“You told me once of the plants that lie dormant through the drought, that wait, half-dead, deep in the earth. The plants that wait for the rain. You said they'd wait for years, if they had to; that they'd almost kill themselves before they grew again. But as soon as those first drops of water fall, those plants begin to stretch and spread their roots. They travel up through the soil and sand to reach the surface. There's a chance for them again.”

“You told me once of t he plants that lie dormant through thedrought; that wait, half dead, deep in the earth. The plants thatwait for the rain. You said they'd wait for years, if they had to;that they'd almost kill themselves before they grew again. Butas soon as those first drops of water fall, those plants begin tostretch and spread their roots. They travel up through the soiland sand to reach the surface. There's a chance for them again.One day they'll let you out of that dry, empty cell. You'llreturn to the Separates, without me, and you'll feel the ramonce more. And you'll grow straight, this time, towards thissunlight. I know you will." - Gemma”

“Your darkness is not the enemy. It is the rich soil you must dig into and sometimes be planted in before something new can break through the surface; and those parts of you that seem wounded or lacking don’t need to be healed or improved, per say, but rather loved and accepted.”

“Good writing is always a breaking of the soil, clearing away prejudices, pulling up of sour weeds of crooked thinking, stripping the turf so as to get at what is fertile beneath. It would be amusing to carry the simile further. Those bulbs that flower in the sand and wither! The gay fiction annual that has to be planted again every year! Those experimental plants from Russia, France, and Greenwich Village that are always getting winter killed—confound 'em!—is it worth while planting them again? The stocky perennial that keeps coming up and coming up—so easy to grow and so ugly. Scarlet sage that gives a touch of fiery sin to the edge of the suburbanite's concrete walk! And then the good flowers—as honest as they are beautiful! The well-ordered gar den! The climbing rose that escapes and is the most beautiful of all!”

“And I thanked mi papa who'd always said to me that we, los Indios, the Indians, were like the weeds. That roses you had to water and giver fertilizer or they'd die. But weeds, indigenous plants, you gave them nada-nothing; hell you even poisoned them and put concrete over them, and those weeds would still break the concrete, ”

“I am sometimes amazed at what we did not fully grasp in kindergarten. In the years I was a parish minister I was always taken aback when someone came to me and said. 'I've just come from the doctor and he told me I have only a limited time to live'. I was always tempted to shout 'WHAT? You didn't know? You had to pay a doctor to tell you - at your age? Where were you the week in kingergarten when you got the little cup with the cotton and water and seed? Life happened - remember? A plant grew up and the roots grew down. A miracle. And then a few days later the plant was dead. DEAD. Life is short. Were you asleep that week or home sick or what?”