"What does it feel like to be busy?"

 “Mom, what does it feel like to be busy?”

This innocent question from my thirteen year old son caught me off guard. After a few moments of frenzied evaluation of my life–my recently slowed-down life, I thought–I sputtered off a response.

“Well, I’m trying to do things that are important to me, that I choose to do, and sometimes that requires work.” I pause, trying to see my life through the eyes of my son in a way to comprehend where his question is coming from, what triggered it.  Maybe it was in response to my response to a comment made by his older sister earlier that day, about how we just had a week of relaxing: “It wasn’t really for me…oh, I guess the day at your oldest sister’s house was more relaxing than usual and a definite break”--which it was.

“Well…” my response is a bit slower this time as I return to the “busy” question, “I played games with you guys over at Opama’s house today, didn’t I?” Yes, I had visited my parents and played games with them, my brother and two sons–and very much enjoyed it–even while finishing my sudoku and Duolingo for the day during breaks and then excusing myself so I could jog home and pick up my eight year old for her last expander appointment at the ortho–which I was late for because I took the time to hurry and cook myself up an amazing pastrami sandwich before we left.  Busy. 

The time after I returned from the appointment was similar, recreation interspersed with chores, well, “tasks” rather, because I like doing them so they don’t feel like a chore.  But still, stuff.

My internal musings drifted off as my son agreed to my response, “Yeah, you did. That was fun.”

It hadn’t really been a precise response to his question, but his question has been kicking around in my psyche since.

“Mom, what does it feel like to be busy?”

My first response is to balk– I decry the “badge of busyness” being a measure of extrinsic worth–have hated it for years and have never wanted to be seen as a busy person. I also can recognize how internally hugely less busy I am than in the past The driving hate/”justify my existence” motivation that I lashed myself with for years is completely gone. Through the grace of God and His long path of healing with therapy, lifestyle changes, and embracing pain–I have finally come to a place where at least on one main level, I love and respect myself.  So most of my tasks, most of my days, start with some questions: “Do I really want to spend my time doing this? Is it worth it? Is it fear-driven? Why am I doing it? Am I doing it because it’s harmonious with my soul in the long run?”

These questions–again answered with the love and respect due to each of us–have quieted the internal hate hurricane that had run ramrod over my psyche for years, resulting in a far less frenzied motivation source. That felt WAY less busy.

So I revisit his question and the surprising answer surfaces in a different way, “Mom, why are you busy?”  to which my internal child/spirit answers: “maybe it’s because I’m afraid.”

I am not always busy, driven.  Or am I?  Do I take the time in front of me and endlessly compartmentalize it into “good, better, best”? Worthy questions, surely, but looking through the lens of my non-phone, non-video game thirteen year old I see a woman who deliberately chooses each moment for the highest and best purpose, often with conflicting consequences: like practicing Duolingo while playing games, listening to my kids while listening to my audiobook that I listen to to offset the almost constant emotional pain I am in.

Not wrong, but do I want to keep choosing this?

I had just had a conversation with my mom earlier this week after hearing that she and my dad had signed up as service missionaries..”he needed something.”  I commented about how it seemed like some people need things given to them to fill their time and help them feel valued.

The situation and my response floated to the surface as I pondered–”Do you not feel the same, Mary? Are you still not trying to–on a fundamental level–trying to validate your existence?”

Years ago, I was faced with the very real choice: to continue living and cause significant pain to those I love around me, (a very vivid reality in light of the death of my son) or to cease living in this plane of existence and cause perhaps more pain.  I believe many of us to varying degrees are faced with this question of our internal value and the worth of living, so I don’t believe I am unique in this because of my circumstance.  But that moment of decision–and the many similar decisions that followed–have also floated to the surface.

Am I busy? And if so why am I busy?  I think it is often driven by fear.

-If I don’t clear out the ditch, the leaves will clog the culvert and damage our driveway again.

-If I don’t pack away the costumes and props, they won’t be accessible.

-If I don’t get the guinea fowl area ready in a responsible way, we will be frantically doing it when they arrive.

I think it is also satisfying to be engaged in good work:

-I love working outside together with my family.

-I love the producing process on every level–well, maybe not the abundance of communication that seems to be necessary–of our theater, school and choir groups.

-I love being surrounded by harmonious organic ecological systems that get rid of tics!

So, like many questions, there is no simple answer.

