In the early morning hour,
just before dawn, lover and beloved wake
and take a drink of water.
She asks, “Do you love me or yourself more?
Really, tell the absolute truth.”
He says, “There’s nothing left of me.
I’m like a ruby held up to the sunrise.
Is it still a stone, or a world
made of redness? It has no resistance
Love is not born in public encounters or ceremonies, but in the quiet ways that we reveal ourselves; how we notice and love and accept our partners when they take on new, surprising forms. How someone can seem special in ways that only you can appreciate, and yet be a mystery still. There is still a happily ever after in this kind of love, but it is doled out in batches over time, and must be savored when it comes; ideally, together. To have someone who would choose, even when happiness is lean, to search you out in whatever disguise you now hide in, just to say that they recognize you inside of it—that is true fairy tale love.
Things don’t have purposes, as if the universe were a machine, where every part has a useful function. What’s the function of a galaxy? I don’t know if our life has a purpose and I don’t see that it matters. What does matter is that we’re a part. Like a thread in a cloth or a grass-blade in a field. It is and we are. What we do is like wind blowing on the grass.
∆ Ursula K. Le Guin, The Lathe of Heaven
In [nature's] paradigm, there is no failure. Everything we attempt, everything we do, is either growing up as its roots go deeper, or it's decomposing, leaving its lessons in the soil for the next attempt.
Sometimes she felt a nameless anxiety, sometimes an excessive and sudden calm. She often felt like crying, which generally was no more than an urge, as though the crisis spent itself in the desire.
| Clarice Lispector, Gertrudes Asks for Advice