Listen to some good poetry. You see? It keeps us from thinking we are only what our blatant appetites describe us as.

The public library building, in my view, is just a little lower than the church, the cathedral, the temple, the synagogue and the mosque. Within those walls and along those stacks, I have found security and assurance.

Though we are many, each of us is achingly alone, piercingly alone. Only when we confess our confusion can we remember that he was a gift to us and we did have him. He came to us from the creator, trailing creativity in abundance. Despite the anguish, his life was sheathed in mother love, family love, and survived and did more than that. He thrived with passion and compassion, humor and style. We had him whether we know who he was or did not know, he was ours and we were his.

I walk into a room Just as cool as you please, And to a man, The fellows stand or Fall down on their knees.

Just like moons and suns, With certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise.

The question is not how to survive, but how to thrive with passion, compassion, humor and style.

It's hard because people think they have something to lose and the truth is they have everything to gain in trying to love somebody.