Jean

“For those who believe in God, most of the big questions are answered. But for those of us who can't readily accept the God formula, the big answers don't remain stone-written. We adjust to new conditions and discoveries. We are pliable. Love need not be a command nor faith a dictum. I am my own god. We are here to unlearn the teachings of the church, state, and our educational system. We are here to drink beer. We are here to kill war. We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us.”
― Charles Bukowski

“Granada, remember I told you my momma was a weaver?” The girl nodded, sniffling. “Yes, ma’am. In Africa.” “That’s right. All her people, the women, were weavers. The finest anywhere.” Polly paused for a moment to catch her breath. She was weaker than Granada had thought. When Polly began again, her words were too low to be heard. Granada leaned in closer. “She told me the secret … what made them so fine, mother after daughter after granddaughter, all the way down the line.” “What was it, Polly?” “She say, the difference in weavers is, some see the tangle and others see the weave. The ones that can’t take their eyes off the tangle, they never rise above it.” “Yes, ma’am,” Granada said, knowing this was important, trying to understand. “Granada, this here … what happened to me, to you, to Rubina … ain’t nothing but a tangle. It’s the weave you got to remember, Granada. It’s bigger than you and me. It went on before you and me got here. It’ll go on after you and me leave this place and go to wherever it is Rubina is waiting. Just a tangle, Granada.” Her whisper became so small, the girl had to put an ear to Polly’s mouth. Granada felt the parched lips brush against skin. “Yewande, lift your eyes and see!”
― Jonathan Odell, The Healing