I’ve seen enough change in my lifetime to know that despair is not only self-defeating, it is unrealistic.
There is always a time to make right what is wrong.
Although the many virtues that courtesans possessed were employed to defy circumstances, the role they played depended on the same circumstances over which they triumphed- conditions which to, fortunately for modern women, no longer exist.
Before a secret is told, one can often feel the weight of it in the atmosphere.
But still, the other voice, the intuitive, returns, like grass forcing its way through concrete.
Ordinary women attempt to change our bodies to resemble a pornographic ideal. Ordinary women construct a false self and come to hate this self.
I am not so different in my history of abandonment from anyone else after all. We have all been split away from the earth, each other, ourselves.
We are nature. We are nature seeing nature. The red-winged blackbird flies in us.
What is buried in the past of one generation falls to the next to claim.
Just as the slave master required the slaves to imitate the image he had of them, so women, who live in a relatively powerless position, politically and economically, feel obliged by a kind of implicit force to live up to culture’s image of what is female.
Philosophy means nothing unless it is connected to birth, death, and the continuance of life. Anytime you are going to build a society that works, you have to begin from nature and the body.
At the museum a troubled woman destroys a sand painting meticulously created over days by Tibetan monks. The monks are not disturbed. The work is a meditation. They simply begin again.
The ability for a woman to be free is connected with her ability to love another woman.
When we hear that “war” is made for “peace”, or that “pain” is sought for “pleasure” or that “brutality” helps one “feel”, in our minds, language ceases to describe reality. Words lose their direct relationship with actuality. And thus language and culture begin to exist entirely independently of nature.
Lately I have come to believe that an as yet undiscovered human need and even a property of matter is the desire for revelation. The truth within us has a way of coming out despite all conscious efforts to conceal it. I have heard stories from those in the generation after the war, all speaking of the same struggle to ferret truth from the silence of their parents so that they themselves could begin to live.
What at one time one refuses to see never vanishes but returns, again and again, in many forms.
His insights have come to him through a crack in the veneer of civilization, which was also a crack in his own soul. He had the courage to look in this direction.
The body remembers who we are supposed to be. And in this there is grief.
This is often the way one moves into the future. For what you begin to see, there is no ready language. If you were to remain silent, listen, perhaps in response you might be able to move in a new way. Glide into it slowly, aware of every slight difference, skin and cells intelligent, reading. But trained as you are in certain regimens, chances are you proceed directly according to the old patterns, trying again what was tried before.
The story of one life cannot be told separately from the story of other lives. Who are we? The question is not simple. What we call the self is part of a larger matrix of relationship and society. Had we been born to a different family, in a different time, to a different world, we would not be the same. All the lives that surround us are in us.