Grief can arrive on a gust of wind, a glimpse at a calendar, or a half-heard snippet of conversation on the street.
Each time I pick up a pen these days, I am reminded of Ingmar Bergman’s admonition that “the only worthwhile subject is man’s relationship with god.”
After receiving a lung and transforming himself into a grand old man, my father slipped suddenly from this world.
I’d like to be a little beacon of joy for my father, chipper and zen and awake at six in the morning eating a piece of fruit. Instead, I stay up late reading Schopenhauer.
When the body rebels, the mind realizes it’s been preoccupied with the wrong things. A Greek word for the inflammation of the lung, Hippocrates described it as “the illness named by the ancients.”
One of the finest things I own is a lamp with a stern brass pirate posing at the base, one hand on his hip and the other gripping a long sword.