Elizabeth Cunningham Quotes
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How things appear is only the thin, papery outer skin of the onion. Of course, when you cut open the onion, your eyes will sting and water, and then you can't see at all. You're lucky if you don't slice your finger.
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Love has nothing whatsoever to do with deserving. We may not like it, and I don’t much, but that is what our Rabbi teaches. If we are disciples, that is the discipline we must practice.
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A scientist with a poet's command of language, Cristina Eisenberg writes with precision and passion . . . takes her reader on a breathtaking, sometimes heartbreaking tour of the planet from the Gulf of Maine to the Amazonian rain forests, the tropical coral reefs to old growth forests of the Northwest as well as rivers, lakes, and wetlands. I found the wealth of information not only accessible but riveting . . . Eisenberg's powerful, beautifully written book . . . has the potential to open many people's eyes, minds, and hearts.
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In your time, politicians win points in the polls for proposing to punish unmarried teenaged mothers like me, not to mention our children.
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…these mothers at their midnight council were more like one great mind probing itself, divided at times as great minds may be, but one entity.
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Ever notice how the more depraved a man is, the more he tries to ruin other people’s fun?
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So I say, if you are burning, burn. If you can stand it, the shame will burn away and leave you shining, radiant, and righteously shameless.
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Summer was letting out one long, last, sweet breath before winter began to blast.
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And sometimes men fail, I answered silently. Sometimes they don't forgive. Sometimes what you see is only the bright surface of something cold and deep.
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Today was Mardi Gras, Marvin remembered. The Episcopals called it Shrove Tuesday, Maria had explained to him, because they were supposed to shrive themselves of their sins, which, loosely translated, meant something like: no more jive, time to shrive, almost Lent, time to repent.
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I was grateful for the darkness that hid our faces at least, but nothing can hide the voice. It is always naked.
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They had always been there, just hidden, sometimes, sadly, self-hating, but always there. The women, the church within the church, like Mary in the Sacristy, with their own secret rites. The thread wound back through a labyrinth, through thousands of years, into a ball, round and bright as the full moon.
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And what is love but a four-letter word for trouble?
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Being lost is the way, how else can you be found?