Parallel Mothers Quotes

She might not have felt everything she had felt in those lives, but she had the capability. She might have missed those particular opportunities that led her to become an Olympic swimmer, or traveller, or a vineyard owner, or a rock star, or a planet-saving glaciologist, or a Cambridge graduate, or a mother, or million other things, but she was still in in some way all of those people. They were all her. She could of been all those amazing people, and that wasn't depressing, as she had thought. Not at all. It was inspiring. Because now she saw the kinds of things she could do when she put herself to work.

Our Sun is not Earth’s true “mother.” Although many peoples of Earth have worshipped the Sun as a god that gave birth to Earth, this is only partially correct. Although Earth was originally created from the Sun (as part of the ecliptic plane of debris and dust that circulated around the Sun 4.5 billion years ago), our Sun is barely hot enough to fuse hydrogen to helium. This means that our true “mother” sun was actually an unnamed star or collection of stars that died billions of years ago in a supernova, which then seeded nearby nebulae with the higher elements beyond iron that make up our body. Literally, our bodies are made of stardust, from stars that died billions of years ago.

It was a time when I imagined getting married in a simple, wishful way. The time when someone promised to take care of you, promised they would notice if you were sad, or tired, or hated food that tasted like the chill of the refrigerator. Who promised their lives would run parallel to yours. My mother must have known and stayed anyway, and what did that mean about love? It was never going to be safe—all the mournful refrains of songs that despaired you didn’t love me the way I loved you.

Death is like giving birth. Birth can be painful. Sometimes women die from giving birth. However, when the baby is born, all that pain (that was endured) vanishes in an instant. Love for that tiny baby makes one forget the pain, the fear. And as I’ve said before, love between mother and child is the highest experience, the closest to divine love. You might wonder about the parallel I’m making between birth and death. But I say to you, the fear and pain accompanying an awful death is over quickly. Beyond that portal one is suddenly in the light, in oneness and bliss…Just as a woman heals rapidly after childbirth and then is able to fall in love with her baby, those who pass over also are able to fall in love with a new life."-Kuan Yin (From "Oracle of Compassion: the Living Word of Kuan Yin

Women are the primary resource of the planet. They give birth, we come from them. They are mothers, they are visionaries, they are the future. If we can figure out how to make women feel safe and honor women, it would be parallel or equal to honoring life itself. Eve Ensler

These were the tales that echoed in the head long after the books that contained them were cast aside. They were both an escape from reality and an alternative reality themselves. They were so old, and so strange, that they had found a kind of existence independent of the pages they occupied. The world of the old tales existed parallel to ours, as David’s mother had once told him, but sometimes the wall separating the two became so thin and brittle that the two worlds started to blend into each other.

In this city [Tingis] the Libyans say that Antaeus is buried; and Sertorius had his tomb dug open, the great size of which made him disbelieve the Barbarians. But when he came upon the body and found it to be sixty cubits long, as they tell us, he was dumbfounded, and after performing a sacrifice filled up the tomb again, and joined in magnifying its traditions and honours. Now, the people of Tingis have a myth that after the death of Antaeus, his wife, Tinga, consorted with Heracles, and that Sophax was the fruit of this union, who became king of the country and named a city which he founded after his mother; also that Sophax had a son, Diodorus, to whom many of the Libyan peoples became subject, since he had a Greek army composed of the Olbians and Mycenaeans who were settled in those parts by Heracles. But this tale must be ascribed to a desire to gratify Juba, of all kings the most devoted to historical enquiry; for his ancestors are said to have been descendants of Sophax and Diodorus. [The Life of Sertorius]

Some of the city legislators, whose concern for appropriate names and the maintenance of the city's landmarks was the principal part of their political life, saw to it that "Doctor Street" was never used in any official capacity. And since they knew that only Southside residents kept it up, they had notices posted in the stores, barbershops, and restaurants in that part of the city saying that the avenue running northerly and southerly from Shore Road fronting the lake to the junction of routes 6 and 2 leading to Pennsylvania, and also running parallel to and between Rutherford Avenue and Broadway, had always been and would always be known as Mains Avenue and not Doctor Street. It was a genuinely clarifying public notice because it gave Southside residents a way to keep their memories alive and please the city legislators as well. They called it Not Doctor Street, and were inclined to call the charity hospital at its northern end No Mercy Hospital since it was 1931, on the day following Mr. Smith's leap from its cupola, before the first colored expectant mother was allowed to give birth inside its wards and not on its steps.

My Beloved Grateful for you and me for parallel universes and for I, we and thee I am grateful for the infinite skies blessings in disguise burning infinite grace for which I need not even chase Blessings that are blessed Mother Earth, Father Sky two and four-legged winged ones Bless you Bless me fly with me and fly within me For now I see it is you, within me.

Both women were mothers of children caught up in mind control cover-up, one of which paralleled Kelly’s and my case. She, too, had volumes of documents and evidences whereby it was inexcusable that justice had not prevailed. The other mother conveyed a story that touched me so deeply it undoubtedly will continue to motivate me with reverberating passion forever. This mother was very weak from the final stages of cancer and chemotherapy, and tears slid down her pale gray cheeks as she told me her story. When she reported sexual abuse of her three daughters, the local court system took custody of them. The children appeared dissociative identity disordered from their ordeal, yet were reportedly denied therapy and placed in Foster care “since the mother was dying anyway.” When she finally was granted brief visitation with her precious daughters, they looked dazed and robotic with no memory of her or their sexual abuse. Mind control was apparent to this mother, and she struggled to give voice to their plight to no avail. She explained how love and concern for her children had kept her alive far longer than her doctors thought possible. She embraced me and said, “Now I can die in peace knowing that you are out there talking, raising awareness with the same passion for justice and love for children that I have. Thank you. Please keep talking. Please remember my daughters.

Though I did not know her exact address, that she appeared to live almost within breathing distance of Robin, and that I lived with him, and that her pictures showed that she was now dating the mysterious Rupert Hunter, our despotic mothers, our absent fathers, the borders we had both crossed, all our many parallels and connections at every point, could not be chance. I saw it as evidence of the hidden connections between things, an all-powerful algorithm that sifted through chaos, singling out soulmates.

