Live spiritually and you__l be fine.

With the money my mother earned from selling cakes, my father cut a deal with Mangochi and bought one pail of maize. My mother took it to the mill, saved half the flour for us, and used the rest for more cakes. We did this every day, taking enough to eat and selling the rest. It was enough to provide our one blob of nsima each night, along with some pumpkin leaves. It was practically nothing, yet knowing it would be there somehow made the hunger less painful. "As long as we can stay in business," my father said, "we'll make it through. Our profit is that we live.

It's like, when someone asks you how you are and even though you want to say that you feel like shit, that you're miserable, that you cry until you gag and spend most of your time imagining ways to kill yourself, instead you just say, 'Fine, thanks.

It gets darker and darker, and then Jesus is born._ That line came back to me, from out of nowhere, and I decided to practice radical hope, hope in the face of not having a clue.

Never let someone who draws a line and say you can't cross it intimidate you. Don't be discouraged when someone says you can't do it. You might have been the only one sent to do it.

The way to success is not a straight line segment. It's a dotted line with little packs of failure filling the potholes of broken edges inbetween.