I do know the sorrow of being ordinary, and that much of our life is spent doing the crazy mental arithmetic of how, at any given moment, we might improve, or at least disguise or present our defects and screw-ups in either more charming or more intimidating ways.

I don't think you have time to waste not writing because you are afraid you won't be good at it.

There is ecstasy in paying attention.

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.

Everybody thinks their opinion is the right one. If they didn't, they would get a new one.

You were loved because God loves, period. God loved you, and everyone, not because you believed in certain things, but because you were a mess, and lonely, and His or Her child. God loved you no matter how crazy you felt on the inside, no matter what a fake you were; always, even in your current condition, even before coffee. God loves you crazily, like I love you...like a slightly overweight auntie, who sees only your marvelousness and need.

When hope is not pinned wriggling onto a shiny image or expectation, it sometimes floats forth and opens.