There was no room, it turned out, for little girls who wandered off the edge of the map and told the truth about the mad, impossible things they found there.

"January dry, hard, glittering, cold, and the wicked beauty of the scraped blue skies."

January. The month in which you still are healing from the past year and dreading the new one. Should I be hopeful? Should I open my heart, just for it to be broken again?

"For each of us as women, there is a dark place within where hidden and growing our true spirit rises."

"The quality of light by which we scrutinise our lives has a direct bearing upon the product which we live"

Oh, how our bodies make music that even the Gods and Goddesses envy.

« to be sensual, I think, is to respect and rejoice in the force of life, of life itself, and to be present in all that one does, and from the effort of loving to the breaking of bread »