i don’t want you to assume that kristin’s writing sugar-coated or romanticized the farm or the relationship. in fact, if i had to guess, the book’s scales weigh difficulty and sacrifice/death (for both the farm and the relationship) heavier than its victories. what it seems to come down to is what’s inside you begging to be expressed by love — whether it’s love of farming or love for another person. if there’s no other way you can find that bit of yourself, you commit to it. and probably a certain amount of fear about that is good.
it was terribly confusing all those years. it was training for not trusting words: i love you. and it was training in paying close attention to my gut. it took me a long time to recognize that it was right about my marriage. now, i don’t waste much time questioning it.
we all know the cure: the hair of the dog that bit you. if writing’s the way i make sense of my world, it’s the way i make sense of the world. there’s only one way.
one of the true pleasures in life is to look forward to a book and have it be worthy of the anticipation. and it’s extra special when the content resonates so amazingly you can scream, yes! yes! yes! (a la sally in the fake orgasm in a diner scene in when harry met sally).
i don’t remember my own grief very well. i’m not sure i’ve done much of it at all. nothing that has a narrative, for sure, like these memoirs seem to. and i can’t really access it: what was i doing while she was sick? what was i thinking about? who was around me? how did i feel when … and yet cheryl and natalie nail it. it makes me think of how incredibly important it is to tell the stories we can tell.
i am 24 hours out of my third break-up in as many months, and i am thinking i need to go on my own wild solo hike. it’s not enough to abandon everything you know: you need to make something in its place.