Maybe the desert wisdom of the Dakotas can teach us to love anyway, to love what is dying, in the face of death, and not pretend that things are other than they are. The irony and wonder of all of this is that it is the desert's grimness, its stillness and isolation, that brings us back to love.

If we are lucky, we can give in and rest without feeling guilty. We can stop doing and concentrate on being.

Like faith, marriage is a mystery. The person you're committed to spending your life with is known and yet unknown, at the same time remarkably intimate and necessarily other. The classic seven-year itch may not be a case of familiarity breeding ennui and contempt, but the shock of having someone you thought you knew all too well suddenly seem a stranger. When that happens, you are compelled to either recommit to the relationship or get the hell out. There are many such times in a marriage.

Over and over again mediocrity is promoted because real worth isn't to be found.

Prayer is not asking for what you think you want, but asking to be changed in ways you can't imagine.

The High Plains, the beginning of the desert West, often act as a crucible for those who inhabit them.

I write what I would like to read.