Peace did not come into my life. My life escaped and peace was there. Often I bump into my life, trying to catch its breath, pay a bill, or tolerate the news, tripping as usual over the cables of someone’s beauty - My little life: so loyal, so devoted to its obscure purposes - And, I hasten to report, doing fine without me.
When I was a kid, my family and I were driving back from a big county fair in the summertime. Outside began an incredible sunset, one of only about two thousand I’d experienced so far, and what seemed like the ultimate sunset of all time. I asked my parents if we had a camera so we could capture it, almost frantically, because it seemed so important to remember the vision with perfect clarity.
There wasn’t a camera in the car, and my parents, having seen several more thousand sunsets than I had, asked me to “take a picture with my mind”. So I did. That image is now mixed with other uncapturable skies from throughout my life.
I think about this often, when I walk around the all the many places I go, when I see something I want to photograph, when we experience things that now are so easy to capture and keep and share. For certain, I think that this is a gift, but I still believe in a life lived without so much direct documentation, and in that secret place where moments go in our minds that only we can access.
I am so grateful to know and be among so many smart, talented, and fearless women.
I contributed to this article as well, and believe that this is a very important discussion. I love learning through other people’s shared experiences, and I hope that these essays help further the effort to make this a part of an ongoing discourse. I have so much respect for everyone involved, and am sometimes overcome with how deeply I love music and the hearts and minds of people who make it. Thank you, everyone, for being who you are, and doing what you do.
The bedsheets have at long last begun to fray in just the right place I hear your name some nights is it from my own mouth or just the wind blowing south
Once I felt too many things soft with all that I held dear the thoughts that tear at your heartstrings and keep you howling to the moon’s ear they hold you hostage in that room where even I can’t get to you
Over seventy-five years after the first appearance of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry’s beloved book, we are still no closer to penetrating the central riddle: What is “The Little Prince” about? Adam Gopnik offers his take: http://nyr.kr/1iETYzq