I used to have seven dogs; now I have a more manageable four. I was in Cornwall, and one dog got swept away downstream, so my cousin dived in to get it, then her dog dived in. So I jumped in to rescue hers. Those dogs are my calm. That's how I cope with the business - I get the sanity on my woodland dog walks, being a tomboy.

It's been an amazing life. It's really just been the most magical thing for me - and I have these musical friends from all walks of life.

There are amazingly wonderful people in all walks of life; some familiar to us and others not. Stretch yourself and really get to know people. People are in many ways one of our greatest treasures.

The writer walks out of his workroom in a daze. He wants a drink. He needs it. It happens to be a fact that nearly every writer of fiction in the world drinks more whisky than is good for him. He does it to give himself faith hope and courage. A person is a fool to become a writer. His only compensation is absolute freedom. He has no master except his own soul and that I am sure is why he does it.

A man is much happier when he walks with his Maker.

"Sidewalks always win

A real friend is one who walks in when the rest of the world walks out.

For our generation walks as in Hades, without the divine.

"A man walks into a bar and says:

"Who is the third who walks always beside you?

"She walks in beauty, like the night

Free thinker walks on shortcuts among wisdoms.

You walk away from the unneeded noise to plunge into the unwavering wisdom. Walking away from what seems to be life walks you in to the beat of it.

For a man who walks in the light, to stay humble is not to walk in the dark; you don't need to project yourself to be thought an honest man.

Awakening to faith is not a one-time event, but a continuously unfolding reality. The journey of faith is not a race, but a marathon of love that each person walks at a different pace.

Do you really believe in destiny?" "How can I not believe in destiny, when there is no difference between my memories and my dreams at night? There's no difference between their reality. And if I dream something first, I remember it later when I am actually walking in the place or looking at the person I first dreamed of. Days later. Or years later. Destiny~ she walks with me.

These are the times when our faith is not just an idea or a concept that we throw around. It's something that has to actually be lived out. We must rise to what we say we believe. And when we do, God rises with us. He walks alongside us. The exercise of our faith never comes back empty.

When we remember who walks beside us, everything we touch, everything we gaze upon, everything we turn our attention to has the inner light of creation. Nothing we do can fail in that light of love and grace.

Let us, then, as faithful souls, happy and tireless, advance after the beloved as he moves with giant strides across the heavens. He sees all things. He walks above the smallest blades of grass and the cedar groves, and treads the grains of sand as well as the mountain peaks. Wherever we have trodden he has been, and if we constantly pursue him we shall find him no matter where we are.

Every Sunday I nudge Sam in her direction, and he walks to where she is sitting and hugs her. She smells him behind the ears, where he most smells like sweet unwashed new potatoes. This is in fact what I think God may smell like, a young child's slightly dirty neck.

Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the unGodly, nor stands in the path of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scornful; 2)But his delight is in the law of the Lord, and in His law he meditates day and night.

We may ignore, but we can nowhere evade the presence of God. The world is crowded with Him. He walks everywhere incognito.

Blinding, mineral, shattering silence. You hear nothing but the quiet crunch of stones underfoot. An implacable, definitive silence, like a transparent death. Sky of a perfectly detached blue. You advance with eyes down, reassuring yourself sometimes with a silent mumbling. Cloudless sky, limestone slabs filled with presence: silence nothing can sidestep. Silence fulfilled, vibrant immobility, tensed like a bow. There's the silence of early morning. For long routes in autumn you have to start very early. Outside everything is violet, the dim light slanting through red and gold leaves. It is an expectant silence. You walk softly among huge dark trees, still swathed in traces of blue night. You are almost afraid of awakening. Everything whispering quietly. There's the silence of walks through the snow, muffled footsteps under a white sky. All around you nothing moves. Things and even time itself are iced up, frozen solid in silent immobility. Everything is stopped, unified, thickly padded. A watching silence, white, fluffy, suspended as if in parentheses.

A guy walks up to me and asks, "What's Punk?". So I kick over a garbage can and say. "That's punk!". So he kicks over the garbage can and says, "That's Punk?", and I say, "No that's trendy!