Newborns Reminded Her Of Tiny Buddhas

You Don't Love Someone Because They're Perfect," She Says. "you Love Them In Spite Of The Fact That They're Not." I Don't Know How To Respond To That; It's Like Being Told After Thirty-five Years That The Sky, Which I've Seen As A Brilliant Blue, Is In Fact Rather Green.

I'm Always Writing, Even When I'm Not At My Desk. I Write On My Hands. I Used To Write On My Kids' Hands, Too, But They Don't Let Me Any More. When I'm Driving I Sometimes Write All The Way Up My Arms.

Logical Thinking Keeps You From Wasting Time Worrying, Or Hoping. It Prevents Disappointment. Imagination, On The Other Hand, Only Gets You Hyped Up Over Things That Will Never Realistically Happen.

A World That Was Crowded With People Could Still Be A Very Lonely Place.

I Pointed To The Wound. "it's Missing," I Said. My Grandmother Smiled, And That Was All It Took For Me To Stop Seeing The Scar, And To Recognize Her Again. "yes," She Said. "but See How Much Of Me Is Left?