We’re in a period right now where nobody asks any questions about psychology. No one has any feeling for human motivation. No one talks about sexuality in terms of emotional needs and symbolism and the legacy of childhood. Sexuality has been politicized--“Don’t ask any questions!” "No discussion!" “Gay is exactly equivalent to straight!” And thus in this period of psychological blindness or inertness, our art has become dull. There’s nothing interesting being written--in fiction or plays or movies. Everything is boring because of our failure to ask psychological questions. So I say there is a big parallel between Bill Cosby and Bill Clinton--aside from their initials! Young feminists need to understand that this abusive behavior by powerful men signifies their sense that female power is much bigger than they are! These two people, Clinton and Cosby, are emotionally infantile--they're engaged in a war with female power. It has something to do with their early sense of being smothered by female power--and this pathetic, abusive and criminal behavior is the result of their sense of inadequacy. Now, in order to understand that, people would have to read my first book, "Sexual Personae"--which of course is far too complex for the ordinary feminist or academic mind! It’s too complex because it requires a sense of the ambivalence of human life. Everything is not black and white, for heaven's sake! We are formed by all kinds of strange or vague memories from childhood. That kind of understanding is needed to see that Cosby was involved in a symbiotic, push-pull thing with his wife, where he went out and did these awful things to assert his own independence. But for that, he required the women to be inert. He needed them to be dead! Cosby is actually a necrophiliac--a style that was popular in the late Victorian period in the nineteenth-century. It's hard to believe now, but you had men digging up corpses from graveyards, stealing the bodies, hiding them under their beds, and then having sex with them. So that’s exactly what’s happening here: to give a woman a drug, to make her inert, to make her dead is the man saying that I need her to be dead for me to function. She’s too powerful for me as a living woman. And this is what is also going on in those barbaric fraternity orgies, where women are sexually assaulted while lying unconscious. And women don’t understand this! They have no idea why any men would find it arousing to have sex with a young woman who’s passed out at a fraternity house. But it’s necrophilia--this fear and envy of a woman’s power. And it’s the same thing with Bill Clinton: to find the answer, you have to look at his relationship to his flamboyant mother. He felt smothered by her in some way. But let's be clear--I’m not trying to blame the mother! What I’m saying is that male sexuality is extremely complicated, and the formation of male identity is very tentative and sensitive--but feminist rhetoric doesn’t allow for it. This is why women are having so much trouble dealing with men in the feminist era. They don’t understand men, and they demonize men.

In ancient times, coming-of-age girls sought guidance from the wise women in their communities, but girls today are most often guided by their peers, the media, and a culture that does not honor or support them. It is a time in which girls often disconnect from themselves and start to separate from their mothers. As we begin to create more meaningful and authentic lives for ourselves, we have an opportunity for parallel journeys of growth with our daughters, journeys that would allow us to share our wisdom with them.

It is hard to believe that the myths told about Pythagoras did not influence the creation of some of the later stories about Christ. Pythagoras, for instance, was believed by many to be the son of God, in this case, Apollo. His mother was called Parthenis, which means “virgin.” Before traveling to Egypt, Pythagoras lived the life of a hermit on Mount Carmel, like Christ's solitary vigil on the mountain. A Jewish sect, the Essenes, appropriated this myth and is said to have later had a connection to John the Baptist. There is also a myth that Pythagoras returned from the dead, although, according to the story, Pythagoras faked this by hiding in a secret underground chamber.

Cart, I meant ‘if paying that jewelry for ransom was the only possible way to free your wife!’ Don’t tell me that the men of Helium would die for the princess; I know that. My own sword is at Thuvia’s feet—and you know it. Answer the question the way I put it: no other choices.” “Issus! Mother would pay ransoms.” “How many bodies did the black chariots clear out of your streets this dawn?” “I don’t know. If you have reason for wanting to know, I will find out.” “The exact number I don’t need to know. What I do wonder is this: how long can the prince regent of a great city-state allow his people to freeze or starve before it penetrates his skull that it might be better to change an age-old custom than to let them go on dying?

His reading habit was so varied that in his early teens, he was reading both Maxim Gorky’s Mother and the detective thrillers (Jasoosi Duniya) of Ibn-e-Safi. The detective thrillers—be it Indian or American pulp fiction—were a big favourite for their fast action, tight plots and economies of expression. He remembers the novels of Ibn-e-Safi for their fascinating characters with memorable names. ‘Ibn-e-Safi was a master at naming his characters. All of us who read him remember those names . . . There was a Chinese villain, his name was Sing Hi. There was a Portuguese villain called Garson . . . an Englishman who had come to India and was into yoga . . . was called Gerald Shastri.’ This technique of giving catchy names to characters would stay with him. The wide range of reading not only gave him the sensitivity with which progressive writers approached their subjects but also a very good sense of plot and speaking styles. Here, it would be apt to quote a paragraph from Ibn-e-Safi’s detective novel, House of Fear—featuring his eccentric detective, Imran. The conversation takes place just outside a nightclub: ‘So, young man. So now you have also starred frequenting these places?’ ‘Yes. I often come by to pay Flush,’ Imran said respectfully. ‘Flush! Oh, so now you play Flush . . .’ ‘Yes, yes. I feel like it when I am a bit drunk . . .’ ‘Oh! So you have also started drinking?’ ‘What can I say? I swear I’ve never drunk alone. Frequently I find hookers who do not agree to anything without a drink . . .’ This scene would find a real-life parallel as well as a fictional one in Javed’s life later. Javed

Protestantism's evolution away from hierarchy and authority has enormous consequences for America and the world. On the one hand, the democratization of religion runs parallel to political democratization. The king of England, questioning the pope, inspires English subjects to question the king and his Anglican bishops. Such dissent is backed up by a Bible full of handy Scripture arguing for arguing with one's kIng. This is the root of self-government in the English-speaking world. On the other hand, Protestantism's shedding away of authority, as evidenced by my [Pentecostal] mother's proclamation that I needn't go to church or listen to a preacher to achieve salvation, inspires self-reliance—along with a dangerous disregard for expertise. So the impulse that leads to democracy can also be the downside of democracy—namely, a suspicion of people who know what they are talking about. It's why in U.S. presidential elections the American people will elect a wisecracking good ol' boy who's fun in a malt shop instead of a serious thinker who actually knows some of the pompous, brainy stuff that might actually get fewer people laid off or killed.

