The world of nature is calm and slow moving compared to the world of human mind and human actions. My mind can cycle chaotically and violently for years, overturning personal and social universes, while the sea continues to shine placidly. I am astonished that I can return to the same rock that I sat on three years ago, to overlook the sea, the cliffs, the surf foaming below, and think of all that I have been thinking for all those years — all of the confusion and worry — and still the sea, the sky, the surf remain as I left them. . .

      When I lived inside an office and the only news I received of the world outside came in the form of pictures or print, it seemed indeed as if the whole earth were dying, and it was truly for me. I had taken myself away from what was renew­ing and alive and lovely. In that mournful state it was easy to imagine a vast symbology of life and death, so that a dying whale could stand for an entire planet. By some effort—not much, for imagination takes little real effort the prevention of that death, as if death could be prevented, would save the earth.

      Now I know better, for I know the earth is vastly stronger and more alive than any fantasy I might have of her, born be­tween four walls and under a ceiling. I see that what keeps most people from giving themselves to the moment of loveli­ness is fear, fear of loss, of being hurt, of dying.
- Joan McIntyre, The Delicate Art of Whale Watching