The cure for pain is in the pain. Good and bad are mixed. If you don't have both, you don't belong with us.
Oh, bird of my soul, fly away now, For I possess a hundred fortified towers.
That hurt we embrace becomes joy. Call it to your arms where it can change.
Knowing that conscious decisions and personal memory are much too small a place to live, every human being streams at night into the loving nowhere, or during the day, in some absorbing work.
Your grief for what you've lost lifts a mirror up to where you're bravely working.
Water, stories, the body, all the things we do, are mediums that hid and show what's hidden.