Since time out of mind, a considered act of heroism has been the cure for stultifying ambivalence.

Some say that sudden knowledge of mystical matters is accomplished only in complete quietude, or that Creator, in one of God's many forms, appears only in orderly ways that are beauteous and picturesque, or that the mystical appears only in completely silent ways. All are true. Except for the 'only' part.

Story is far older than the art of science and psychology, and will always be the elder in the equation no matter how much time passes.

When women hear those words, an old, old memory is stirred and brought back to life. The memory is of our absolute, undeniable, and irrevocable kinship with the wild feminine, a relationship which may have become ghostly from neglect, buried by over-domestication, outlawed by the surrounding culture, or no longer understood anymore. We may have forgotten her names, we may not answer when she calls ours, but in our bones we know her, we yearn toward her, we know she belongs to us and we to her.

If you have never been called a defiant, incorrigible, impossible woman… have faith. There is yet time.

Anytime we feed soul, it guarantees increase.

The desire to force love to live only in its most positive form is what causes love ultimately to fall over dead.