Old love, middle love, the kind of love that knows itself and knows that nothing lasts, is a desperate shared wildness.

The story comes around, pushing at our brains, and soon we are trying to ravel back to the beginning, trying to put families into order and make sense of things. But we start with one person, and soon another and another follows, and still another, until we are lost in the connections.

Love won't be tampered with, love won't go away. Push it to one side and it creeps to the other.

To think about love and passion and political correctness all together, it doesn't work. Art has to go way past the political to be effective.

When every inch of the world is known, sleep may be the only wilderness that we have left.

Women without children are also the best of mothers,often, with the patience,interest, and saving grace that the constant relationship with children cannot always sustain. I come to crave our talk and our daughters gain precious aunts. Women who are not mothering their own children have the clarity and focus to see deeply into the character of children webbed by family. A child is fortuante who feels witnessed as a peron,outside relationships with parents by another adult.

Your life feels different on you, once you greet death and understand your heart's position. You wear your life like a garment from the mission bundle sale ever after - lightly because you realize you never paid nothing for it, cherishing because you know you won't ever come by such a bargain again.