Now the remarkable thing here is that it is not Hiawatha who passes through death and emerges reborn, as might be expected, but the god. It is not man who is transformed into a god, but the god who undergoes transformation in and through man. It is as though he had been asleep in the “mother,” i.e., in Hiawatha’s unconscious, and had then been roused and fought with so that he should not overpower his host, but should, on the contrary, himself experience death and rebirth, and reappear in the corn in a new form beneficial to mankind. Consequently he appears at first in hostile form, as an assailant with whom the hero has to wrestle. This is in keeping with the violence of all unconscious dynamism. In this manner the god manifests himself and in this form he must be overcome. The struggle has its parallel in Jacob’s wrestling with the angel at the ford Jabbok. The onslaught of instinct then becomes an experience of divinity, provided that man does not succumb to it and follow it blindly, but defends his humanity against the animal nature of the divine power. It is “a fearful thing to fall into the hands of the living God,” and “whoso is near unto me, is near unto the fire, and whoso is far from me, is far from the kingdom”; for “the Lord is a consuming fire,” the Messiah is “the Lion of the tribe of Judah”:

She picked up the book beside her. Jane Eyre. Used, bought recently in a bookshop in Camden Passage, shabby nineteenth-century binding, pages bearing vague stains, fingered, smoothed. She opened the book to the place she left it when the taxicab pulled up. “My daughter, flee temptation.” “Mother, I will,” Jane responded, as the moon turned to woman. The fiction had tricked her. Drawn her in so that she became Jane. Yes. The parallels were there. Was she not heroic Jane? Betrayed. Left to wander. Solitary. Motherless. Yes, and with no relations to speak of except an uncle across the water. She occupied her mind. Comforted for a time, she came to. Then, with a sharpness, reprimanded herself. No, she told herself. No, she could not be Jane. Small and pale. English. No, she paused. No, my girl, try Bertha. Wild-maned Bertha. Clare thought of her father. Forever after her to train her hair. His visions of orderly pageboy. Coming home from work with something called Tame. She refused it; he called her Medusa. Do you intend to turn men to stone, daughter? She held to her curls, which turned kinks in the damp of London. Beloved racial characteristic. Her only sign, except for dark spaces here and there where melanin touched her. Yes, Bertha was closer to the mark. Captive. Ragôut. Mixture. Confused. Jamaican. Caliban. Carib. Cannibal. Cimarron. All Bertha. All Clare.

Two other highly vocal FMSF Advisory Board members are Dr Elizabeth Loftus and Professor Richard Ofshe. Loftus is a respected academic psychologist whose much quoted laboratory experiment of successfully implanting a fictitious childhood memory of being lost in a shopping mall is frequently used to defend the false memory syndrome argument. In the experiment, older family members persuaded younger ones of the (supposedly) never real event. However, Loftus herself says that being lost, which almost everyone has experienced, is in no way similar to being abused. Jennifer Freyd comments on the shopping mall experiment in Betrayal Trauma (1996): “If this demonstration proves to hold up under replication it suggests both that therapists can induce false memories and, even more directly, that older family members play a powerful role in defining reality for dependent younger family members." (p. 104). Elizabeth Loftus herself was sexually abused as a child by a male babysitter and admits to blacking the perpetrator out of her memory, although she never forgot the incident. In her autobiography, Witness for the Defence, she talks of experiencing flashbacks of this abusive incident on occasion in court in 1985 (Loftus &Ketcham, 1991, p.149) In her teens, having been told by an uncle that she had found her mother's drowned body, she then started to visualize the scene. Her brother later told her that she had not found the body. Dr Loftus's successful academic career has run parallel to her even more high profile career as an expert witness in court, for the defence of those accused of rape, murder, and child abuse. She is described in her own book as the expert who puts memory on trial, sometimes with frightening implications. She used her theories on the unreliability of memory to cast doubt, in 1975, on the testimony of the only eyewitness left alive who could identify Ted Bundy, the all American boy who was one of America's worst serial rapists and killers (Loftus & Ketcham, 1991, pp. 61-91). Not withstanding Dr Loftus's arguments, the judge kept Bundy in prison. Bundy was eventually tried, convicted and executed.

It’s worth noting that some scholars see close parallels between the 1857 Dred Scott decision - which left slaves as the legal property of their owners - and Roe, which left unborn children as the legal property of their mothers. (Christianity Today - Jan/Feb 2019)

We had gone back to San Diego for her last months, and I slept with Gaga while my mother spent most of her time over at the hospital. Early each morning, as the planes started up their infernal diving, the phone would ring and a conversation ensue, after which I would ask if my other grandmother was still living. The question grew to be reflexive and almost meaningless, just part of the daily routine, until the Sunday that Gaga shocked me by shaking her head, putting down the phone, and breaking into tears.

To be a Black woman, therefore, is not just to be a Black who happens to be a woman, for one discovers one’s sex sometime before one discovers one’s racial classification. For it is immediately within the bosom of one’s family that one learns to be a female and all that the term implies. Although our families may have taken a somewhat different form from that of whites, the socialization that was necessary to maintain the state was carried out. Our family life may be said to parallel our educational opportunities, in that we only need to finish elementary school or high school to get the kinds of jobs which are open to us, and we need only about twelve years of living within some kind of family situation to learn our sexual roles completely. Our first perception of ourselves is of our physical bodies, which we are then forced to compare with the bodies of those with whom we live, mothers, fathers, grandmothers, aunts, uncles, and whomever. Our clothing and the kinds of play activity we engage in are reflections of the lives of those with whom we live. Treatment at school reinforces our sexuality, so that by the time we reach adolescence, we as Black women have perceived our role, all too clearly. One discovers what it means to be Black, and all that term implies, usually outside the family, although this is probably less so than it was as the need to politicize all Blacks, including children, has become so obvious. But until recently, the child had only dim revelations about her color within the family and it was only when she moved out into the community and the opposition and reaction of whites to her gave her insight into her place, racially. The oppression of Blacks by whites is not softened by the same kind of rationale that the female encounters with the male, and if she has not been taught by her family that to be Black is to be political, she experiences extreme frustration and anger as she wades through the racial experience in an attempt to learn what is going on. Most women, shackled by the limitations imposed on their behavior because of their sex, are afraid to explore their condition much beyond their school years and go on to fulfill their biological destiny as determined by male.

For me there was an obvious parallel: Aunt Mimi. John had grown up in the shadow of a domineering woman – it was what he knew and was most familiar with. While I had offered the devotion and loving acceptance he had needed after his mother’s death, Yoko offered the security of a mother figure who always knew best. When, in later years, I read comments from Yoko comparing herself to Aunt Mimi I had to smile. She’d got it dead right.