But then I reflected on my son: he commented earlier this week how he enjoyed just sitting by himself and letting his thoughts develop, as they took him surprising places and it was comforting to sit with himself.  Even as I breathed a prayer of gratitude that my husband and I had chosen a relatively device-free area for our kids to develop, I realized I was not giving myself the same grace. In fact, in that very moment he had shared that with me, I realized that I had been coming out of a internal zoning in a book or music at the time and had resurfaced to realize that he was even talking to me!  I don’t feel guilty for that–my emotional pain requires attention and relief and that’s healthy and good.  Yet, it did cause me to consider how I approach my internal health–the methods and timing. I”m game for an experiment!

So what drives me? Satisfaction or fear or something else? I hope that question will help to guide how I live moving forward, hopefully inspired by my son to be deliberate in giving myself tangible, visible time to be still if I choose–without judgement and validation…just to see how it feels.  

(I would love to hear any insights anyone reading this may have about their own response to the question, “What does it feel like to be busy?” or any spin off thoughts or connections they may have.)

Instructive lessons on motherhood from Leah: toxic selflessness laden with never fulfilled expectations

 I was stunned as I re-read the section of Leah and Rachel, Jacob and Laban. Wow, was it messy. Betrayal, jealousy, lying, manipulation, deception.  It was raw.  

So imagine my surprise when I got a heaven inspired article about this very situation and how aptly it applied to me:

Last Month Our Son Told My Wife to Stop Calling. "Mom, I'm 33. Give Me Space." She Sat on the Couch Holding Her Phone for an Hour. Didn't Move. Didn't Cry. Just Sat There. I've Been Married to Her for 35 Years. I've Never Seen Her Look That Lost.

I was in the kitchen when she got off the phone.

She walked in. Set her phone on the counter. Sat down on the couch. And just... stopped.

I asked what happened. She didn't answer.

I asked again. She said, "Michael told me to stop calling. He said I'm too much. He said he needs space."

She wasn't crying. That's what scared me. She was past crying. Like something inside her had just gone quiet.

I sat down next to her. Didn't know what to say. So I just sat.

After a long time, she said: "I gave him everything. Thirty-three years. And he doesn't want me."

***

Linda has been "the mother" her whole life.

Not just to our kids. To everyone. The neighbor's children. The youth group at church. Her sister's kids when they needed somewhere to stay.

But Michael — our oldest — he was different. He was hers. The one she poured everything into. Every school play. Every fever. Every heartbreak. Every phone call, every visit, every meal she'd cook when he came home.

She didn't know how else to love him. She gave. That's what she did. That's who she was.

And for years it worked. He needed her. He called. He showed up.

But somewhere in his late twenties, something shifted.

He started pulling away. Calling less. Visiting less. And when she'd reach out, he'd get irritated.

"Mom, you don't have to call every day."

"Mom, I didn't ask you to do that."

"Mom, please. Just give me space."

Each time, I watched her face fall. And each time, she'd try harder. Call more. Show up more. Give more.

Like if she just loved him enough, he'd come back.

***

The night after the phone call, she didn't sleep.

I woke up at 2 AM and her side of the bed was empty. I found her in the living room, sitting in the dark, staring at nothing.

"Linda. Come to bed."

She didn't move.

"I don't know who I am if he doesn't need me."

I sat down across from her. I didn't know what to say to that.

"I've given my whole life to those kids," she said. "And I don't know if I've ever felt loved back. Not really. Not the way I needed."

I opened my mouth. Closed it.

Because I heard what she didn't say. She wasn't just talking about Michael. She was talking about all of it. The years. The giving. The waiting for someone — anyone — to see her the way she saw them.

And I wondered, for the first time: Did I ever make her feel seen? Or did I just let her pour everything into the kids while I watched from the sidelines?

***

She tried everything.

She tried talking to Michael. Told him she didn't deserve to be spoken to like that. He said she was "too much." Needed to "relax."

She tried not calling. Lasted four days. The silence was worse than the rejection.

She tried praying. Asked God to soften his heart. It helped a little. But the hurt stayed.

And I watched her. Every day. Trying to hold herself together. Trying to figure out how to love someone who was pushing her away.

I wanted to fix it. That's what I do. But I couldn't fix this. I couldn't make Michael call. I couldn't undo thirty-three years of patterns.

All I could do was watch my wife unravel and feel useless.

***

The quiz happened on a Tuesday night.

