Dearly beloved — late again! - Anne Morrow Lindbergh

Arranging a bowl of flowers in the morning sun can give a sense of quiet in a crowded day - like writing a poem, or saying a prayer.

The intellectual is constantly betrayed by his vanity. Godlike he blandly assumes that he can express everything in words whereas the things one loves, lives, and dies for are not, in the last analysis completely expressible in words.

If one sets aside time
for a business appointment, a trip to the hairdresser, a social engagement or a shopping expedition,
that time is accepted as inviolable. But if one says: I cannot come because that is my hour to be alone,
one is considered rude, egotistical or strange. What a commentary on our civilization, when being
alone is considered suspect; when one has to apologize for it, make excuses, hide the fact that one
practices it — like a secret vice!