All went smoothly for the first fifteen minutes--my mother was, after all, very adept at making people comfortable. She chatted, though not excessively, primarily with me. As I had predicted, Narian was silent and observant, letting me carry the conversation while he tried to get a feel for the woman across from us, not quite trusting that she was on our side. He was never rude, and never short with her; he simply hid himself behind good etiquette. During a natural pause in conversation, my mother perused Narian and me, and her mood became contemplative. “When was it that you fell in love?” she asked. “Was it right under our noses?” “More or less,” I said with a laugh, glancing at Narian. “We became friends when he first came to Hytanica. All those trips Miranna and I made to Baron Koranis’s estate were really so I could see him.” Mother smiled and Narian glanced at me as if this were news to him. Then she picked up the thread of the conversation. “I remember falling in love,” she mused, and I wondered how far she would venture into her story, knowing it was not a wholly happy one. “I was fifteen, going through the very difficult experience of losing my family in a fire. I was brought to live in the palace, for I’d been betrothed for years to Andrius, Alera’s uncle, who later died in the war before we could be married.” I realized she was not talking to me, and that, though he was still aloof, she had captured Narian’s interest, for his deep blue eyes were resting attentively upon her. “At the time, I was so lost and alone and frightened. And then Andrius and I grew close. With him, my life made sense again. I had something to hold on to, something to steady me. What was the worst time of my life became the best.” There was a pause, and she innocently met Narian’s gaze. But her story was not innocent at all. If I could recognize the parallel she was drawing to his life in the aftermath of learning of his Hytanican heritage, then he surely could, as well. He didn’t say a word, however, and she dropped the veiled attempt to connect with him before it became awkward, turning to me instead. “I’ve told you before, Alera--Andrius lives on in you. I see him in you every day.” I smiled, tipping my head in acceptance of the compliment. “And in you--” she said, once more turning to Narian, tapping a finger against her lips in thought “--I see Cannan.” She was lightly cajoling him, exactly as a parent would do. I couldn’t imagine what was going on in his mind, but he was no longer eager to leave, his eyes never once flicking toward me or the door.

Jeanne continued to drive until she reached a small state park. She parked her car and walked over to a bench parallel to the lake. Jeanne stared out at the lake and thought about carving all of her ex-lovers names onto the large stones that sat in the grass and spending her entire life waiting for them to be eroded by the wind and the rain. In the park there were also children dropping medium sized rocks with both hands into a stream. They fell heavily into the water and sunk down with the sound of small giggles. The children shouted something to their mothers. Something like, “Look mom we’re skip- ping rocks!” The mothers didn’t look but they shouted something back like, “Wow good job honey!” The “wow” was drawn out long and slow, more pronounced than any of the other words in the sentence. The children seemed pleased with this response and continued to laugh and throw stones into the river. A woman sat on a bench across from Jeanne for an extended period of time, folding leaves in her hands like a nervous tick. The woman looked up from her hands and laughed. She looked back down at her hands and looked sad again. Jeanne felt the urge to ask the woman why she looked down at the leaves and felt sad. Maybe, Jeanne speculated, she felt sad for the leaves that were in pieces all around her. Maybe the woman felt sad for herself because she was sitting on a bench alone and feeling ner- vous. Perhaps the woman felt guilty because she was laughing while killing something. Jeanne watched the woman as she looked up at middle space and alternated her expression from smiling to sad. Jeanne thought about wanting to kiss the woman’s face when it looked sad. Jeanne wanted to catch her mouth right in the in-be- tween before she smiled. Jeanne wanted the kiss to be sad and slow but hopeful as children laughed and threw rocks with her ex-lovers names into the river. Jeanne sat on the bench in the park and did nothing. She could feel her heart beating inside of her left shoulder blade. Jeanne wanted to throw rocks into the river like a child and kiss. Jeanne thought, “Kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss kiss,” but she continued to sit. She didn’t throw rocks. She didn’t kiss anyone.

Everything felt wrong, like she was living in a parallel universe, separated by one crucial degree from the one containing the life she was meant to have. This other, true life was visible to her, even palpable at certain instances—like during the births of her sons—but impossible to occupy. She cried from pity for herself, and because of the stupidity of such pity. She cried for Luciano and for Anton. She cried because she’d only loved one boy with the follow-you-over-the-edge-of-the-earth kind of love—at fifteen. She cried for her mother, who had died two years ago, and whom she still missed every day.

When his teaching is more straightforward, it is no less baffling or challenging. Blessed are the meek (Mt 5:5); to look at a woman with lust is to commit adultery (Mt 5:28); forgive wrongs seventy times seven (Mt 18:22); you can't be my disciple if you do not give up all your possessions (Lk 14:33); no divorce (Mk 10:9); love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you (Mt 5:44). A passage that gives us the keys to the reign, or kingdom, of God is Matthew 25:31–46, the scene of the judgment of the nations: Then the king will say to those on his right hand, “Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me.” As Mother Teresa put it, we meet Christ in the distressing disguise of the poor. Jesus’ teaching and witness is obviously relevant to social, economic, and political issues. Indeed, the Jewish leaders and the Romans (the powers that be of the time) found his teaching and actions disturbing enough to arrest him and execute him. A scene from the life of Clarence Jordan drives home the radicalism and relevance of Jesus’ message. In the early 1950s Clarence approached his brother, Robert Jordan, a lawyer and future state senator and justice of the Georgia Supreme Court, to legally represent Koinonia Farm. Clarence, I can't do that. You know my political aspirations. Why if I represented you, I might lose my job, my house, everything I've got. We might lose everything too, Bob. It's different for you. Why is it different? I remember, it seems to me, that you and I joined the church the same Sunday, as boys. I expect when we came forward the preacher asked me about the same question he did you. He asked me, “Do you accept Jesus as your Lord and Savior?” And I said, “Yes.” What did you say? I follow Jesus, Clarence, up to a point. Could that point by any chance be—the cross? That's right. I follow him to the cross, but not on the cross. I'm not getting myself crucified. Then I don't believe you're a disciple. You're an admirer of Jesus, but not a disciple of his. I think you ought to go back to the church you belong to, and tell them you're an admirer not a disciple. Well now, if everyone who felt like I do did that, we wouldn't have a church, would we? The question, Clarence said, is, “Do you have a church?”25 The early Christian community tried to live according to the values of the reign of God that Jesus proclaimed, to be disciples. The Jerusalem community was characterized by unlimited liability and total availability for each other, sharing until everyone's needs were met (Acts 2:43–47; 4:32–37).26 Paul's exhortation to live a new life in Christ in his letter to the Romans, chapters 12 through 15, has remarkable parallels to Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount in Matthew, chapters 5 through 7, and Luke 6:20–49.27 Both Jesus and Paul offer practical steps for conflict resolution and peacemaking. Similarly, the Epistle of James exhorts Christians to “be doers of the word and not merely hearers who deceive themselves” (1:22), and warns against class divisions (2:1–13) and the greed and corruption of the wealthy (5:1–6).

The ancient Babylonians and Assyrians worshiped a goddess mother, and son, who was represented in pictures and in images as an infant in his mother's arms (see Fig. No. 18). Her name was Mylitta, the divine son was Tammuz, the Saviour, whom we have seen rose from the dead.

