For my mother “When you’re young, you think everything you do is disposable. You move from now to now, crumpling time up in your hands, tossing it away. You’re your own speeding car. You think you can get rid of things, and people too—leave them behind. You don’t yet know about the habit they have, … More The House of My Spirit
I didn’t know how the years ahead would play out. That the Gulf war was just a preamble. That my friend’s five-year-old would commit suicide before his twenty-second birthday. That I wouldn’t study music or social work; instead, I would begin to write. I didn’t know the pervasive sadness — the black well of depression — that would swallow me during that coming decade. I didn’t know that I would flounder over another friend’s suicide, that I would feel so stymied about love, so disappointed, that I wouldn’t truly allow it into my life until after I turned 40.
I was 30 when I left New York. I thought I knew where I was headed. I thought the road before me was clear — unencumbered. I was wrong. … More The Importance of Small Moments