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As an adolescent, I went to charm school, where I learned to pour tea and relate to boys, which, as I recall, meant giving them the pickle jar to unscrew, whether it was too hard for me or not.

Sue Monk Kidd

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Sue Monk Kidd
Age: 76
Born: 1948
Born: August 12
Novelist
Writer
Sylvester
Georgia
Went
Recall
Whether
Recalls
School
Tea
Unscrew
Hard
Charm
Pickle
Giving
Relate
Pickles
Meant
Adolescent
Boys
Jars
Learned
Pour

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Gazing into the mirror, I saw myself as I was-a black silhouette in the room, a woman whose darkness had completely leaked through.
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Elizabeth A. Johnson explains that including divine female symbols and images not only challenges the dominance of male images but also calls into question the structure of patriarchy itself.
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I sit in my new room and write everything down. My heart never stops talking.
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We have to acknowledge sometimes that this moment is enough. This place is enough. I am enough.
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Did you know there are thirty-two names for love in one of the Eskimo languages? August said. And we just have this one. We are so limited, you have to use the same word.
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It's something everybody wants-for someone to see the hurt done to them and set it down like it matters.
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Probably one or two moments in your whole life you will hear a dark whispering spirit, a voice coming from the center of things. It will have blades for lips and will not stop until it speaks the one secret thing at the heart of it all. Kneeling on the floor, unable to stop shuddering, I heard it plainly. It said, You are unlovable.
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How often do we do that, he wondered--look at someone and fail to see what's really there?
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I said, If I was a Negro girl- He placed his fingers across my lips so I tasted his saltiness. We can't think of changing our skin, he said. Change the world-that's how we gotta think.
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I wished she'd been smart enough, or loving enough, to realize everybody has burdens that crush them, only they don't give up their children.
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the feminine journey is a story unfolding, and its epiphanies come through real things, through tangibles like walking sticks and dreams and deer antlers--all of which we might miss without taking time and space in Deep Being.
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From now on when people asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up, I planned to say, Amnesiac.
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We must err , do so on the side of audacity
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Every little thing wants to be loved.
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T. Ray said 'Who do you think you are? Julias Shakespeare?' The man sincerely thought that was Shakespeare's first name, and if you think I should have corrected him, you are ignorant about the art of survival.
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My children have always existed at the deepest center of me, right there in the heart/hearth, but I struggled with the powerful demands of motherhood, chafing sometimes at the way they pulled me away from my separate life, not knowing how to balance them with my unwieldy need for solitude and creative expression.
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I didn't know then what I wanted, but the ache for it was palpable.
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Journal became a sanctuary where I could pour out in honesty my pain and joy. It recorded my footsteps and helped me understand where I was standing, where I had been, and even where God pointed.
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If you need something from somebody always give that person a way to hand it to you.
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Drifting off to sleep, I thought about her. How nobody is perfect. How you just have to close your eyes and breathe out and let the puzzle of the human heart be what it is.
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