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Audiobook
First published October 2, 2012
I'm afraid. I'm all alone. I have never lived on this earth without you.
‘In Mexico they say when someone you love dies, a part of you dies with them. But they forget to mention that a part of them is born in you—not immediately, I’ve learned, but eventually—gradually. It’s an opportunity to be reborn. When you are in between births, there should be some way to indicate to all, ‘Beware, I am not as I was before.’’
‘Some people who heard me perform it out loud thought it was for children, but I wrote it for adults—I wrote this story in the wake of death—poco a poco, slow by slow, little by little. A writer who had come to visit had lost her cat. I wish somebody had told me then that death allows you the chance to experience the world soulfully, that the heart is open like the aperture of a camera, taking in everything, painful as well as joyous, sensitive as the skin of water. I wish somebody had told me to draw near me objects of pure spirit when living between births—The trees—Flowers, especially the sympathetic daisy.’
‘I knew as I wrote this story that it was helping to bring me back to myself. It’s essential to create when the spirit is dying. It doesn’t matter what. I can’t make a casserole, but I felt useful during a time when I usually feel useless, and I was grateful. There is no getting over death, only learning how to travel alongside it. It knows no linear time. Say what they say, some may doubt the existence of God, but everyone is certain of the existence of love. Something is there, then, beyond our lives, that for lack of a better word I’ll call spirit. Some know it by other names.’