“What makes the desert eerie is the silence. The air is so thin you can hear blades of grass rubbing against each other. The wind is alive. Bare hills bounce sound around in weird patterns; a bird half a mile off can startle you with its shriek. You start hearing sounds that aren’t there, just to ease the stillness. Seeing things is next, at least for some people, and after that, there’s no telling what will start to seem real.”—
To Redeem One Person Is to Redeem the World: A Life of Frieda Fromm-Reichmann - Gail Hornstein
“We have a choice. We can seek for the bad in others. Or we can make peace and work to extend to others the understanding, fairness, and forgiveness we so desperately desire for ourselves. It is our choice; for whatever we seek, that we will certainly find.”—Dieter F. Uchtdorf
“When you fall in love,
It is discovering the ocean after years of puddle jumping.
It is realising you have hands.
It is reaching for the tightrope after the crowds have all gone home.
Do not spend time wondering if you are the type of woman men will hurt.
If he leaves you with a car alarm heart.
You learn to sing along.
It is hard to stop loving the ocean,
Even after it’s left you gasping, salty.
So forgive yourself for the decisions you’ve made,
The ones you still call mistakes when you tuck them in at night,
And know this.
Know you are the type of woman who is searching for a place to call yours.
Let the statues crumble.
You have always been the place.
You are a woman who can build it yourself.
You are born to build.”—Sarah Kayfrom The Type
To the women who choose not to have kids, I have one thing to say: thank you.
You probably don’t hear it enough. In fact, you probably don’t hear it at all. What you do hear is an array of pro-childbearing responses, such as, “You’ll change your mind someday,” or, “Doesn’t your mother want grandkids?” or, “You’ll never find a husband if you never want to have kids.”
To feminists everywhere — including those of our generation
who say ‘I’m not a feminist, but…’ and others
who say, ‘I am a feminist, but…’ — with the faith that
young women will transform the world
in ways we haven’t yet imagined.
“Well, it looks like the main employees of the Federal Reserve have been given the orders to support another war. How dare the Syrians refuse a Rothschild family owned private central bank in their country!? Don’t they know anything? They could have had all the peace and weaponry they wanted, so long as they put their country in perpetual debt to the money changers. Maybe a little democracy will help change their minds.”—
My birthday is really close to New Year’s so like, a year is a year is a year for me. I turned 29 this January, which some of you older broads and learned types may know to be the time in which Saturn returns. Which basically means that something fucking crazy happens to everything about you when…
“At times I almost dream
I too have spent a life the sages’ way,
And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance
I perished in an arrogant self-reliance
Ages ago; and in that act a prayer
For one more chance went up so earnest, so
Instinct with better light let in by death,
That life was blotted out — not so completely
But scattered wrecks enough of it remain,
Dim memories, as now, when once more seems
The goal in sight again.”—ROBERT BROWNING’S “PARACELSUS”—II
i’m nine years old
mom drops me off at your house after school and
we can’t afford barbies so
we’re rollin on the wood chip mountain
your father shaved the beards off trees between tv
and the whiskey bottle your mom takes sips
pacified and doesn’t come find us for hours
and never asks us what we want for lunch
or shame us and i don’t think much of it except
we’re still hiding below an awning and
i’m not afraid of spiders
your body is a mirror as it slides onto mine
one of us disappears
on top of this mountain and i go looking for you,
you always welcome me home
imagining i’m wearing a tailored suit
and man’s musk
i’ve had a long day’s work
your vulnerable lips
weaken and flutter on my mouth
starts a war between our bodies
chips roll to our sides and out again
waves like the sea
i beat on your shores and high tide returning
you find me
None of your lovers are going to attend your funeral. You spent too much time writing poetry about them, and not enough kissing their black and blue stomachs good morning. As they pinched the fat on their stomachs, you compared their eyes to oceans that you’d never bathed in. While they were lost inside of their own skeletons, you spit out sonnets on the pillow. Remember this, you and I will both die in the end, and none of this is going to matter. Love better than you write.
There’s nothing in the world that loves you
more than the space you already take up.
There’s nothing in the world that won’t
forget you faster than you forgot
the last person that stepped out from your life.
When the cat reaches up
one needled paw to drag down a book
from your desk, then another,
that’s not love—that’s dominance.
When you reach up your hand and try to wheedle
someone else’s to hold it, that’s love
dominating you. There’s no word for loving more
than you should, just the feeling of excess,
as if your tongue burst in a rash of red sequins,
as if everyone can see your stutter in the air,
staccato love you, love you, and nothing in the world
standing in that space to receive it.
“Vulnerability is the birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity. It is the source of hope, empathy, accountability, and authenticity. If we want greater clarity in our purpose or deeper and more meaningful spiritual lives, vulnerability is the path.”—Brené Brown, Daring Greatly: How the Courage to Be Vulnerable Transforms the Way We Live, Love, Parent, and Lead