Even breathing is a contribution.

Life is simple. Everything happens for you, not to you. Everything happens at exactly the right moment, neither too soon nor too late. You don't have to like it... it's just easier if you do.

Spare yourself from seeking love, approval, or appreciation-from anyone. And watch what happens in reality, just for fun.

Our job is unconditional love. The job of everyone else in our life is to push our buttons.

Stress is an alarm clock that lets you know you're attached to something not true for you.

Peace doesn't require two people; it requires only one. It has to be you. The problem begins and ends there.

Fear has only two causes: the thought of losing what you have or the thought of not getting what you want.

Pay close attention to the particular thoughts you use to deprive yourself of happiness.

If you want real control, drop the illusion of control; let life have you. It does anyway. You’re just telling yourself the story of how it doesn’t.

It's not your job to like me - it's mine

It's not the problem that causes our suffering; it's our thinking about the problem.

Life is what you make it, taking chances based upon your intuition will give you the potential to live life to the full, bringing all your desires to life.

It is not easy but you have to be willing to make mistakes. And the earlier you make those mistakes the better.

Continuous efforts-not strength or intelligence-is the key to unlocking our potential.

We were promised sufferings. They were part of the program. We were even told, Blessed are they that morn.

I'm one of the more pessimistic cats on the planet. I make Van Gogh look like a rodeo clown.

It is the grand endeavor of the gospel to communicate God to men.

Kit, you're forty. You look thirty. You act...well, never mind. You're carrying on like you think you're seventy

The perfect man? A poet on a motorcycle.

... the English alphabet is pure insanity..., It can hardly spell any word in the language with any degree of certainty.

Thy tongue Makes Welsh as sweet as ditties highly penn'd, Sung by a fair queen in a summer's bower, With ravishing division, to her lute.