The ancient Greeks and Romans worshiped the Virgin Mother and Child for centuries before the Christian era. One of these was Myrrha, [332:6] the mother of Bacchus, the Saviour, who was represented with the infant in her arms. She had the title of "Queen of Heaven." [332:7] At many a Christian shrine the infant Saviour Bacchus may be seen reposing in the arms of his deified mother. The names are changed—the ideas remain as before. [332:8]

Crishna, the Hindoo virgin-born Saviour, was born in a cave, [156:1] fostered by an honest herdsman, [156:2] and, it is said, placed in a sheep-fold shortly after his birth. How-Tseih, the Chinese "Son of Heaven," when an infant, was left unprotected by his mother, but the sheep and oxen protected him with loving care. [156:3] Abraham, the Father of Patriarchs, is said to have been born in a cave. [156:4] Bacchus, who was the son of God by the virgin Semele, is said to have been born in a cave, or placed in one shortly after

The most ancient pictures and statues in Italy and other parts of Europe, of what are supposed to be representations of the Virgin Mary and the infant Jesus, are black. The infant god, in the arms of his black mother, his eyes and drapery white, is himself perfectly black. [335:8]

Maya, the mother of Buddha, and Devaki the mother of Crishna, were worshiped as virgins, [326:6] and represented with the infant Saviours in their arms, just as the virgin of the Christians is represented at the present day.

In many ways, God’s rest on the seventh day of creation is paralleled by the birthing process and the period after birth, when the labor is finished yet the bonding begins. The mother and father gaze endlessly at their child, who is distinct from the parents because she is no longer merely in the mind and the womb of the mother, but external and separate. She is no longer solely in the imagination or deep in the womb; she is finally released to be held in the arms of the parent. This attachment brings mother and child into a bond that, if secure, will last through thick and thin, heartache and loss, and provide the child with an assurance that all will be well.11

Dean Milman, in his "History of Christianity" (Vol. i. p. 97), refers to the tradition, found among the Chinese, that Fo-hi was born of a virgin; and remarks that, the first Jesuit missionaries who went to China were appalled at finding, in the mythology of that country, a counterpart of the story of the virgin of Judea. Fo-hi is said to have been born 3463 years B. C., and, according to some Chinese writers, with him begins the historical era and the foundation of the empire. When his mother conceived him in her womb, a rainbow was seen to surround her. [119:3]

Thus we have it illustrated in the story of the snake who was sent to kill Hercules, when an infant in his cradle; [482:2] also in the story of Typhon, who sought the life of the infant Saviour Horus. Again, it is illustrated in the story of the virgin mother Astrea, with her babe beset by Orion, and of Latona, the mother of Apollo, when pursued by the monster. [482:3] And last, that of the virgin mother Mary, with her babe beset by Herod. But like Hercules, Horus, Apollo, Theseus, Romulus, Cyrus and other solar heroes, Christ Jesus has yet a long course before him. Like them, he grows up both wise and strong, and the "old Serpent" is discomfited by him, just as the sphynx and the dragon are put to night by others.

Practice: Remembering Your Personal History How have your decisions and actions affected the person you are today? This prayer exercise helps you write your personal history of sin and salvation. The purpose is to see yourself as God sees you, not to pass judgment on yourself. If you find yourself slipping into self-judgment, return to the first step and allow your focus to rest again on God’s loving presence with you. 1. Let the silence deepen around you. Ask the God who has known you since you were in your mother’s womb (Ps. 139) to allow you to become aware of God’s loving presence that surrounds you like air. 2. In the presence of this loving God, review your life, simply and humbly noticing what has been. First, without judging yourself, allow the hurtful, isolating, negative, and sinful things you have done (as well as the positive things you avoided doing) to surface in your awareness. Note each of these memories in your journal, and, as you do, offer a simple prayer of sorrow. 3. Next, without judging or congratulating yourself, allow a parallel history to form, this time a history of significant blessings and graces you have received. As you note each of these memories in your journal, offer a simple prayer of gratitude. 4. Looking at these two lists, what would you now like to say to God? Say it in your own way, perhaps writing it in your journal. 5. Listen to God’s words to you: “Though your sins are like scarlet, they shall be like snow” (Isa. 1:18). “The steadfast love of the LORD never ceases, [God’s] mercies never come to an end; they are new every morning” (Lam. 3:22–23).

When Osiris was shut into the coffer, and cast into the river, he floated to Phenicia, and was there received under the name of Adonis. Isis (his mother, or wife) wandered in quest of him, came to Byblos, and seated herself by a fountain in silence and tears. She

Adjusting to any marriage, let alone a plural one, is an incredibly individual experience, and it is all-encompassing. Your entire worldview and your entire cultural, personal, and religious awareness goes through a radical upheaval. You barely have time to worry about what's going on in the outside world. I found that I had to do so much work readjusting my own parameters and shifting my own perspectives that I didn't think too much about my mother's parallel experiences.

Another one of these Christs was Apollonius. This remarkable man was born a few years before the commencement of the Christian era, and during his career, sustained the role of a philosopher, religious teacher and reformer, and a worker of miracles. He is said to have lived to be a hundred years old. From the history of his life, written by the learned sophist and scholar, Philostratus, we glean the following: Before his birth a god appeared to his mother and informed her that he himself should be born of her.

In happy moments, these things intersect, the sheet fits the bed, and the whole thing just works. But for the most part, What You Want and What You Can Have are two different trains on parallel tracks, forever waving to each other from the window, never quite meeting.

I only ever heard one other possible explanation for why I might feel this way. It didn’t come from my doctor, but I read it in books and saw it discussed on TV. It said depression and anxiety were carried in your genes. I knew my mother had been depressed and highly anxious before I was born (and after), and that we had these problems in my family running further back than that. They seemed to me to be parallel stories. They both said—it’s something innate, in your flesh.