She was in bed scrolling her phone. Couldn't sleep again. I was next to her, half-awake.

She got quiet. Then I heard her whisper: "Oh."

"What?"

She turned the phone toward me. Some quiz. "Which Woman of the Bible Are You?"

"I got Leah," she said.

"Who's Leah?"

She read me the description. Her voice unsteady.

"Leah was the unwanted wife. Jacob worked seven years to marry her sister Rachel — the beautiful one. But on the wedding night, their father switched them. Jacob woke up married to Leah. And he didn't want her."

Linda paused. Then kept reading.

"Leah had son after son, hoping each one would finally make Jacob love her. 'Surely now my husband will love me.' 'This time he will want me.' It never worked. She kept knocking on a door that wouldn't open."

She looked up at me.

"That's me. That's what I've been doing. With Michael. With all of them. Giving and giving, hoping someone would finally love me back."

Then she read me the line that broke her open:

"You've been knocking your whole life on a door that was already open. The love you're looking for was never behind your children. It was behind you. Waiting."

She started crying. Really crying. The kind she'd been holding back for weeks.

I didn't say anything. I just held her.

***

She signed up for some kind of plan that night. Daily lessons based on her result. Designed for "Leahs."

I was skeptical. What's a Bible quiz going to do about our son?

But I didn't say that. I'd learned to shut up and let her try things.

The first lesson showed her Leah's story. How she kept having children hoping it would earn Jacob's love. How it never worked. How she kept knocking on a door that wouldn't open.

Then it asked a question: "Where in your life do you keep giving, hoping it will finally make someone love you?"

Linda told me she put her phone down when she read that. Couldn't answer right away.

But she knew.

Every phone call Michael didn't ask for. Every dinner. Every visit. Every time she showed up hoping he'd be glad to see her.

She wasn't just being a good mother. She was trying to earn something. To beg for something.

"Please see me. Please need me. Please don't leave."

Thirty-three years. And underneath all that giving — terror. That if she stopped, she'd disappear. That without someone needing her, she was nothing.

***

The next lesson showed her a verse she'd never noticed.

"When the Lord saw that Leah was not loved, he enabled her to conceive."

God saw her. Not after she proved herself. Not after she earned it. Before any of it.

She told me she read it five times. And something shifted.

"I've been standing at a door my whole life," she said. "Knocking. Begging to be let in. And the door was never locked. I just didn't know."

She started praying differently after that. Not "God, change Michael." Just "God, do You see me?"

And something in her settled. Not fixed. Settled. Like she'd finally stopped running.

***

The plan taught her something that changed everything.

Leah named her fourth son Judah — "praise." Not "maybe this time he'll love me." Just praise. For the One who saw her when no one else did.

She stopped trying to earn what was never hers to earn. She turned to the One who already loved her.

Linda started doing the same.

She stopped calling Michael every two days. Not as punishment. Because she finally understood she wasn't going to find what she was looking for in his voice.

She started sitting in the morning with her coffee and her Bible. Not reading to fix something. Just... receiving.

She told me one morning: "I've spent fifty-two years giving. I never learned how to receive. The plan said that's the Leah trap. We give to earn love because we don't believe we're already loved."

I didn't fully understand. But I understood her. And she was different.

***

Two weeks later, Michael called.

She hadn't reached out. He called on his own.

They talked. Not about anything big. Just... talked. She didn't try to fix anything. Didn't ask too many questions. Just listened.

At the end he said: "This was nice, Mom."

She hung up and looked at me with tears in her eyes. But not sad tears.

"I didn't need him to say more," she said. "I already know I'm loved. Not because he called. Because I finally stopped looking for it in the wrong place."

***

I've been married to Linda for thirty-five years.

I thought I knew her. I thought I understood how she worked. Give, give, give. That's just who she was.

I didn't see what was underneath. The fear. The emptiness. The desperate need to be needed because she didn't believe she was loved any other way.

And if I'm honest — I didn't help. I let her pour into the kids. I let her carry the emotional weight of the whole family. I took her giving for granted because it made my life easier.

I was part of the problem.

But watching her now — watching her sit with her coffee, not rushing to call anyone, not trying to fix anything, just... being — I see a woman I haven't seen in thirty years.

The one who isn't performing. The one who isn't earning. The one who finally believes she's already loved.

***

Last Sunday we were sitting on the porch. Evening. Quiet.

