At The Museum A Troubled Woman Destroys

Each Life Reverberates In Every Other Life. Whether Or Not We Acknowledge It, We Are Connected, Woven Together In Our Needs And Desires, Rich And Poor, Men And Women Alike.

What Is Buried In The Past Of One Generation Falls To The Next To Claim.

But Still, The Other Voice, The Intuitive, Returns, Like Grass Forcing Its Way Through Concrete.

There Is Always A Time To Make Right What Is Wrong.

To Make Love Is To Become Like This Infant Again. We Grope With Our Mouths Toward The Body Of Another Being, Whom We Trust, Who Takes Us In Her Arms. We Rock Together With This Loved One. We Move Beyond Speech. Our Bodies Move Past All The Controls We Have Learned. We Cry Out In Ecstasy, In Feeling. We Are Back In A Natural World Before Culture Tried To Erase Our Experience Of Nature. In This World, To Touch Another Is To Express Love; There Is No Idea Apart From Feeling, And No Feeling Which Does Not Ring Through Our Bodies And Our Souls At Once.