The word I think of is precarious. I am struck by how precarious it all is. How the things that hold us are only as strong as the faith we have in them.

There's no way to release yourself from a memory. It ends when it wants to end, whether it's in a flash or long after you've begged it to stop.

I want to take back at least half of the “I love you”s, because I didn’t mean them as much as the other ones.

As if when someone close to us dies, we momentarily trade places with them, in the moment right before. And as we get over it, we’re really living their life in reverse, from death to life, from sickness to health.

Sharing truth is not the kind of gift that comes in wrapping paper - ripped open once and, there, you're done. No, this is a gift that must be unfolded.

Why do we feel the need to disconnect in order to connect?

I had always felt that mittens were a few steps back on the evolutionary scale-- why, I wondered, would we want to make ourselves into a less agile version of lobster.