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Late have I loved you, O Beauty ever ancient and ever new! Late have I loved you! And, behold, you were within me, and I out of myself, and there I searched for you.
For myself and my loved ones, I want the heat, which comes at the speed of light. I don't want to have to hang about for the blast, which idles along at the speed of sound.
There is a huge amount of shame connected to the feeling of not being loved, because love and family, biological or not, confirms our existence. Everyone needs to be seen, accepted and loved.
Many writers do write about their families and their immediate loved ones and love experiences, either as children or as adults. And very often people get offended by it.
I hooked up with director Jacques Audiard for this film called 'Rust & Bone' with Marion Cotillard. I loved that experience so much I'm truly sad that it's over!
Despite our ever-connective technology, neither Skype nor Facebook - not even a telephone call - can come close to the joy of being with loved ones in person.
I truly loved being pregnant and feeling what was going on inside my body and watching it change. It's difficult to recoup, but still amazing nonetheless. I would have another one.
You couldn't just pick and choose at will when someone depended on you, or loved you. It wasn't like a light switch, easy to turn on or off. If you were in, you were in. Out, you were out.
Death. It's around more than people realize. Because no one wants to talk about it or hear about it. It's too sad. Too painful. Too hard. The list of reasons is endless.
The dead leave their shadows, an echo of the space within which once they lived. They haunt us, never fading or growing older as we do. The loss we grieve is not just their futures but our own.
To have our needs met, to love, to be loved, to feel safe in this world and to each know our purpose, is a simple matter of creating those blessings for others.
When we come to the end of our days, the little things will seem so unimportant compared to how well we've loved, laughed and treasured our lives and loved ones.
Loss doesn't feel redeemable. But for me one consoling aspect is the recognition that, in this at least, none of us is different from anyone else: We all lose loved ones; we all face our own death.
Life was a freight train barreling toward just one stop, our loved ones streaking past our windows in blurs of color and light. There was no holding on to any of it, and no slowing it down.