“Dip your hands into life, scoop up memories, dreams, questions and ideas and weave them into stories.”
“Oh her deathbed, when her hands could no longer weave or paint or mold clay, she'd told stories and filled them with the colors she loved.”
“We have our stories, and we speak of them, and weave them into other people's stories - that's how it goes, does it not?”
“The hand which scoops up the water is the first vessel. The fingers of both hands intertwined are the first basket. [p. 217]”
“I weave Beauty and Light into my Dreams, offering them into the web of all things.”
“A scattered dream that's like a far-off memory... a far-off memory that's like a scattered dream... i want to line the pieces up... yours and mine.”