When we accept our own wild beauty, it is put into perspective, and we are no longer poignantly aware of it anymore, but neither would we forsake it or disclaim it either. Does a wolf know how beautiful she is when she leaps? Does a feline know what beautiful shapes she makes when she sits? Is a bird awed by the sound it hears when it snaps open its wings? Learning from them, we just act in our own true way and do not draw back from or hide our natural beauty. Like the creatures, we just are, and it is right.

The psyches and souls of women also have their own cycles and seasons of doing and solitude, running and staying, being involved and being removed, questing and resting, creating and incubating, being of the world and returning to the soul-place.

Without art we live under the illusion that there is only time, and not eternity.

Do not lose heart. We were made for these times.....For years we have been learning, practicing, been in training for...and just waiting to meet on this exact plain of engagement.

To love means to embrace and at the same time to withstand many endings, and many many beginnings- all in the same relationship.

Writing, real writing, should leave a small sweet bruise somewhere on the writer . . . and on the reader.

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.