Well, the ancients might not have been very heroic. Most of them were probably like Mother, crouched somewhere trying to work out how to make fake jawbone jewelry that would look like the real thing.
We seem to be built with a faulty gauge for moderation.
We are our injuries, as much as we are our successes.
WOMEN ON THEIR OWN RUN in Alice’s family. This dawns on her with the unkindness of a heart attack and she sits up in bed to get a closer look at her thoughts, which have collected above her in the dar...
Value is not made of money, but a tender balance of expectation and longing.
Those first few weeks are an unearthly season. From the outside you remain so ordinary, no one can tell from looking that you have experienced an earthquake of the soul. You've been torn asunder, inve...
This is how we celebrate the Day of the Dead in America: by turning up our collars against the scent of earthworms calling us home.
The power is in the balance: we are our injuries, as much as we are our successes.
Tall and straight I may appear, but I will always be Ada inside. A crooked little person trying to tell the truth. The power is in the balance: we are our injuries, as much as we are our successes
Spring is made of solid, fourteen-karat gratitude, the reward for the long wait. Every religious tradition from the northern hemisphere honors some form of April hallelujah, for this is the season of...
Sometimes I prayed for Baby Jesus to make me good, but Baby Jesus didn't.
She is inhumanly alone. And then, all at once, she isn't.
Our holiday food splurge was a small crate of tangerines, which we found ridiculously thrilling after an eight-month abstinence from citrus.... Lily hugged each one to her chest before undressing it a...
Oh, whatever would I do without my child-progeny sister to tell me what to do.Prodigy, I corrected.
My heart had grown older, with more in it to break.
Mother, you can still hold hold on but forgive, forgive and give for long as long as we both shall live, I forgive you, Mother.
It was his habit, when he rewrote anything, to shed himself of all earlier versions. He kept a clean house.
In our darkest hours we may find comfort in the age-old slogan from the resistance movement, declaring that we shall not be moved. But we need to finish that sentence. Moved from where? Are we anchori...
Illusions mistaken for truth are the pavement under our feet. They are what we call civilization.
I'm out of the habit. I've spent years trying not to want. Just, you know, as an endeavor, like quitting smoking.