Quit.

Quit: Fearing Silence.

Learn the goodness of silence while washing the dishes. While watching the middle years dog get slower, more sleepy.

Quit: Comparison. 

Compare yourself with the small women, then look at your hands while scrubbing the bathtub, while herding the water towards the drain, and see that they are your mother's hands; she would not want this storm for you. She would say: look up at who you really are, at what has come before to make you. Take pride.

Quit: The Punishment of Sleeping Late. 

The alarms go off at 7:00. Now you must set two, yet even kitchen music cannot shake you when sleep--always the best just before waking--has embraced you like a warm flood, like a longed for familiar body, one that is heavy and worn out good. When it's like this, don't fear not waking; sleep until you are no longer sleeping. You're allowed, and there will be weary days to come.

Quit: The Punishment of Midnight Hours.

Your month of birth was a summer month. Your mother gives you this quote: And then it was summer; warm, wonderful summer. Stay up. Keep a light on low, radio too, beside the bed. In summer: hair grows quicker, books you forgot about come off the shelves, skin turns brown and even you are proud. Shame would be to waste one single summer night. So don't. Walk the dog at midnight in nightgown and bare feet. Those who see you will smile.

Quit: The Punishment of Reaching Towards the Missing Ones.

Summer is the season of kindness. Be kind. No matter if it's met with silence. The world listens. The message gets heard.

Quit: Not Writing. 

Just remember: in the thick of it is the deepest, purest content.