The Sabbath is a weekly cathedral raised up in my dining room, in my family, in my heart.
The painful things seemed like knots on a beautiful necklace, necessary for keeping the beads in place.
It's a good thing babies don't give you a lot of time to think. You fall in love with them and when you realize how much they love you back, life is very simple.
Why did I not know that birth is the pinnacle where women discover the courage to become mothers?
One of my great secrets was knowing I had the power to make her smile.
The more a daughter knows the details of her mother's life [...] the stronger the daughter.
When a shy person smiles, it’s like the sun coming out.
Egypt loved the lotus becuase it never dies. It is the same for people who are loved. Thus can something as insignificant as a name-two syllables, one high, one sweet- summon up the innumerable smiles, tears, sighs and dreams of a human life.
Weeping is terrible for the complexion" said Leonie, holding Shayndel close, "but it is very good for the soul.
on the day that the intlligence and talents of women are fully honored and employed, the human community and the planet itself will benefit in ways we can only begin to imagine.
It is terrible how much has been forgotten, which is why, I suppose, remembering seems a holy thing.
I never wanted Mary Poppins to be my nanny. I wanted to be her when I grew up.
My heart is a ladle of sweet water brimming over.
In Egypt, I loved the perfume of the lotus. A flower would bloom in the pool at dawn, filling the entire garden with a blue musk so powerful it seemed that even the fish and ducks would swoon. By night, the flower might wither but the perfume lasted. Fainter and fainter, but never quite gone. Even many days later, the lotus remained in the garden. Months would pass and a bee would alight near the spot where the lotus had blossomed, and its essence was released again, momentary but undeniable.
My early childhood was spent in Newark, New Jersey, but my family moved to Denver when I was 12.
I lived through a classic publishing story. My editor was fired a month before the book came out. The editor who took it over already had a full plate. It was never advertised. We didn't get reviewed in any major outlets.
The story it told was unremarkable: a tale of love found and lost- the oldest story in the world. The only story.
My husband, Jim, converted to Judaism just before our wedding.
Until very recently men and women inhabited very separate spheres. There was always interconnection, passion, love. But men and women didn't hang out at the end of the day and chat about what their day was like at the office.
I wanted to cry, but I realized that I was too old for that. I would be a woman soon and I would have to learn how to live with a divided heart.
If you want to understand any woman you must first ask about her mother and then listen carefully. Stories about food show a strong connection. Wistful silences demonstrate unfinished business. The more a daughter knows about the details of her mother's life - without flinching or whining - the stronger the daughter.
They sang the words in unison, yet somehow created a web of sounds with their voices. It was like hearing a piece of fabric woven with all the colors of a rainbow. I did not know that such beauty could be formed by the human mouth. I had never heard harmony before.
He was golden and beautiful as a sunset.
I could not get my fill of looking. There should be a song for women to sing at this moment or a prayer to recite. But perhaps there is none because there are no words strong enough to name that moment.
Wherever you walk, I go with you. Selah.
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