Every time we make love to a human being, fully, we are making love to everything that lives and breathes. In that sense it becomes communion. It is a sacrament.

I look at Los Angeles and I ask myself, How can this ever be sustainable? And what are we contributing to that? Because we are all complicit. None of us is without blame. It's so difficult and it's so overwhelming and I think we have to make small choices in our own lives that can loom large collectively.

Shards of glass can cut and wound or magnify a vision.

Perhaps the Wilderness we fear is the pause between our own heartbeats, the silence that reminds us we live by grace.

When silence is a choice, it is an unnerving presence. When silence is imposed, it is censorship.

There is an art to writing, and it is not always disclosure. The act itself can be beautiful, revelatory, and private.

I write from the place of inquiry. The first draft is a discovery period to see what I know and what I don't know. My task is simply to follow the words. There are surprises along the way. I just have to get it down. Call it the sculptor's clay.