After the miscarriage I was surrounded by dead-baby flowers, dead-baby books, and lots of boxes of dead-baby tea. I felt like I was drowning in a dead-baby sea. My mother didn’t know how to help but knew that I needed her. She sent me a soft bathrobe and a teapot, and I wept for hours on the phone with her. Mostly, she listened as I sorted through all my thoughts and feelings. If I’m angry or upset about something, or even if I’m happy about something, it isn’t real until I articulate it. I need a narrative. I guess that’s something Jeff and I share. We both need a story to fit into. The Burton ability to turn misfortune into narrative is something I’m grateful I was taught. It helps me think, Well, okay, that’s just a funny story. You should hear my father talking about his mother and those damn forsythia bushes. My sisters-in-law sent me lovely, heartfelt packages. Christina sent me teas and a journal and a letter I cherish. She included Cheryl Strayed’s book Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar. Christina is a mother. I felt like she understood the toll this sadness was taking on me, and she encouraged me to practice self-care. Jess gave me the book Reveal: A Secret Manual for Getting Spiritually Naked by Meggan Watterson and some other books about the divine feminine. She knew that there was nothing she could say, but everything she wanted to articulate was in those books. Jess has always had an almost psychic ability to understand my inner voice. She is quiet and attuned to what people are really saying rather than what they present to the world. I knew her book choices were deliberate, but I couldn’t read them for a while because they were dead-baby books. If people weren’t giving me dead baby gifts, they wanted to tell me dead-baby stories. There’s nothing more frustrating than someone saying, “Well, welcome to the club. I’ve had twelve miscarriages." It seemed like there was an unspoken competition between members of this fucked up sorority. I quickly realized this is a much bigger club than I knew and that everyone had stories and advice. And as much as I appreciated it, I had to find my own way. Tara gave me a book called Vessels: A Love Story, by Daniel Raeburn, about his and his wife’s experience of a number of miscarriages. His book helped because I couldn’t wrap my head around Jeff’s side of the story, and he certainly wasn’t telling it to me. He was out in the garage until dinnertime every day. He would come in, eat, help Gus shower, and then disappear for the rest of the night. I often read social media posts from couples announcing, “Hey we miscarried but it brought us closer together." I think it’s fair to say that miscarriage did not bring Jeffrey and me closer together. We were living in the same space but leading parallel lives. To be honest, most of the time we weren’t even living in the same space. That spring The Good Wife was canceled. We had banked on that being a job Jeff would do for a couple of years, one that would keep him in New York City. Then he landed Negan on The Walking Dead, and suddenly he would be all the way down in Georgia for the next three to five years. We were never going to have another child. It had been so hard to get pregnant. I felt like I was pulling teeth trying to coordinate dates when Jeff would be around and I’d be ovulating. It felt like every conversation was about having a baby. He’d ask, “What do you want for dinner?" I’d say, “A baby." “Hey, what do you want to do this weekend?" I’d say, “Have a baby.

The pamphlet compiled essays from those who work in queer spaces or study them academically, or both. One contributor, Joe Parslow, wrote an essay that refers to the critic José Esteban Muñoz’s paralleling of the word stage in the sense of a platform for performance with stage as a phase that queers are told to get over—as when parents contend it’s just a blip. In 2009, Muñoz wrote, ‘Today I write back from that stage that my mother and father hoped I would quickly vacate. Instead, I dwell on and in this stage.’ Parslow explains how he was inspired to think from the stage outward when he designed his own venue, Her Upstairs, one of those few places that opened against the wave of bar closures; it shut down after only a short spell. In his listing application for the RVT, Ben Walters offered another symbolic interpretation of the stage. When Pat and Breda McConnon took over the tavern in 1979, they made the decision to put an end to the messy tradition of bartenders serving drinks between the legs of the drag queens atop the curving bar. But rather than cancel the entertainment, they renovated the interior, removing that bar and installing a bespoke stage. Walters points out the meaningfulness of this move. Performing on the bar had meant that a drag queen could be swiftly cleared away and the performance denied at the sign of a police raid. The McConnons permanently ensconced queer performance in the materiality of the building. Their stage was not a phase.

to an impaired emotional regulation system, a limited facilitation for empathy, and problems in distinguishing present reality from irrelevant memories. In the long-term there is an increased risk of developing future psychopathologies and personality disorders. As opposed to secure attachments, organized forms of insecure attachments reflect inefficient stragetgies for coping with attachment emotional stress. In cases of avoidant attachment the mother may be averse to physical contact and block her child’s attempt to get close to her. She may be intensely ambivalent about being a mother. Her avoidance of the infant is more than behavioral – psychological harm can occur through the mother who is emotionally unavailable when her infant is distressed, even if she remains in physical contact with her child. In parallel, due to the lack of interactive regulation, the child learns how to disengage from the mother under stress, as well as from his own emotional responses to her rejection. To avoid this, the stressed infant will signal his need to disengage by looking away. On the other hand unpredictable and intrusive mothering often leads to ambivalent-anxious attachment where infants can only cope with a certain limited intensity of emotional arousal before they move beyond their window of tolerance into a state of stressful emotional dysregulation. These infants are overly dependent on the attachment figure (presumably desperately seeking interactive regulation) but also angry with the caregiver’s unpredictable regulation. In the most unfortunate situation, the infant/toddler is exposed to the most intense social stressors, such as physical and/or emotional abuse. This also includes neglect, which is proving to be the most serious threat to the development of the emotional brain. The most severe forms of attachment trauma, both abuse and neglect, create “disorganized-disoriented attachment.” It occurs when an infant has no strategy that will help him to cope with his caregiver, causing the infant to be profoundly confused, physically aroused, yet emotionally paralyzed. This context thus generates

For males, power is the ultimate aphrodisiac, and an addictive one at that. The violent reaction of Nikkie and Yeroen to their loss of power fits the frustration-aggression hypothesis to the letter: the deeper the bitterness, the greater the anger. Males jealously guard their power, and lose all inhibition if anyone challenges it. And this hadn’t been the first time for Yeroen. The ferocity of the attack on Luit may have been due to the fact that it was the second time he had come out on top. The first time Luit gained the upper hand - marking the end of Yeroen’s ancient regime - I was perplexed by the way the established leader reacted. Normally a dignified character, Yeroen became unrecognizable. In the midst of a confrontation, he would drop out of a tree like a rotten apple, writhing on the ground, screaming pitifully, and waiting to be comforted by the rest of the group. He acted much like a juvenile ape being pushed away from his mother’s teats. And like a juvenile who during tantrums keeps an eye on mom for signs of softening, Yeroen always noted who approached him. If the group around him was big and powerful enough, and especially if it included the alpha female, he would gain instant courage. With his supporters in tow, he would rekindle the confrontation with his rival. Clearly, Yeroen’s tantrums were yet another example of deft manipulation. What fascinated me most, however, were the parallels with infantile attachment, nicely captured in expressions like “clinging to power” and “being weaned from power.” Knocking a male off his pedestal gets the same reaction as yanking the security blanket away from a baby. When Yeroen finally lost his top spot, he would often sit staring into the distance after a fight, an empty expression on his face. He was oblivious to the social activity around him and refused food for weeks. We thought he was sick, but the veterinarian found nothing wrong. Yeroen seemed a mere ghost of the impressive big shot he had been. I’ve never forgotten this image of a beaten and dejected Yeroen. When power was lost, the lights in him went out.

As moms living with sinful hearts in a broken world, we struggle and toil, but in Christ, we’re not left without hope. God overcomes the curse by giving people another way to experience birth—not through a physical womb, but through the Holy Spirit.8 While a mother gives birth through physical groaning, sweat and tears, her water breaking, and the shedding of her blood—Jesus makes a way for life through his physical torture, sweat and tears in the garden, water pouring from his side, and his pure, perfect blood shed for us on the cross. The story of the crucified Christ is the best birth story ever told, with elements that parallel the gospel picture in each labor and delivery room.

