It's Still Two Human Beings Trying To

I Feel Like If I Were To Get Another Tattoo, It Would Probably Be Those Two Words. Just Stubborn, Stubborn, Stubborn Gladness.

Being A Woman Did Not Look Enviable To Me, Even When It Looked Admirable. It Looked Like Nonstop Sacrifice And Service. Because It Was. Being A Woman Seemed Vulnerable And Sad. Even The Strong Women I Knew - And They Were All Strong - Had Earned Their Strength Through Enduring Huge Disappointments And Tremendous Struggles.

We Don't Realize That, Somewhere Within Us All, There Does Exist A Supreme Self Who Is Eternally At Peace.

I Am Burdened With What The Buddhists Call The 'monkey Mind' -- The Thoughts That Swing From Limb To Limb, Stopping Only To Scratch Themselves, Spit And Howl.

All Of Women's Stories In The 19th Century Had Either One Of Two Endings: You Either Had The Good Jane Austen Marriage At The End And You Were Happy; Or You Had The Terrible Henry James Savage Downfall Because Of Your Own Hubris As A Woman, Or You've Made Some Great Error Leading You Down A Path To Ruin. One Is The Story Of Love That's Successful And The Other Is The Story Usually Of Reckless Love That Goes Terribly Wrong That Destroys The Woman.