A Runner Is Real When She Takes

It Is Worse To Stay Where One Does Not Belong At All Than To Wander About Lost For A While And Looking For The Psychic And Soulful Kinship One Requires

When A Woman Is Frozen Of Feeling, When She Can No Longer Feel Herself, When Her Blood, Her Passion, No Longer Reach The Extremities Of Her Psyche, When She Is Desperate; Then A Fantasy Life Is Far More Pleasurable Than Anything Else She Can Set Her Sights Upon. Her Little Match Lights, Because They Have No Wood To Burn, Instead Burn Up The Psyche As Though It Were A Big Dry Log. The Psyche Begins To Play Tricks On Itself; It Lives Now In The Fantasy Fire Of All Yearning Fulfilled. This Kind Of Fantasizing Is Like A Lie: If You Tell It Often Enough, You Begin To Believe It.

When Women Are Relegated To Moods, Mannerisms, And Contours That Conform To A Single Ideal Of Beauty And Behavior, They Are Captured In Both Body And Soul, And Are No Longer Free.

It Is That Holy Poetry And Singing We Are After. ... It Is The Wild Singing We Are After, Our Chance To Use The Wild Language We Are Learning By Heart Under The Sea. When A Woman Speaks Her Truth, Fires Up Her Intention And Feeling, Staying Tight With The Instinctive Nature, She Is Singing, She Is Living In The Wild Breath-stream Of The Soul. To Live This Way Is A Cycle In Itself, One Meant To Go On, Go On, Go On.

The Doors To The World Of The Wild Self Are Few But Precious. If You Have A Deep Scar, That Is A Door, If You Have An Old, Old Story, That Is A Door. If You Love The Sky And The Water So Much You Almost Cannot Bear It, That Is A Door. If You Yearn For A Deeper Life, A Full Life, A Sane Life, That Is A Door.