Therapeutic Quotes

“If you love with your eyes, death is forever. If you love with your heart, there is no such thing as parting.”
― Michael R. Miller, Ascendant

“as if my own voice
could return me

to myself.”
― Emily Skaja, Brute: Poems

“For the artist himself art is not necessarily therapeutic; he is not automatically relieved of his fantasies by expressing them. Instead, by some perverse logic of creation, the act of formal expressions may simply make the dredged-up material more readily available to him.”
― A. Alvarez, The Savage God: A Study of Suicide

“Writing is therapeutic. There is no better way to get at yourself than through the foreign world you create.”
― D.H. Landolfi, The Jump

“At the bottom of freshly dug holes, I bury my problems alongside the waxen seeds.”
― Kelseyleigh Reber, If I Resist

“I didn’t intend the book as anything therapeutic and I don't think that’s a novel’s goal or responsibility.”
― Hanya Yanagihara

“You must tune everything else out and create from your heart."
I nod, dipping my brush in red acrylic, then white, before mixing the paints on the palette until they form a perfect pink.
I paint a peony, and then another. I somehow recall a garden, far away from here, where there were (are?) peonies. I remember the way the blossoms are so heavy that they flounce over, and I reach for another brush and dip it into green to get the stems just right.”
― Sarah Jio, All the Flowers in Paris

“She wandered around Sally's garden, sipping coffee, stopping to admire the grevillea and talk to the chickens. As the warmth of the sun unknotted the tension in her spine, Alice noticed a lush alley of potted tropical plants alongside the house: monstera, bird of paradise, agave, staghorns and ferns.
Alice was filled with a sense of wonder; it was a garden within a garden, so meticulous and well-tended in contrast to the wild beauty surrounding it. The sumptuous blends of greens. The varying, glossy foliage.”
― Holly Ringland, The Lost Flowers of Alice Hart

“Chicken Francese, or lamb chops, or plump spinach gnocchi that she'd roll out by hand and drop into boiling salt water. When her brothers came home for the holidays, she'd spend days in the kitchen, preparing airy latkes and sweet and sour brisket; roast turkey with chestnut stuffing; elaborately iced layer cakes. She'd stay in the kitchen for hours, cooking dish after dish, hoping that all the food would somehow conceal their father's absence; hoping that the meals would take the taste of grief out of their mouths.
"After my father died, I think cooking saved me. It was the only thing that made me happy. Everything else felt so out of control. But if I followed a recipe, if I used the right amounts of the right ingredients and did everything I was supposed to do..."
She tried to explain it- how repetitive motions of peeling and chopping felt like a meditation, the comfort of knowing that flour and yeast, oil and salt, combined in the correct proportions, would always yield a loaf of bread; the way that making a shopping list could refocus her mind, and how much she enjoyed the smells of fresh rosemary, of roasting chicken or baking cookies, the velvety feel of a ball of dough at the precise moment when it reached its proper elasticity and could be put into an oiled bowl, under a clean cloth, to rise in a warm spot in the kitchen, the same step that her mother's mother's mother would have followed to make the same kind of bread. She liked to watch popovers rising to lofty heights in the oven's heat, blooming out of their tins. She liked the sound of a hearty soup or grain-thickened stew, simmering gently on a low flame, the look of a beautifully set table, with place cards and candles and fine china. All of it pleased her.”
― Jennifer Weiner, That Summer

“The term 'Pharmacoenvironmentology' seeks to deal with the environmental impact of drugs given to humans and animals at therapeutic doses”
― Syed Ziaur Rahman

“The therapeutic effect of reading was not a new concept to the librarians running the VBC (Victory Book Campaign). In the editorial Warren published on the eve of commencing her tenure as director, she discussed how books could soothe pain, diminish boredom or loneliness, and take the mind on a vacation far from where the body was stationed. Whatever a man's need—a temporary escape, a comforting memory of home, balm for a broken spirit, or an infusion of courage—the librarians running the VBC were dedicated to ensuring that each man found a book to meet it.”
― Molly Guptill Manning, When Books Went to War: The Stories that Helped Us Win World War II

“No matter what anyone in North Star thought of my mom, everyone agreed on one thing: she was the best cook in the Texas Hill Country. She was known for her barbecue and fried pies. But she was most famous for one particular dish. The dish people people would drive hundreds of miles for was simply called the Number One. I imagine Momma was going to make a list of specials. The trouble was, she never got past the Number One. So there it sat at the top of the menu, alone, all by itself.

The Number One:
Chicken fried steak with cream gravy, mashed potatoes,
green beans cooked in bacon fat, one buttermilk biscuit,
and a slice of pecan pie

With Brad's words ringing in my head about my vague culinary vision, I decide to make the Number One for tonight's supper. After leaving the salon, I drive to various farm stands, grocery stores, and butchers. I handpick the top-round steak with care, choose fresh eggs one by one, and feel an immense sense of home as I pull Mom's cast-iron skillet from the depths of Merry Carole's cabinets. My happiest memories involve me walking into whatever house we were staying in at the time to the sounds and smells of chicken fried steak sizzling away in that skillet. This dish is at the very epicenter of who I am. If my culinary roots start anywhere, it's with the Number One.
As I tenderize the beef, my mind is clear and I'm happy. I haven't cooked like this- my recipes for me and the people I love- in far too long. If ever. Time flies as I roll out the crust for the pecan pie. I'm happy and contented as I cut out the biscuit rounds one by one. I haven't a care in the world. Being in Merry Carole's kitchen has washed away everything I left in the whirlwind of being back in North Star.”
― Liza Palmer, Nowhere But Home

“Dead periods have to be left to take their chances. This goes for the present too, which we should not try to disturb in its melancholy deliquescence. Even in politics - indeed especially in politics - relentless therapy is the worst of things. This is exactly what socialists practise on the social, ecologists on nature and all of us on a host of defunct ideologies: a relentless therapy. Living on because we refuse to see technology give in to death. Anticipating everything, hoarding everything, because we refuse to see events slipping beyond our grasp. We cultivate the coma of yesteryear. We adore artificial transplants. We go crazy over prostheses. Everywhere this relentless clinging to life corresponds to the emaciation of the original figures of life, to the disincarnation of bodies, to the therapeutic reincarnation of a dead world, a bygone age.

