I know you've run away - everybody gets the urge to do that some time - but sooner or later you'll want to go home.

Place a beehive on my grave And let the honey soak through. When I'm dead and gone, That's what I want from you. The streets of heaven are gold and sunny, But I'll stick with my plot and a pot of honey. Place a beehive on my grave And let the honey soak through.

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.

So few people know what they're capable of.

If you aren't giving people something to talk about, you've become too dull.

Nothing is fair in this world. You might as well get that straight right now

People, in general, would rather die than forgive. It's that hard.