When women age into their power, no wind can upset them, no hand turn aside their knowledge, no fact can deflect their point of view.

You know, some people fall right through the hole in their lives. Its invisible, but they come to it after time, never knowing where.

Veils of love which was only hate petrified by longing--that was me.

Right and wrong were shades of meaning, not sides of a coin.

Cold sinks in, there to stay. And people, they'll leave you, sure. There's no return to what was and no way back. There's just emptiness all around, and you in it, like singing up from the bottom of a well, like nothing else, until you harm yourself, until you are a mad dog biting yourself for sympathy. Because there is no relenting.

By writing I can live in ways that I could not survive.

To sew is to pray. Men don't understand this. They see the whole but they don't see the stitches. They don't see the speech of the creator in the work of the needle. We mend. We women turn things inside out and set things right. We salvage what we can of human garments and piece the rest into blankets. Sometimes our stitches stutter and slow. Only a woman's eyes can tell. Other times, the tension in the stitches might be too tight because of tears, but only we know what emotion went into the making. Only women can hear the prayer.