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“I'll tell you a story, far, far from here where blades of grass are fluent in sentient knowledge and trees are a mandala of prayer.”
― Carolyn Riker, Blue Clouds: A Collection of Soul’s Creative Intelligence

“She took out a charcoal stick and began to sketch-- on the workbench itself. Of course the moon wouldn't come to her in songs or poems or crystals or whatever... she felt the most centered, the most tranquil, when she was painting or drawing. Lost in her own world or in new ones she imagined. She shouldn't have made a chart; she should have drawn a circle, with the moons going from waxing to waning all the way around...
She hummed to herself a little, the way she always did when she painted.
Her hair began to glow.
A little shading here, a few light strokes in the middle of the full moon for the face that Rapunzel saw there... Circles and shadows and crosshatching... She worked extra hard on the profile of the fatter waxing crescent, where the moon would be now. She knew what it looked like as she felt her hand shape it.
Her power surged; her hair began to sparkle.
She looked around frantically for something to release her magic on. The first thing she saw was her tea, so she grabbed the red clay cup and wrapped the end of a braid around it.
Just like with Pascal, sparks sprayed off her hair and over the object.
When they faded they revealed...
... a heavy, crude clay cup.
Rapunzel started to slump in disappointment-- and then noticed something. Where the hair had touched the sides, the cup was now shiny black, like onyx or obsidian.”
― Liz Braswell, What Once Was Mine

“A bromeliad extinct for so long that no one bothered to look for it anymore. A plant so rare even its name was gone. It was Sonali's prize. The passion plant with no name.
There was no mistaking the mysterious bromeliad, its inward-spiraling leaves forming a small black hole in the center. A mandala, Sonali had said, created by the plant world, about the mind of human beings. I had in my sights the very plant Sonali and Armand had spent so many years searching for.
Being an air plant, it did not require any soil to live- it grew straight out of a log. It was not parasitic. It had attached itself for stability only.”
― Margot Berwin, Hothouse Flower and the Nine Plants of Desire

“U tome je dakle stvar��, promrmljao je polupromrzli maršal oslonjen o hladni kamen balustrade savršeno svjestan svega velikoga, “kad razumijemo da je neko djelo ipak intimno, ex una persona, pa i ako je zažizana papazjanija misli nekom osobitom masom; raspaljena, ako masa i pali ljude na lomači naših misli, svejedno su to naše misli, a mi prepoznajemo, pa i sada pred treskavim bombama, da je svrha mase ideju razvodnjiti. I nema tako... široke, snažne, žilave ideje koliko ima široke i obične mase da ju razdijeli, razrijedi do bljuzgavice. Zato, Immanuel, sada s mirom gledaj u smiraj svake iskrene misli i prihvaćaj to... nema potrebe priželjkivati bolje.”
― Ivan Baran, Veliki pad