A problem becomes a problem only if you believe it to be so. And often others see you as you see yourself.

Words are tricky. Sometimes you need them to bring out the hurt festering inside. If you don't, it turns gangrenous and kills you. . . . But sometimes words can break a feeling into pieces.

Above us our palace waits, the only one I've ever needed. Its walls are space, its floor is sky, its center everywhere. We rise; the shapes cluster around us in welcome, dissolving and forming again like fireflies in a summer evening.

How can I forgive if you are not ready to give up that which caused you to stumble?

Chili, spice of red Thursday, which is the day of reckoning. Day which invites us to pick up the sack of our existence and shake it inside out. Day of suicide, day of murder.

Because ultimately only the witness -- and not the actors -- knows the truth (Vyasa to Draupadi)

Monday is the day of silence, day of the whole white mung bean, which is sacred to the moon.