If Women Were In Charge Of Everything,

Wolves Never Look More Funny Than When They Have Lost The Scent And Scrabble To Find It Again: They Hop In The Air; They Run In Circles, They Plow Up The Ground With Their Noses . . . .

The Soul Has No Gender.

Solitude Is Not An Absence Of Energy Or Action, As Some Believe, But Is Rather A Boon Of Wild Provisions Transmitted To Us From The Soul. In Ancient Times, Purposeful Solitude Was Both Palliative And Preventative. It Was Used To Heal Fatigue And To Prevent Weariness. It Was Also Used As An Oracle, As A Way Of Listening To The Inner Self To Solicit Advice And Guidance Otherwise Impossible To Hear In The Din Of Daily Life.

Though Fairy Tales End After Ten Pages, Our Lives Do Not. We Are Multi-volume Sets. In Our Lives, Even Though One Episode Amounts To A Crash And Burn, There Is Always Another Episode Awaiting Us And Then Another. There Are Always More Opportunities To Get It Right, To Fashion Our Lives In The Ways We Deserve To Have Them. Don't Waste Your Time Hating A Failure. Failure Is A Greater Teacher Than Success.

Be Wild; That Is How To Clear The River. The River Does Not Flow In Polluted, We Manage That. The River Does Not Dry Up, We Block It. If We Want To Allow It Its Freedom, We Have To Allow Our Ideational Lives To Be Let Loose, To Stream, Letting Anything Come, Initially Censoring Nothing. That Is Creative Life. It Is Made Up Of Divine Paradox. To Create One Must Be Willing To Be Stone Stupid, To Sit Upon A Throne On Top Of A Jackass And Spill Rubies From One’s Mouth. Then The River Will Flow, Then We Can Stand In The Stream Of It Raining Down.