One of the major differences I see in the political climate today is that there is less collective support for coming to critical consciousness _ in communities, in institutions, among friends.

People don't get to choose their family, but if you have the family you would choose - that's happiness.

When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

Our ancestors derived less from life than we do, but they also expected much less and were less intent on controlling the future. We are of the arrogant generations who believe a lasting happiness was promised to us at birth. Promised? By whom?

The practice of love offers no place of safety. We risk loss, hurt, pain. We risk being acted upon by forces outside our control.

For what are the words with which to summarize a lifetime, so much crowded confused happiness terminated by such stark slow-motion pain?