The sun shines not on us but in us.
The rivers flow not past, but through us,
thrilling, tingling, vibrating every fiber and cell of the substance of our bodies,
making them glide and sing.
The trees wave and the flowers bloom in our bodies as well as our souls,
and every bird song, wind song, and tremendous storm song of the rocks
in the heart of the mountains is our song, our very own, and sings our love.
John of the Mountains: The Unpublished Journals of John Muir
