Writing is how I communicate my deepest beliefs, and what I hope are helpful observations about our dual citizenship, as children of God, as regular old mixed-up, worried, flawed, precious human beings.

For too long, and despite what people told me, I had fallen for what the culture said about beauty, youth, features, heights, weights, hair textures, upper arms.

Lighthouses don’t go running all over an island looking for boats to save; they just stand there shining.

Toddlers can make you feel as if you have violated some archaic law in their personal Koran and you should die, infidel.

Needless to say, there was no one around remotely fitting the description of a normal person: I was at a writing conference.

This business of having been issued a body is deeply confusing... Bodies are so messy and disappointing.

But you can’t get to any of these truths by sitting in a field smiling beatifically, avoiding your anger and damage and grief. Your anger and damage and grief are the way to the truth. We don’t have much truth to express unless we have gone into those rooms and closets and woods and abysses that we were told not go in to. When we have gone in and looked around for a long while, just breathing and finally taking it in – then we will be able to speak in our own voice and to stay in the present moment. And that moment is home.