The other day I read a long diatribe against the concept that "everything happens for a reason." The writer railed on about how there is no reason for bad things happening, that the entire concept of " a reason" is a blame-the-victim attitude, and on and on. It got under my skin a bit, because I . . .
The wild stories of traditional religion are something we've gotten used to. A virgin birth? Walking on water? Fishes and loaves? Raising the dead? They don't seem so crazy, do they? Or at least not when we view them through the lens of traditional religion. But we don't feel the same way about . . .
Any and all forms of separation, disconnects, divides, partings, breakups, and goodbyes, Carol, are temporary. Very. You'll be together far, far longer than you will ever be apart. I received this inspirational message just the other day and it was a real thought-provoker. What if we . . .
Love the people who treat you right. Forget about those who don't. I'd make a tweak in that "Love the people who treat you right." I'd say "Love everyone. But forget about those who don't treat you right." "Don't pay any attention to people who don't treat you right." That's the main . . .
There was once a young neurosurgeon at Stanford who, as an undergraduate and master's student, had been an English lit major. He could write, oh, could he write. But he had another part of his brain, too, one that sent him to medical school and to one of the toughest specialties. And then, in his . . .
Most babies in the 1950s and maybe longer wore these traditional little white lace-up baby shoes. I love them--they remind me of purity and innocence. They are so not-stylish that they remind me of the time when children were concerned not with fashion or celebrity but with the things of . . .
People who hurt others are hurting. These days the deep questions of life and death are sitting front and center in my life. Serious and important things. But like irritating little gnats, people behaving badly have buzzed round the periphery. When they buzz into my sphere I have to swat them . . .
I'm still ...what is the word? "reeling" isn't exactly it and "sad" is close, so maybe I'll just say that I'm still thinking about Ferguson and how we got to that place where cities blow up over racial divides and wondering why we are still there and whether there's anything that can really be done . . .
Should I stay here? But I could not do it. It was not my world, and there was so much to be done in the others. ~Greta Wells in The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells by Andrew Sean Greer This is how I imagine the conversation we have with ourselves at death, as we contemplate moving on to our . . .
I've always been an observer, someone who's felt set apart from the crowd, moored a little out from shore. Truth is, I have always been very different from my family, from the time I was a little girl. For the most part they viewed me as one might a foreign body in the eye, something of an irritant . . .