I spend most of my time writing.

So what is wild? What is wilderness? What are dreams but an internal wilderness and what is desire but a wildness of the soul?

Here is the most telling fact: you wish to possess me.
 Here is another fact: I loved you and let you think you could.

I stood there in the shadowed doorway thinking with my tears. Yes, tears can be thoughts, why not?

Coming down off the trail, I am lost in my own thoughts and unprepared when a bear chugs across the path just before it gives out on the gravel road. I am so distracted that I keep walking towards the bear. I only stop when it rears, stands on hind legs, and stares at me, sensitive nose pressed into the air, weak eyes searching. I have never been this close to a wild bear before, but I am not frightened. There is no menace in its stance; it is not even curious. The bear seems to know who or what I am. The bear is not impressed.

I don't pray. When I was young, I vowed I never would be caught begging God. If I want something I get it for myself. I go to church only to show the old hens they don't get me down.

To be of mixed blood is a great gift for a writer. I have one foot on tribal lands and one foot in middle-class life.