She didn't even know how dangerous the truth could be, all the tiny, shattering seeds it carried.

After you get stung, you can't get unstung no matter how much you whine about it.

Finally, I began to write about becoming an older woman and the trepidation it stirred. The small, telling "betrayals" of my body. The stalled, eerie stillness in my writing, accompanied by an ache for some unlived destiny. I wrote about the raw, unsettled feelings coursing through me, the need to divest and relocate, the urge to radically simplify and distill life into a new, unknown meaning.

There is no place so awake and alive as the edge of becoming. But more than that, birthing the kind of woman who can authentically say, 'My soul is my own,' and then embody it in her life, her spirituality, and her community is worth the risk and hardship.

I've always been a journal-keeper. I've always tried to write about how I'm experiencing life, and my feelings and thoughts.

We become what we pay attention to.

He'd gone to church for forty years and was only getting worse. It seemed like this should tell God something.