I honestly think that in order to be a writer you have to learn to be reverent. If not, why are you writing? Why are you here?

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.

We're out there somewhere between the known and the unknown, trying to reel in both for a closer look.

I am learning slowly to bring my crazy pinball-machine mind back to this place.

I pray not to be such a whiny, self-obsessed baby, and give thanks that I am not quite as bad as I used to be (talk about miracles). Then something comes up, and I overreact and blame and sulk, and it feels like I haven't made any progress at all. But it turns out I'm less of a brat than before, and I hit the reset button much sooner, shake it off, and get my sense if humor back.

Perfectionism means that you try not to leave so much mess to clean up. But clutter and mess show us that life is being lived.

I don't have any romantic views of parenting. Every step of the way it's really hard. It's a dangerous world, physically and psychologically.