I remember staring at my son endlessly when he was an infant, stunned by his very existence, wondering where on earth he had come from.

When we're dealing with the people in our family - no matter how annoying or gross they may be, no matter how self-inflicted their suffering may appear, no matter how afflicted they are with ignorance, prejudice or nose hairs - we give from the deepest parts of ourselves.

I wish there were shortcuts to wisdom and self-knowledge: cuter abysses or three-day spa wilderness experiences. Sadly, it doesn't work that way. I so resent this.

The whistle is always waiting to be blown, and in some ways, it gets me to do better work.

Grace arrived, like the big, loopy stitches with which a grandmotherly stranger might baste your hem temporarily.

There is nothing as sweet as a comeback, when you are down and out, about to lose, and out of time.

I'm kind of a gossip hound, but watching the media whip the small fires into giant forest fires so that they can cover the result is infuriating.