Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Anne Morrow Lindbergh
Anne Spencer Lindberghwas an American author, aviator, and the wife of aviator Charles Lindbergh. She was an acclaimed author whose books and articles spanned the genres of poetry to non-fiction, touching upon topics as diverse as youth and age; love and marriage; peace, solitude and contentment, as well as the role of women in the 20th century. Lindbergh's Gift from the Sea is a popular inspirational book, reflecting on the lives of American women...
NationalityAmerican
ProfessionWriter
Date of Birth22 June 1906
CountryUnited States of America
If one is estranged from oneself, then one is estranged from others too. If one is out of touch with oneself, then one cannot touch others.
The beach is not a place to work; to read, write or to think.
It isn't for the moment you are struck that you need courage, but for that long uphill climb back to sanity and faith and security.
I want a singleness of eye, a purity of intention, a central core to my life that will enable me to carry out these obligations and activities as well as I can.
Forsythia is pure joy. There is not an ounce, not a glimmer of sadness or even knowledge in forsythia. Pure, undiluted, untouched joy.
After all, I don't see why I am always asking for private, individual, selfish miracles when every year there are miracles like white dogwood.
Only when one is connected to one's inner core is one connected to others. And, for me, the core, the inner spring, can best be re-found through solitude.
Love is a force.... It is not a result; it is a cause. It is not a product; it produces.
Perhaps I am a bear, or some hibernating animal underneath, for the instinct to be half asleep all winter is so strong in me.
Perhaps middle-age is, or should be, a period of shedding shells; the shell of ambition, the shell of material accumulations and possessions, the shell of the ego.
Only with winter-patience can we bring the deep-desired, long-awaited Spring.
Nothing feeds the center of being so much as creative work.
You can’t just write and write and put things in a drawer. They wither without the warm sun of someone else’s appreciation.
In the sheltered simplicity of the first days after a baby is born, one sees again the magical closed circle, the miraculous sense of two people existing only for each other.