"I walked far down the beach, soothed by the rhythym of the waves, the sun on my bare back and legs, the wind and mist from the spray on my hair... And then home, drenched, drugged, reeling, full to the brim with my day alone, full like the moon before the night has taken a single nibble of it, full as a cup poured to the lip. ...Let no-one come! I pray in sudden panic- I might spill myself away!
...But why not, one may ask? What is wrong with woman's spilling herself away, since it is her function to give? Why am I, coming back from my perfect day at the beach, so afraid of losing my treasure? It is not just the artist in me. The artist, naturally, always resents giving himself in small drops. He must save up for the pitcher-full. No, it is the woman in me that is so miserly.
Here is a strange paradox. Woman instinctively wants to give, yet resents giving herself in small pieces. What we fear is not so much that our energy may be leaking through small outlets as that it may be "going down the drain". ... Woman's creation is so often invisible, especially today. We are working at an arrangement in form, of the myriad disparate details of housework, family routine and social life. It is a kind of intricate game of cat's cradle we manipulate on our fingers, with invisible threads."
-Anne Morrow Lindbergh, Gift from the Sea