Under the Whispering Door

It’s never enough, is it? Time. We always think we have so much of it, but when it really counts, we don’t have enough at all.

The first time you share tea, you are a stranger. The second time you share tea, you are an honored guest. The third time you share tea, you become family.

Everyone loses their way at some point, and it’s not just because of their mistakes or the decisions they make. It’s because they’re horribly, wonderfully human. And the one thing I’ve learned about being human is that we can’t do this alone. When we’re lost, we need help to try to find our way again.

If we worry about the little things all the time, we run the risk of missing the bigger things.

He hoped wherever he was going that there'd still be the sun and the moon and the stars. He'd spent a majority of his life with his head turned down. It seemed only fair that eternity would allow him to raise his face toward the sky.

Life is senseless, and on the off chance we find something that does make sense, we hold onto it as tightly as we can.

Never forget where you come from, but don’t allow it to define you.

But a river only moves in one direction, no matter how much we wish it weren't so.

Death isn’t a final ending, Wallace. It is an ending, sure, but only to prepare you for a new beginning.

We live and we breathe. We die, and we still feel like breathing. It’s not always the big deaths either. There are little deaths, because that’s what grief is. I

What're a couple of years in the face of eternity?

Why?” she asked as she trembled. “Why do you care so much?” “Because I don’t know how else to be.

Remember what I told you about need versus want? We don't need you because that implies you had to fix something in us. We were never broken. We want you, Wallace. Every piece. Every part. Because we're family. Can you see the difference?

From the moment your born, you're dying.

Not knowing is better than pretending to know.

Hindsight is a powerful thing, Wallace. We don’t always see what’s right in front of us, much less appreciate it. It’s not until we look back that we find what we should have known all along.

And you shouldn't blame yourself. Learn from it. Grow from it, but don't allow it to consume you again. Easier said than done, I know.

But it was better to have had it for as long as he did than to never have had it at all. What a tremendous thought that was.

Good tea is patience. It’s not about instant gratification, not like the bags with the little strings. Those can be fleeting, here and gone again before you know it. Tea like this makes you appreciate the effort you put into it. The more it steeps, the stronger the taste.

Lives don't end. They move on.

There’s beauty in the chaos, if you know where to look for it. But you would know about that, wouldn’t you? You see it too.

Whoever told you that you were funny obviously lied and you should feel bad about it.

Death has a beauty to it. We don’t see it because we don’t want to. And that makes sense. Why would we want to focus on something that takes us away from everything we know? How do we even begin to understand that there’s more than what we see?

Sure. Do you like the plants?” Wallace glared at him. “They’re plants.” “Hush,” Hugo said. “Don’t let them hear you say that. They’re very sensitive.” “You’re out of your mind.” “I prefer to think of myself as eccentric.

I’d hate to know everything. There’d be no mystery left. What would be the point?

Life is messy and terrible and wonderful, all at the same time.

Why don’t you just heat the water in the microwave?” he asked, pouring the water into a ceramic teapot. “Oh my god,” Mei said. “Don’t ever let Hugo hear you say that. No, you know what? I changed my mind. Tell him, but make sure I’m there when you do. I want to see the expression on his face.

I can't wait to see him again, to hold my son's face in my hands and tell him how proud I am of him. We think we have time for such things, but there's never enough for all we should have said.

He startled when a tear slipped down his cheek. “Do I have a choice?” “In life? Always.” “And in death?” She shrugged. “It’s a little more … regimented.