Quotes About Healing

The more anger towards the past you carry in your heart, the less capable you are of loving in the present.

Mostly, however, I am a mystic. A mystic is someone who understands, contacts, and maps the invisible roads inside of us. Since I was a child, I've always felt as comfortable navigating these inner highways as I have moving on the external plane of existence. It seems that I show up in people's lives when they're ready to cross a threshold into more consciousness, healing, and awakening.

There is no historically consistent justification for the exclusion of women from healing roles. Witches were attacked for being pragmatic, empirical and immoral. But in the 19th century the rhetoric reversed: Women became too unscientific, delicate and sentimental. The stereotypes change to suit male convenience— we don't, and there is nothing in our innate feminine nature to justify our present subservience.

The real issue was control: male upper-class healing under the auspices of the Church was acceptable, female healing as part of a peasant subculture was not.

Six witnesses affirmed that Jacoba had cured them, even after numerous doctors had given up, and one patient declared that she was wiser in the art of surgery and medicine than any master physician or surgeon in Paris. But these testimonials were used against her, for the charge was not that she was incompetent, but that—as a woman—she dared to cure at all.

Según el plan de los Simonton, la mujer tenía que dedicar parte de la jornada a dibujar batallas entre células con forma de insecto, como si fueran un tebeo. Si en estos dibujos las células cancerosas no aparecían "muy débiles [y] desorientadas", y las de las defensas no se mostraban "fuertes y agresivas", la paciente estaba tonteando con la muerte y tenía que esforzarse un poco más.14

Well, Sage knows what it is to be mistreated and scared. She seems to relax with the horse. She eats her dinner at the stable now. Soon she'll want to sleep here. (pg. 91)

Holding his icy hands, she slid for a moment into the outer fringes of the healing trance and whispered to him by his inner name. But it was as if she called at the head of a descending trail along which he had long since passed—there was no answer.

His face was a mass of scars and old angers.

When you awaken love and laughter, your mind let's go of fear and anxiety, and your happy spirit becomes the healing balm that transforms every aspect of your human experience.

A miscarriage is a natural and common event. All told, probably more women have lost a child from this world than haven't. Most don't mention it, and they go on from day to day as if it hadn't happened, so people imagine a woman in this situation never really knew or loved what she had. But ask her sometime: how old would your child be now? And she'll know.

I lost a child, she said, meeting Lusa's eyes directly. I thought I wouldn't live through it. But you do. You learn to love the place somebody leaves behind for you.

I thought I wouldn't live through it. But you do. You learn to love the place somebody leaves behind for you.

But children robbed of love will dwell on magic.

Art is the antidote that can call us back from the edge of numbness, restoring the ability to feel for another.

Listen. Slide the weight from your shoulders and move forward. You are afraid you might forget, but you never will. You will forgive and remember. Think of the vine that curls from the small square plot that was once my heart. That is the only marker you need. Move on. Walk forward into the light.

If chained is where you have been, your arms will always bear marks of the shackles. What you have to lose is your story, your own slant. You'll look at the scars on your arms and see mere ugliness, or you'll take great care to look away from them and see nothing. Either way, you have no words for the story of where you came from.

Mother, you can still hold hold on but forgive, forgive and give for long as long as we both shall live, I forgive you, Mother.

Time cures you first, and then it kills you.

Really it was her mother she'd wanted to call right after the bad news, or in the middle of it, while Mr. Petrofaccio was blowing his nose. First thing in the morning, last thing at night, whenever a fight with Tig left her in pieces, it had been her mother who put Willa back together. When someone mattered like that, you didn't lose her at death. You lost her as you kept living.

I can still feel in my bones how being mad was the one thing holding me together.

The substance of grief is not imaginary. It's as real as rope or the absence of air, and like both those things it can kill.

The purpose of art is to elevate the spirit or to pay a surgeon's bill. Or both. It can help a person remember or forget.

I would make one of Aunt June as Wonder Nurse, putting a new heart back inside a boy that had his own torn out.