I was a terrible believer in things, but I was also a terrible nonbeliever in things. I was as searching as I was skeptical. I didn't know where to put my faith, or if there was such a place, or even what the word faith meant, in all of its complexity. Everything seemed to be possibly potent and possibly fake.
That my complicated life could be made so simple was astounding.
Someone found a copy of Wild at Half-Price Books today.
|Thoreau print from Shannon Kirsten Illustrations|
I'm a touch obsessed with memoirs. And with this woman's writing in particular. Her words scoop out the muck clinging to the sides of that place deep inside that feels so ravaged and hollow. They scoop it out and, with the warmth and tenderness of cupped and outreached hands, mold it into universal experience. Sometimes there is never anything so assuring as Me too.
Me too, and it turned out okay.