Seeds of Yesterday

I believe in God... but I don't believe in religion. Religion is used to manipulate and punish. Used in a thousand ways for profit for even in the church, money is still the 'real' God.

I don’t explain love, Bart. I don’t think anyone can. It grows from day to day from having contact with that other person who understands your needs, and you understand theirs. It starts with a faltering flutter that touches your heart and makes you vulnerable to everything beautiful.

That's the way all life's battles are won.. You don't look at the overall picture. You take one step, then another, and another... until you arrive at your destination.

Once I was in the cold dim room, without furniture or carpet or rugs, only a dollhouse that wasn't as wonderful as the original, I opened the tall and narrow closet door and began my ascent up the steep and narrow stairs. On my way to the attic. On my way to where I'd find my Christopher, again...

a long time ago I’d given up on religion, thinking it wasn’t for me when so many were bigoted, narrow-minded, and cruel.

I was the last of the four Dresden dolls. Only me... and I didn't want to be here.

The sun was hot and bright. A day for fishing, for swimming, for playing tennis and having fun, and they put my Christopher in the ground.

Only I had dry eyes, a dry heart.

I had heard the wind from the mountains calling me last night, telling me it was my time to go, and I woke up, knowing what to do.

We came together like long separated lovers who might never have the chance to kiss and hug again.

He stepped beside me and encircled my shoulders with the comfort of his arm, protecting me from Joel, from everything. With him I’d live in a thatched hut, a tent, a cave. He gave me strength.

I knew then he was blind when he looked at me.

needing arms to hold me safe during the darkness, wanting kisses on my face to put me to sleep, to wake me up, to put over me a safe parasol of love.

He estado demasiado tiempo en la medicina para no saber que la justicia no esta distribuida con equidad

I had heard the wind from the mountains calling me last night, telling me it was my time to go, and I woke up, knowing what to do. Once I was in that cold dim room, without furniture or carpet or rugs, only a dollhouse that wasn’t as wonderful as the original, I opened the tall and narrow closet door and began my ascent up the steep and narrow stairs. On my way to the attic. On my way to where I’d find my Christopher, again . . .