Abra DeMadrigal didn't look young enough to be my sister anymore. Her sorrow weighed her down and aged her. She was still beautiful, but she looked very far away. No wonder our people had raven eyes, so distant, so sad. No matter how wise she was, my mother looked like a woman who hadn't truely believed how much evil there was in our world. Not until this moment.

...and I confess that, like a child, I cry. Ah, self-pity; I think we are at our most honest and sincere when we feel sorry for ourselves.

However impressed we may be with NVC concepts, it is only through practice and application that our lives are transformed.

Every correct answer is necessarily a secret: something important and unknown, something hard to do but doable.

At fifteen, beauty and talent do not exist; there can only be promise of the coming woman.

It's hard to practice compassion when we're struggling with our authenticity or when our own worthiness is off-balance.