I would say I am at peace with the mystery of my mother's journals. Of course, I will always wonder, but isn't that the creative tension of living with uncertainty? By leaving me her empty journals, my mother has made herself very present.

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

The sin we commit against each other as women is lack of support. We hurt. We hurt each other. We hide. We project. We become mute or duplicitous, and we fester like boiling water until one day we erupt like a geyser. Do we forget we unravel in grief?

The Eyes of the Future are looking back at us and they are praying for us to see beyond our own time.

We are taught not to trust our own experiences. Great Salt Lake teaches me experience is all we have.

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

I think about capitalism, consumerism, our consumptive nature as a species approaching the 21st century. I certainly don't have the answers.