In my sleep. And I don’t think about it. It’ll be what it’ll be.

Like John Huston, after shooting The Dead.

It was this celestial splendor that suddenly made me realize how little time, how little life, I had left. My sense of the heavens’ beauty, of eternity, was inseparably mixed for me with a sense of transience — and death. ... I told my friends Kate and Allen, “I would like to see such a sky again when I am dying.” “We’ll wheel you outside,” they said.

Sufficiently well to see Johnson and Truss and then two or three days later, she’s dead. I thought, that’s fantastic. That’s something to celebrate. That’s a great death.

Meghan Markle. I don’t know how she continues to walk through this world with the grace, strength, and purpose that she does given the unbearable amount of vitriol and hate she has been subjected to, but she does. I wish she didn’t have to.

If hoarding and procrastination were Olympic sports, I’d have at least 70 gold medals.

Balloons. I have a big phobia of balloons. Big.

Being at home on a Sunday night with my husband, Will, and all of our children, eating chicken tikka masala and naan from our favorite restaurant.

In the hospital giving birth to my second daughter with my first daughter right there in the room as it was happening. I don’t remember any pain. I just remember feeling more alive and full of fierce mama bear love than at any other point in my life.