I did a variety of things. I’m still ashamed of some of them. I finally became a mercenary. My life after that unfolded, as you might imagine, predictably. Victorious soldier, defeated soldier, marauder, robber, rapist, murderer, and finally a fugitive fleeing the noose. I fled to the ends of the world. And there, at the end of the world, I met a woman. A sorceress.” “Be careful,” whispered the Witcher, and his eyes narrowed. “Be careful, Vilgefortz, that the similarities you’re desperately searching for don’t lead you too far.” “The similarities are over,” said the sorcerer without lowering his gaze, “since I couldn’t cope with the feelings I felt for that woman. I couldn’t understand her feelings, and she didn’t try to help me with them. I left her. Because she was promiscuous, arrogant, spiteful, unfeeling and cold. Because it was impossible to dominate her, and her domination of me was humiliating. I left her because I knew she was only interested in me because my intelligence, personality and fascinating mystery obscured the fact that I wasn’t a sorcerer, and it was usually only sorcerers she would honour with more than one night. I left her because… because she was like my mother. I suddenly understood that what I felt for her was not love at all, but a feeling which was considerably more complicated, more powerful but more difficult to classify: a mixture of fear, regret, fury, pangs of conscience and the need for expiation, a sense of guilt, loss, and hurt. A perverse need for suffering and atonement. What I felt for that woman was hate.” Geralt remained silent. Vilgefortz was looking to one side. “I left her,” he said after a while. “And then I couldn’t live with the emptiness which engulfed me. And I suddenly understood it wasn’t the absence of a woman that causes that emptiness, but the lack of everything I had been feeling. It’s a paradox, isn’t it? I imagine I don’t need to finish; you can guess what happened next. I became a sorcerer. Out of hatred. And only then did I understand how stupid I was. I mistook stars reflected in a pond at night for those in the sky.” “As you rightly observed, the parallels between us aren’t completely parallel,” murmured Geralt. “In spite of appearances, we have little in common, Vilgefortz. What did you want to prove by telling me your story? That the road to wizardly excellence, although winding and difficult, is available to anyone? Even—excuse my parallel—to bastards or foundlings, wanderers or witchers—” “No,” the sorcerer interrupted. “I didn’t mean to prove this road is open to all, because that’s obvious and was proved long ago. Neither was there a need to prove that certain people simply have no other path.

We can return now to an important parallel between the love for one’s parents and the love for God. The child starts out by being attached to his mother as “the ground of all being.” He feels helpless and needs the all-enveloping love of mother. He then turns to father as the new center of his affections, father being a guiding principle for thought and action; in this stage he is motivated by the need to acquire father’s praise, and to avoid his displeasure. In the stage of full maturity he has freed himself from the person of mother and of father as protecting and commanding powers; he has established the motherly and fatherly principles in himself. He has become his own father and mother; he is father and mother.

I honestly cannot think of a single situation where this would be a good joke in a relationship. It’s too deflating and demeaning. But as Sophie recognized later, her mother and Jerry had a lot in common in their insensitivity to people’s feelings. Every time Sophie tried to tell them how she felt, she ended up feeling invalidated. In therapy, Sophie began to see the parallels between her mother’s lack of empathy and Jerry’s emotional insensitivity. She realized that in her relationship with Jerry, she had reentered the emotional loneliness she’d felt as a child. She now saw that her frustration with Jerry’s emotional unavailability wasn’t something new; it was as old as her childhood. Sophie had felt that sense of unconnnectedness her whole life.

BOOK CLUB QUESTIONS Throughout the story, there is significant friction between Rory and Camilla, much of which stems from Camilla’s need to manage her daughter’s life. In what ways, if any, do you feel Rory contributes to the chronic tension between them? Soline’s mother, Esmée, believes that each of us creates a unique echo in the world and that those echoes are constantly seeking their match—in order to become complete. Do you believe such a thing is possible? One of the threads running through the book touches on the tendency of daughters to repeat their mothers’ mistakes, especially in relationship matters. Have you or someone you know experienced this in real life? If so, was the pattern eventually recognized and broken? The theme of chasing one’s dreams figures prominently in the journeys of both Rory and Soline. From an early age, Soline was taught that the work they did was a sacred vocation for which the Roussels had been especially chosen, and Hux once told Rory that the dream of opening an art gallery had her name all over it. Do you believe we are each given a calling in life, a talent or gift that feeds our soul and benefits others? “Everything happens for a reason” is a commonly used axiom, particularly when events suddenly turn our lives upside down. Throughout the book, Rory’s and Soline’s lives are upended by a series of seeming coincidences, causing them to wonder if some unseen hand might be at work. Do you believe that certain things are meant to be? That some benevolent force is trying to guide us to our highest good? Or is everything random? Rory tells Soline that she and Camilla push each other’s buttons. Soline understands, but at times she seems to side with Camilla, perhaps because she had a similar relationship with her own mother. What parallels did you note in the relationships between Soline and Esmée and Rory and Camilla? By the end of the book, it seems obvious that Soline has come into Rory’s life for a reason and that the reverse is also true. In the end, each has irrevocably altered the other’s life. Have you ever had someone come into your life, even briefly, who you feel came to teach you a lesson or help you find your path? On her deathbed, Esmée tells Soline about the father she never knew, a man Esmée loved dearly but sent away out of obedience to her mother. She speaks to her daughter about a grief worse than death—the grief of a life half-lived. How do you think these revelations affect Soline’s choices when Anson suddenly reappears in her life? One of Esmée’s quotes is about forgiveness. She says forgiveness is the greatest magick of all and that it makes all things new. Do you believe in the power of forgiveness? If so, is it true in all things, or are there certain things that can never be made new?

When family beliefs lead you to judge someone or something as bad, another conflict appears: Your conclusions and reality get out of sync. The Smith family judged physicians harshly, so it would be difficult for any of them to adopt a similar lifestyle—even if they had the means to do so and would be happier that way. This is parallel to my condemnation of myself when my home didn’t meet my family’s standards. Until I healed my self-judgment, it was hard for me to let my house be dirty without an emotional consequence. And as any mother knows, cleaning a home with children in it is like shoveling snow in a blizzard. I would have been an emotional mess if I hadn’t dealt with this faulty core belief, and my anxiety could have caused undue stress for my children.

