At the Acoma Pueblo in New Mexico, white ladders lean against the mud-brick buildings. The tops of these ladders have been sharpened to a point, to tear holes in the sky and let the prayers through.

Growing up, we took a lot of road trips, and because this was pre-smartphone/iPad/TV-that-drops-down-from-the-roof-of-the-car, I spent a lot of time staring out the window.

I have a postcard on my fridge that a friend sent me from France some years ago. On the back, she wrote only this: "Can you believe how very little we still know, about anything?"

I am not good at relaxing. While I'm militant about getting eight hours of sleep, I am terrible about allowing myself to rest.

I've been in love with German ever since I learned the word weltschmerz. Its literal translation is "world-pain," the depression that arises when the realities of existence don't line up with the ideals in your head.

I live 500 feet above sea level. It's not much, but it's enough that, when it snows, I'm trapped, even if the rest of the city is not.

A number of years ago, I stayed in a monastery high atop the mountains of Big Sur. There was no internet, no cell reception, and no talking allowed anywhere on the grounds, except the bookstore that also served as the check-in area.

I hate putting things away. When I was a toddler, my mother let me entertain myself by emptying the kitchen cupboard where she stored canned goods. I'd pull everything out onto the floor, crawl inside the cupboard, and lose interest (I'm guessing) in approximately seven seconds.

My co-workers like to joke that I'm the resident witch doctor. If you have an illness, injury, or other physical ailment, I probably have a remedy for you. I may even have it in my purse.

A few weeks after my father died, I received a letter from a friend. We wrote back and forth about injustice and pain, and in her last note, she said, "What is this world? If anyone can make beautiful sense out of strangeness and sadness, it's you, but I completely understand if you wouldn't want to."