A society which allows an abominable event to burgeon from its dungheap and grow on its surface is like a man who lets a fly crawl unheeded across his face or saliva dribble unstemmed from his mouth - either epileptic or dead.”
― Jean Baudrillard, Cool Memories

“I feel like baked goods make everything better-- especially a situation as strange as this one.”
― Jennifer Gold, The Ingredients of Us

“Alex gawked at the baked goods. He sat down on one of the metal barstools. "Feeling stressed out, I see."
"Yeah." I passed the platter toward him. "Help yourself to the peach rolls or turnovers. I made them last night, so they're fresh."
"We okay?"
I nodded.
He didn't hesitate. "God, Marygene," he groaned around a mouthful, an expression of awe on his face. "There is nothing like your baked goods. I mean it. I've eaten pastries in all the best shops in Savannah, and nothing compares to yours."
Well, that was a real nice compliment. There were ample high-end pastry shops in Savannah.”
― Kate Young, Southern Sass and Killer Cravings

“We all left exhausted, and I went home and baked. It's how I coped with stress. Something about shoving my hands in a good dough, baking off a fruit loaf with a delicate crumb, or producing a perfectly crunchy batch of chocolate cranberry biscotti simply brought me comfort. I opened the pocket doors and invited the fresh, salty air and the sound of crashing waves inside while I tested a new recipe for chocolate peanut butter muffins, made a loaf of Irish soda bread loaded with dried fruit, nuts, and orange zest, along with two dozen pecan sandies, and finished off with cranberry pistachio biscotti.”
― Kate Young, Southern Sass and a Battered Bride

“Handcrafted Humanity Sonnet 58

Faith is no declaration of character,
It is just a matter of mental necessity.
It has nothing to do with truth and holiness,
In many cases, it makes a person quite unholy.
I often find myself speaking to my dead teacher,
It gives me strength and helps me take the leap.
The scientist in me knows it's all in my head,
But sometimes all logic must take a backseat.
The problem however is not our imaginary friend,
It is our loyalty to it at the expense of our humanity.
Keep your faith if it helps you through hard times,
But never let it be an impediment to universality.
Imagination is healthy when it sustains us as human,
When it ruins our humanity, it's time for its demolition.”
― Abhijit Naskar, Handcrafted Humanity: 100 Sonnets For A Blunderful World

“Saturday, I slipped out to the farmers' market. Waiting for me were crates of pears in shades of green, gold, and rose. I fell in love.
I brought home a flat of Comice pears and placed them on my dining room table. I pulled out a chair so that I could look at them at eye level.
Pears.
Pear cake, pear sauce, caramelized pears, baked pears.
Pear tart. Everybody liked tarts. I could flavor it with vanilla for depth, lemon zest for brightness, and cardamom as a surprise. I could make it as a galette, a free-form tart, and use a buttery puff-pastry crust.
If I wanted to get my hands into food, puff pastry was a good place to do it. The process of making the laminated dough, folding butter into already buttery dough over and over---depending on your mood, it could be hypnotically soothing or mind-numbingly tedious.
It sounded perfect.”
― Hillary Manton Lodge, Together at the Table

“Curlicues of yellow lemon peel floated down into the sugar. Aromatherapy.
Some people might turn to the homey flavors of vanilla and cinnamon to chase away nerves, but citrus calmed Alisha's soul.”
― Chandra Blumberg, Digging Up Love

“If all we do is talk about our pain, we keep reliving the same moment, often becoming more traumatized with each repetition. We have to do more than just talk about what we are feeling. We have to examine why those emotions keep rising.”
― Julie Cantrell, Perennials

“Crying is immensely therapeutic; whether it's joyful or sad tears. Release the pent-up emotions that are swelling up within you.”
― Robin S. Baker

“I've come to realize my market gig is like therapy for me. I've always loved being surrounded by food, but what I have come to cherish most at these markets is the sense of community. I know Frank the cheese guy and Barbara the mushroom lady. I swap muffins for raspberry jam with Josie at Jefferson Family Farms and ciabatta for apples with Maggie and Drew at Broad Tree Orchards. They've started to accept me as one of their own, at a time when I could use the company.”
― Dana Bate, A Second Bite at the Apple

“Cooking with Momma's spices helped Marvina process. Never mind she didn't have enough people in the house to eat everything she laid out for preparation. Several pies, pork chops, chicken, greens, macaroni and cheese, hot-water corn bread. She was just cookin' to be cookin'.”
― Michelle Stimpson, Sisters with a Side of Greens

“There's something incredibly healing about pouring your soul onto paper. Writing helps me untangle my mind and find clarity amidst anxiety and PTSD. It's my go to therapy.”
― Niedria D. Kenny