The courage to let go of the door, the handle.
The courage to shed the familiar walls whose very
stains and leaks are comfortable as the little moles
of the upper arm; stains that recall a feast,
the desert, where the Israelites hung out for 40 years. Continue Reading →
“What hurts so bad about youth isn’t the actual butt whippings the world delivers. It’s the stupid hopes playacting like certainties.” –Mary Karr, in her very fine third memoir, Lit. All I’ve been doing lately is springing, reading, writing, and digging into the rubble of my own past to determine what’s worth saving. Hence, my recent barrage of quotes. Consider them archeological treasure.
If birds were the only evidence that there is another side, or a deeper, bigger reality, their song would be enough proof for me. We are so bound, and birds are so free — and yet so vulnerable. The little ones you might crush, and the big ones might peck your eyes out or dive-bomb you. They’re such alien creatures, so exquisite and yet springing from dinosaurs. And you can never look a bird in the eye — their eyes are on either side of their heads, and they’re so quizzical. They have to be — they are prey, and yet so hungry. Just like us.–Anne Lamott
“What hurts so bad about youth isn’t the actual butt whippings the world delivers. It’s the stupid hopes playacting like certainties.” –Mary Karr, in her very fine third memoir, Lit. All I’ve been doing lately is springing, reading, writing, and digging into the rubble of my own past to determine what’s worth saving. Hence, my recent barrage of quotes. Consider them archeological treasure.
If birds were the only evidence that there is another side, or a deeper, bigger reality, their song would be enough proof for me. We are so bound, and birds are so free — and yet so vulnerable. The little ones you might crush, and the big ones might peck your eyes out or dive-bomb you. They’re such alien creatures, so exquisite and yet springing from dinosaurs. And you can never look a bird in the eye — their eyes are on either side of their heads, and they’re so quizzical. They have to be — they are prey, and yet so hungry. Just like us.–Anne Lamott