We keep secrets from ourselves that all along we know.

The hard surface of the stone is impervious to nothing in the end. The heat of the sun leaves evidence of daylight. Each drop of rain changes the form; even the wind and the air itself, invisible to our eyes, etches its presence. … All history is taken in by stones.

We are nature. We are nature seeing nature. The red-winged blackbird flies in us.

Every time I deny myself I commit a kind of suicide.

Far more frightening than the thought of dying was the experience of erasure already occurring in my life. My fear of becoming someone who did not count.

Telling a story of illness, one pulls a thread through a narrow opening flanked on one side by shame and the other by trivia.

There is always a time to make right what is wrong.