Perfectionism is a mean, frozen form of idealism, while messes are the artist's true friend.

Mine was a patchwork God, sewn together from bits of rag and ribbon, Eastern and Western, pagan and Hebrew, everything but the kitchen sink and Jesus.

I also learned that you didn’t come onto this earth as a perfectionist or control freak. You weren’t born a person of cringe and contraction. You were born as energy, as life, made of the same stuff as stars, blossoms, breezes. You learned contraction to survive, but that was then. You have paid through the nose-paid but good. It is now your turn to reap.

Grace is the light or electricity or juice or breeze that takes you from that isolated place and puts you with others who are as startled and embarrassed and eventually grateful as you are to be there.

Summer nearly does me in every year. It's too hot and the light is unforgiving and the days go on way too long.

The truth is that progress is usually small and sneaky.

I don't have very sophisticated taste in music. I listen to a lot of folk music. I like reggae.