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She had always believed that arts and humanities were the way to a good life. The people Nicola would meet, the enrichment of mind and soul, were what she wanted for her daughter. What she would have liked for herself.
a little jewel of a painting by Malcolm Grant, a lesser-known Black Hall artist. It was a tiny oil of a frozen stream at dawn, bright with breaking light.
out. I hope you know that about yourself, that you are perfect on your own. You have to make yourself whole—no one else can.”
She might have thought she was shut down, but she had loved as deeply and totally as anyone else all along. She just hadn’t let herself feel it.
Nothing is solid; nothing is black and white. Love is fluid, and so is peace, without shape or edges, fresh water flowing from the river’s mouth into the sea.
the best of us waste our time repenting, forgiving everyone but ourselves. And the worst don’t even realize there is anything to forgive. Hungry ghosts wander the earth, trapped in the bardo, seeking redemption that had been there all along.
