I spend my time dwelling on revenge and try to deal with the monsters crawling out of the ashes.

Here I am, where I ought to be. A writer must have a place where he or she feels this, the place to love and be irritated with.

I had a very free childhood and ranged around on my bicycle the way boys do. I had few restrictions.

History works itself out in the living.

some people meet the way the sky meets the earth, inevitably, and there is no stopping or holding back their love. It exists in a finished world, beyond the reach of common sense.

To sew is to pray. Men don't understand this. They see the whole but they don't see the stitches. They don't see the speech of the creator in the work of the needle. We mend. We women turn things inside out and set things right. We salvage what we can of human garments and piece the rest into blankets. Sometimes our stitches stutter and slow. Only a woman's eyes can tell. Other times, the tension in the stitches might be too tight because of tears, but only we know what emotion went into the making. Only women can hear the prayer.

Every so often something shatters like ice and we are in the river of our existence. We are aware.