"I have no safety. there is none. I never get to rest. Listen, I watch on the outward wall while you raise your beer mugs among my brothers and wassail. I hear your salutes and the roar of a battlestory well told, and o GOD what shall I do with all these broken ends of threads that have snapped within me – I see no pattern for my tapestry save on with divine theme but oh my lord it is worked in colors too bright for my eyes and I fear the finest stitchings of mine will not suffice. it hangs on walls in crypts and charnel houses; it bedecks milords halls and the great captain’s cabin aboard ship; kings and princes admire it’s workings, and learned men weep to see the wonder and intricacy of its design.
Fine. All around me say I am too skilled for a simple imitation, one to spread on the table and watch the children lay the clay plates on. What then – what is my pattern? Dear God, a novel or a story or something coherent that is forced to point and sticks to framework and shows me whether I am gold or pyrite. SHOW ME!
we are told to create
and not imitate
we are told we must become the best
the culture shapers
where does motherhood fit in to that?
where does normal life?
are we allowed to be merely human?

this is wisdom, to do the common tasks with solid strength and leave the world to damnation if it wants to be blind

I am not sure that is quite right;
it could be phrased different
more like a tree will grow from acorn to oak
and whether or not it shelters the animals of the forest
is up to the animals and where the tree was planted
as long as the tree utilizes the minerals in the soil
and the sunshine to photosynthesize
it is a good tree
it achieves its telos
and can die happy