She said: "Thank you for sitting with me that night. On the couch. After Michael called."

"I didn't know what else to do."

"That's exactly what I needed. Someone who didn't try to fix it. Someone who just stayed."

She was quiet for a minute. Then:

"I spent thirty years knocking on a door that was already open. I thought I had to earn love from my kids. From everyone. I didn't know God was already holding it out. I just had to stop knocking and turn around."

I reached for her hand.

My wife is back. Not the mother. Not the giver. Not the woman who needed to be needed.

Just Linda.

And that's more than enough.

***

If your wife has spent her whole life giving — and she's still waiting to feel loved back

If she's done everything right for your kids and still feels invisible —

If she's holding on so tight because she's terrified of what happens if she lets go —

Maybe show her this.

The quiz takes three minutes. She'll discover her spiritual archetype — which Woman of the Bible shares her story. And she'll get a plan that helped my wife finally stop knocking on a door that was already open.

Not more giving. More receiving.

I experienced this epiphany over the holidays. I sat in the background, watching my family have fun and enjoy each other as I worked and cleaned...and stopped.

I just let things happen. If they wanted a meal (other than Penelope and maybe Liesl) I just let them do it, or plan it. "Mom, what if we were to have...?" "Great!" I would reply. "Let me know when you want to help me make it!" And sometimes it happened, sometimes it didn't. And I was okay with that. I made special meals if I was in the mood for them. And sometimes I wasn't :D.

I told everyone that I felt it was reasonable if everyone cleaned up a certain number of items after a meal (like we usually did with those home) and they all agreed...Kel with the stipulation that he wouldn't be held accountable for it, lol. (Some things never change, dear man-boy.)

I've been doing a lot of that.

Do I want to clean something up for me? Not for anyone else, not for society, not as a service to my kids because I finally realized they will never love me more because I sacrificed and cleaned up the shelves in the laundry room.

More importantly, over Christmas, I realized that my family never asked me to disappear. They have no expectations from me, other than what they are used to because I established it as a pattern.

Finding myself has been a challenge, but I have had more hope, more lightness of spirit than I've had for years.

Too old?

This morning, I was reading about Abraham and Sarah. They were told not to let their age determine  what they could accomplish, whether or not God would be able to work with them.  This hit particularly close to home as lately my view of what I see happening is clashing with what I feel traditionally has been expected of "people my age." 

How I see myself--probably way younger than I should--compared to how I've seen people around me age and talk about age is definitely different.  I remember, years ago, when someone I knew turned first forty, and then fifty. "I'm old," they would reinforce verbally and as they did so, I watched them deteriorate.  And I determined I would never define myself by my age--or rather by society-based age expectations.

When I was pregnant with Penelope, they defined me of "advanced geriatric maternal age" and took all sorts of precautions. My thought was, didn't I just do this two and a half years ago? Have I really changed all that much?

And I hadn't.

I feel the same way about my level of activity. Yes, it's a little different. I don't compete with the ambitious edge I used to strive for because winning has become much less than important than me playing well and harmoniously with those around me. But it's like with pregnancy, I feel. You don't start a new exercise regimen willy nilly at my age without considerations. Yet surely, I can keep doing the things I have been doing week after week for so many years?

But for some reason, with this last play, it hit a little harder. Probably also because I no longer am a self-hater, a self-driver.  I like and respect myself and enjoy how good it feels when I take care of myself--emotionally, physically, mentally.  So the habit of pushing myself beyond what was healthy is no longer an option :D.  Considering this all, my age factored in--is my season closing on this? If so, then what? If not, is it really possible?

These passages of scripture, particularly with the line, "is anything too hard for the Lord?" really resonated with me.  I don't feel that God is a slave-driver but rather an inspired mentor, lovingly saying: "if you want to do this, I can show you how and lend you my power and grace to accomplish it."

I was just having a Sarah moment.

"The Miserables" around us...

 A fb post/story/fable:

"I locked the classroom door. The metal click echoed like a gunshot in the sudden silence.

I turned to the twenty-five high school seniors staring at me. They were the Class of 2026. They were supposed to be the “Zoomers,” the digital natives, the generation that had everything figured out.

But from where I stood, looking at their faces illuminated by the blue light of hidden phones, they just looked tired.

“Put the phones away,” I said. My voice was quiet, but they heard it. “Turn them off. Not silent. Off.”