The mother has long wielded total influence over her daughters: she now has it over her sons as well. We are told in every possible way that Mommy knows what's right for her child, as if she were automatically gifted with that stupendous natural ability. This is the domestic parallel to what is happening in public life. The increasingly watchful state knows better than us what we should be eating, drinking, smoking, ingesting; what is suitable for us to read, watch, understand; how we should travel, spend our money, and entertain ourselves.

a twelfthcentury Syriac church canon ascribed to John of Marde outlines a baptism for Muslim children that was meant to fall short of full-on conversion. This was called the “Baptism of John,” since John the Baptist was believed to have baptized without the full presence of the Holy Spirit.175 Unlike a proper baptism, the “Baptism of John” conferred a blessing on Muslim children, a practice that is documented throughout the Ottoman period, too.176 Whether it is the parallel chrismation of Bacchus, the parallel Eucharist of George, or the parallel baptism of John of Marde, it is easy to see how medieval churches developed strategies for incorporating certain Muslims into their ritual life. One suspects that these rituals targeted recent converts to Islam, who still had a toehold in their former Christian communities, or, as in the case of the martyrs, they targeted the children of Muslim fathers and Christian mothers. It is also possible that they catered to Muslims from entirely Muslim backgrounds who nonetheless wished to obtain the apotropaic powers of the Christian sacraments.

four parallel lines from when a mark had tried to rake me with his claws last month, I looked fierce. A bad mama-jama. Right? I had a freaking gun strapped to my leg! And if, for some reason, that wasn’t hardcore enough, then surely the sword strapped to my back should’ve made that kid hesitate in approaching, grimy pink beads or no. Sure, this was NOLA, where anything goes, but still, my outfit should’ve at least panicked the mother. My job hinged on the fact that I was terrifying, dang it! Intent on getting to the bottom of this, I adjusted my bra. A catcall came immediately.

I also tended to avoid her because I could not imagine the moment when she’d give up the playacting, take me back, and press me to herself for the first time. I was scared that I might push her away because she had become repugnant, because she had left me, and because I really hated her. Of course I suspected that this woman, whom I sometimes imagined was my mother, was among those who were crushed when the marquee of the Duna Cinema crashed down. Probably not one of those whom the rescuers scraped out alive from under the rubble after the dust settled and everyone was sobbing, fleeing, helping, or only helplessly screaming and watching the incredible. That would mean I’d lost my mother for the second time. Later some good people carried the corpses to the corner of Antal Nagy Street in Buda, and then, at the cost of subdued altercations on top of the rubble, the line for bread re-formed itself.

She was a ruthless mother, not even worthy to be called a mother, but I never believed this, no matter who said it. In classiness and strictness, she resembled my piano teacher. People also said to me, little boy, don’t even think about her, it’s not worth it. She was living in austere grandeur with someone, somewhere in a distant and alluring strange land. They said this was a moral slough. Which made me think of a puddle with pigs wallowing in it, snorting with pleasure. At other times, I imagined classiness as something like the dignity with which my piano teacher endured her lameness; she never complained. Or as the threatening act of destiny that will reach me too with its fury and one fine day strike me down.

What went on in that head of his? I would soon come to understand that he gave voice to only a fraction of the thoughts that swam behind his eyes. It was not nearly so clean and smooth in there as it seemed. Other lives were housed in that mind, parallel worlds. Maybe we’re all built a little bit that way. But most of us drop hints. Most of us leave clues. My father was more careful. When I think now of that moment in the kitchen, an almost unbelievable thought comes to my mind: There was a time when those two people - that man hunched at the table and that woman shouting in a bathrobe - were young. The proof was in the pictures that hung on the living room walls, a pretty girl and a bookish guy, a studio apartment in a crumbling Hollywood building overlooking a courtyard and a kidney-shaped pool. This was the mythical period before I was born, when my mother was not a mother and was instead an actress who might make it someday/. How much sweeter life would be if it all happened in reverse, if, after decades of disappointment, you finally arrived at an age when you had conceded nothing, when everything was possible. I like to think about how my parents’ lives once shimmered in front of them, half hidden, like buried gold. Back then the future was whatever they imagined - and they never imagined this.

How, then, can women as a group be so far behind men as a group, in both incomes and occupations? Because most women become wives and mothers and the economic results are totally different from a man's becoming a husband and father. However parallel these roles may be verbally, they are vastly different in behavioral consequences. There are reasons why there are no homes for unwed fathers.

Pursue Meaning, Not Happiness Feeling happy is like feeling warm. It’s a state of being that feels good. It might sound counterintuitive but focusing directly on pursuing happiness isn’t always the best approach to increasing it. This parallels the idea that focusing on reducing anxiety isn’t always the best way to decrease it. What’s an alternative to focusing on increasing your happiness? A better idea is focusing on pursuing things that feel meaningful. I’m not necessarily suggesting Mother Teresa-type activities. What gives you a sense of meaning could be anything from cooking for your friends to puttering away on projects in your garage. Pursuing meaning rather than happiness helps you feel calmer when you’re not feeling happy in a particular moment. It smooths out the emotional bumps that come with mistakes, failures, and disappointments. There’s research showing that stress tends to be harmful only if you believe that it’s harmful and that you can’t cope with it. It’s easier to believe in your capacity to cope with stress if the stress is part of the bigger picture of building a meaningful life. Experiment: What makes for a meaningful life from your perspective? Skip over what you think you should answer and identify what’s actually true for you.

The drug had so many debilitating and lethal side effects that FDA, in an uncharacteristic act of civil disobedience against NIAID’s diminutive dictator, issued a black box warning. Nevertheless, desperate HIV-infected Americans rushed like doomed lemmings to take the drug. In 2010, FDA issued a statement that ddI can cause potentially a fatal liver disease called non-cirrhotic portal hypertension.126 Even with its demonstrated toxicity, Dr. Fauci used CRI parallel-track process to bypass the usual controls, to win approval for use of ddI in pregnant mothers who test positive for HIV. A 2019 study [Hleyhel et al., Environ Mol Mutagen (2019)127] found that ddI accounted for 16 percent of prescriptions for infected mothers and 30 percent of the cancers in their children. In 1996, Dr. Fauci used his expedited fast track to break another record by winning FDA approval for Merck’s HIV antiviral Crixivan; this time it took only six weeks.128 Dr. Fauci achieved that feat by allowing Merck to run Crixivan through a skeleton CRI process on a tiny cohort of ninety-seven volunteers in three groups, thereby winning the swiftest approval in history: forty-two days. That approval prompted open revolt by the AIDS community, which felt betrayed when Merck hiked up

I’m one of a group of anonymous American citizens who was alarmed by the rise of Nazism in Germany, beginning in 1933. It’s been paralleled by the rise of fascism in this country, particularly in Los Angeles. We’re concerned German Nazi enemy agents have infiltrated Southern California and are turning American citizens against democracy.

In Khonsu we see a parallel with the transition of the Angry Goddess into the benevolent Bastet. He was originally a bloodthirsty God but becomes increasingly benevolent in later periods. His mother can be Bastet or Mut, and at Kom Ombo it is Hathor.