We must begin to catch hold of everything around us, for nobody knows what we may need. We have to carry along the air, even; and the weight we once thought a burden turns out to form the pulse of our life and the compass for our brain. Colors balance our fears, and existence begins to clog unless our thoughts can occur unwatched and let a fountain of essential silliness out through our dreams. And oh I hope we can still arrange for the wind to blow, and occasionally some kind of shock to occur, like rain, and stray adventures no one cares about -- harmless love, immoderate guffaws on corners, families crawling around the front room growling, being bears in the piano cave.
Toward the Space Age by Mary Oliver