There was a grumble, a collective shifting of bodies in plastic chairs, but they did it.

For thirty years, I have taught History in this gritty, working-class town in Pennsylvania. I’ve watched the factories close. I’ve watched the opioids creep in like a fog. I’ve watched the arguments at home turn into wars on the news.

On my desk sat an old, olive-green military rucksack. It belonged to my father. It smells like old canvas and gasoline. It’s stained. It’s ugly.

For the first month of school, the students ignored it. They thought it was just “Mr. Miller’s junk.”

They didn’t know it was the heaviest thing in the entire building.

This year’s class was brittle. That’s the only word for it. You had the football players who walked with a swagger that looked practiced. You had the theater kids who were too loud, trying to drown out the silence. You had the quiet ones who wore hoodies in September, trying to disappear into the drywall.

The air in the room was thick. Not with hate, but with exhaustion. They were eighteen years old, and they were already done.

“I’m not teaching the Constitution today,” I said, dragging the heavy rucksack to the center of the room. I dropped it on a stool. Thud.

The sound made a girl in the front row flinch.

“We are going to do something different,” I said. “I’m passing out plain white index cards.”

I walked the rows, placing a card on each desk.

“I have three rules. If you break them, you leave.”

I held up a finger. “Rule one: Do not write your name. This is anonymous. Completely.”

“Rule two: Total honesty. No jokes. No memes.”

“Rule three: Write down the heaviest thing you are carrying.”

A hand went up. It was Marcus, the defensive captain of the football team. A giant of a kid, usually cracking jokes. He looked confused. “What do you mean, ‘carrying’? Like, books?”

I leaned back against the whiteboard. “No, Marcus. I mean the thing that keeps you awake at 3:00 AM. The secret you are terrified to say out loud because you think people will judge you. The fear. The pressure. The weight on your chest.”

I looked them in the eyes. “We call this ‘The Rucksack.’ What goes in the bag, stays in the bag.”

The room went tomb-silent. The air conditioning hummed.

For five minutes, nobody moved. They looked at each other, waiting for the first person to crack.

Then, a girl in the back—Sarah, straight-A student, perfect hair—picked up her pen. She wrote furiously.

Then another. Then another.

Marcus, the football player, stared at the blank white card for a long time. His jaw was tight. He looked angry. Then, he hunched over, shielding his paper with his massive arm, and wrote three words.

When they were done, they walked up, one by one. They folded their cards and dropped them into the open mouth of the rucksack. It was like a religious ritual. A silent confession.

I zipped the bag shut. The sound was sharp.

“This,” I said, resting my hand on the faded canvas. “This is this room. You look at each other and you see jerseys, or makeup, or grades. But this bag? This is who you actually are.”

I took a deep breath. My own heart was hammering. It always does.

“I am going to read these out loud,” I said. “And your job—your only job—is to listen. No laughing. No whispering. No glancing at your neighbor to guess who wrote it. We just hold the weight. Together.”

I opened the bag. I reached in and pulled the first card.

I unfolded it. The handwriting was jagged.

“My dad lost his job at the plant six months ago. He puts on a suit every morning and leaves so the neighbors don’t know. He sits in his car at the park all day. I know he’s crying. I’m scared we’re going to lose the house.”

The room felt colder. I pulled the next one.

“I carry Narcan in my backpack. Not for me. For my mom. I found her blue on the bathroom floor last Tuesday. I saved her life, and then I came to school and took a Math test. I’m so tired.”

I paused. I looked up. Nobody was looking at their phones. Nobody was sleeping. They were staring at the bag.

I pulled another.

“I check the exits every time I walk into a movie theater or a grocery store. I map out where I would hide if a shooter came in. I’m eighteen and I plan my own death every day.”

Another.

“My parents hate each other because of politics. They scream at the TV every night. My dad says people who vote for the ‘other side’ are evil. He doesn’t know that I agree with the ‘other side.’ I feel like a spy in my own kitchen.”

Another.

“I have 10,000 followers on TikTok. I post videos of my perfect life. Last night, I sat in the shower with the water running so my little brother wouldn’t hear me sobbing. I am more lonely than I have ever been.”

I kept reading. For twenty minutes, the truth poured out of that green bag.

“I’m gay. My grandfather is a pastor. He told me last Sunday that ‘those people’ are broken. I love him, but I think he hates me, and he doesn’t even know it’s me.”

