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192 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 4, 2012
This book is one of the most beautiful, inexplicable things I have ever loved. It's a poem written on a painting and wrapped in a book whose spine is made from bones and feathers, glued together with jam and laundry detergent. I try to define, to capture, to translate "what it is" and I just can't, in the same way you can't hold a live hummingbird still enough to count its feathers.
For months, I was almost finished with this book, only had three pages left. There it stayed on my bedside table, waiting. At first, I didn't understand why I resisted. I thought it was simple forgetting, being too busy, too tired. But I was wrong. I didn't want it to be over. And when finally I was able to open it again, to turn to those last three pages, to finish, as soon as I did I went back to all the pages whose edges I'd folded over, reread and underlined, made notes in the margins, and then, I immediately started reading it again.
Because, this: "It is both an invitation to you to create whatever opportunity your heart yearns for and proof that it is possible. To begin, to be in the mess, to be right here." This book is a memoir, and a poem, and a piece of art. It is one woman's story, but also the reader's story if one chooses to contemplate the provided prompts. It is the story of a mother and wife and artist, of a family and a marriage and a house/home, but also of a being of light wrapped in skin trying to make sense of the confusion of being human. Its descriptions of nature are beautiful and at times brutal. She sees the tenderness and brilliance in the mundane, she notices everything, and invites the reader to do the same.