Rachel Joyce may refer to:
If we can't accept what we don't know, there really is no hope.
. . . People would make the decisions they wished to make and some of them would hurt both themselves and those who loved them, and some would pass unnoticed, while others would bring joy.
I miss her all the time. I know in my head that she has gone. the only difference is that I am getting used to the pain. It's like discovering a great hole in the ground. To begin with, you forget it's there and keep falling in. After a while, it's still there, but you learn to walk round it.
And it can take a lifetime, a life of many years, to accept the incongruity of things: that a small moment can sit side by side with a big one, and become part of the same.
There is so much to the human mind we don't understand. But, you see, if you have faith, you can do anything.
If I just keep putting one foot in front of the other, it stands to reason that I'm going to get there. I've begun to think we sit far more than we're supposed to. " He smiled. "Why else would we have feet?
you could be ordinary and attempt something extraordinary, without being able to explain it in a logical way.
He understood that in walking to atone for the mistakes he had made, it was also his journey to accept the strangeness of others.
If we don't go mad once in a while, there's no hope.
I've begun to think that we sit far more than we're supposed to. . . Why else would we have feet?
People were buying milk, or filling their cars with petrol, or even posting letters. And what no one else knew was the appalling weight of the thing they were carrying inside. The superhuman effort it took sometimes to be normal, and a part of things that appeared both easy and everyday. The loneliness of that.
The past was the past; there was no escaping your beginnings.
But maybe it's what the world needs. A little less sense, and a little more faith.
The least planned part of the journey, however, was the journey itself.
After the two drinks, she felt warm inside, and slightly indistinct at the edges.
You got up, and you did something. And if trying to find a way when you don't even know you can get there isn't a small miracle; then I don't know what is.
He must have driven this way countless times, and yet he had no memory of the scenery. He must have been so caught up in the day's agenda, and arriving punctually at their destination, that the land beyond the car had been no more than a wash of one green, and a backdrop of one hill. Life was very different when you walked through it.
But it never ceases to amaze me how difficult the things that are supposed to be instinctive really are.