina Rivera Garza, The Taiga Syndrome

“The rain is falling in silver needles into the forest green outside my window. The wind slathers it against the glass and it smears into little lenses of distorting clarity. Some raindrops gather on the window casing, bead up fat and round, then fall. The rain’s forms are all beautiful. The human eye does more than see; it stitches the seen and unseen together, the temporal and the eternal. It wakes me again and again to the astonishment of finding myself in a body moving through a world of beauty and dying and mystery. It is as if the world were a series of questions, and astonishment were the answer.”
― Alison Hawthorne Deming, Writing the Sacred into the Real

“The desire of water is scribed across the desert like graffiti, until all that is left of the desert is water.... In the scream of a flood, consummate carvings are left behind. Careful scallops are taken from the faces of canyons. This is not random work. It is artistry distilled from madness.”
― Craig Childs, The Secret Knowledge of Water