“We pretend the WiFi is down, but I know Mom couldn’t pay the bill again. I eat the free lunch at school because there’s nothing in the fridge.”

“I don’t want to go to college. I want to be a mechanic. But my parents have a bumper sticker on their car that says ‘Proud College Parent.’ I feel like I’m already a disappointment.”

And finally, the last one. The one that made the air leave the room.

“I don’t want to be here anymore. The noise is too loud. The pressure is too heavy. I’m just waiting for a sign to stay.”

I folded the card slowly. I placed it gently back in the bag.

I looked up.

Marcus, the tough linebacker, had his head in his hands. His shoulders were shaking. He wasn’t hiding it.

Sarah, the girl with the perfect grades, was reaching across the aisle, holding the hand of a boy who wore black eyeliner and usually sat alone. He was gripping her hand like a lifeline.

The barriers were gone. The cliques were dissolved.

They weren’t Jocks, or Nerds, or Liberals, or Conservatives. They were just kids. Kids walking through a storm without an umbrella.

“So,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “That is what we carry.”

I zipped the bag. The sound was final.

“I’m hanging this back on the wall. It stays here. You don’t have to carry it alone anymore. Not in here. In this room, we are a team.”

The bell rang. Usually, it triggers a stampede.

Today, nobody moved.

Slowly, quietly, they began to pack up their things. And then, something happened that I will never forget.

As Marcus walked past the stool, he didn’t just walk by. He stopped. He reached out and patted the rucksack, two gentle thumps. I got you.

Then the next student. She rested her palm on the strap for a second.

Then the boy who wrote about the Narcan. He touched the metal buckle.

Every single student touched that bag on the way out. They were acknowledging the weight. They were saying, I see you.

I have taught American History for three decades. I have lectured on the Civil War, the Great Depression, and the Civil Rights Movement. But that hour was the most important lesson I have ever taught.

We live in a country obsessed with winning. With looking strong. With the “highlight reel” we post on social media. We are terrified of our own cracks.

And our kids? They are paying the price. They are drowning in silence, right next to each other.

That evening, I received an email. The subject line was blank.

“Mr. Miller. My son came home today and hugged me. He hasn’t hugged me since he was twelve. He told me about the bag. He said he felt ‘real’ for the first time in high school. He told me he was struggling. We are going to get help. Thank you.”

The green rucksack is still on my wall. It looks like garbage to anyone who walks in. But to us, it’s a monument.

Listen to me.

Look around you today. The woman ahead of you in the checkout line buying generic cereal. The teenager with the headphones on the bus. The man shouting about politics on Facebook.

They are all carrying a rucksack you cannot see. It is packed with fear, with financial worry, with loneliness, with trauma.

Be kind. Be curious. Stop judging the surface and remember the weight underneath.

Don’t be afraid to ask the people you love: “What are you carrying today?”

You might just save a life."

This echoes exactly what I've been discussing with my teens, what I've been seeing in recent shows like "I Was A Stranger" and "Sight," in the Les Mis book I'm studying with my class, what I've seen in the lives of those around me whenever we get below the surface. We all are so human and have so much that we are bearing, the best we can.

And this quote from this post sums up the take home message...
"Be kind. Be curious. Stop judging the surface and remember the weight underneath."
Whether the situation in the story is real or fable, what it presents and the hope it gives--our shared humanity!--is real.

From Les Mis where I was listening this very morning:
"The mind's eye can nowhere find anything more dazzling nor more dark than in man; it can fix itself upon nothing which is more awful, more complex, more mysterious or more infinite. There is one spectacle grander than the sea, that is the sky; there is one spectacle grander than the sky, that is the interior of the soul.

"To write the poem of the human conscience, were it only of a single man, were it only of the most infamous of men, would be to swallow up all epics in a superior and final epic. The conscience is the chaos of chimeras, ...the furnace of dreams, the cave of the ideas which are our shame,...the battle-field of the passions. At certain hours, penetrate within the livid face of a human being who reflects, and look at what lies behind; look into that soul, look into that obscurity. There, beneath the external silence, there are combats of giants as in Homer, melees of dragons and hydras, and the clouds of phantoms as in Milton, ghostly labyrinths as in Dante. What a gloom enwraps that infinite which each man bears within himself, and by which he meausres in despair the desires of his will, and the actions of his life!"--Victor Hugo, "Les Miserables" Fantine, ch III