Nothing, no person, no disease, and no organization or regime can bring down the human spirit. It bursts forth like flower bulbs in the springtime, up from a year of napping under the cold earth. The essence of our spirit cannot be erased. Once we’ve etched our grooves into the human record, our souls songs
Erich Fromme’s Art of Listening- the rules of how to engage with someone and truly listen and comprehend what’s being said.
We all fall down. The ground grows smaller, As I pass the Earth, Becoming her daughter. Funny to stand today, Eclipsing the sun. My books marked still, On page one.