At the beauty of what she had stumbled onto, at the fear that something terrible would happen because she was not vigilant enough. She cried at the fear of something so good that she would not be brave enough to bear it.

I have been missing the point. The point is not knowing another person, or learning to love another person. The point is simply this: how tender can we bear to be? What good manners can we show as we welcome ourselves and others into our hearts?

How wide and sweet and wild motherhood and sisterhood can be.

It's life. You don't figure it out. You just climb up on the beast and ride.

I want to lay up like that, to float unstructured, without ambition or anxiety. I want to inhabit my life like a porch.

I swear I could write a book about all the things no one has ever thanked me for.

But who has time to write memoirs? I’m still living my memoirs.