The danger of developing a specialized skill is the corresponding growth of one’s sense of superiority over those who do not share said skill.
Maybe I don’t want to be a farmer after all. I don’t think I have even the faintest idea of how hard real farmers have to work, just to make ends meet, just to feed themselves, much less the rest of the country. I like the idea of farming. I like that mystical, Wendell Berry-notion of being one with the earth and God and family, but it turns out that I’m not even that interested in gardening. Pulling weeds is really boring. What makes me think I could be capable of running a farm?
Guion could run a farm if he wanted to. I regret that I will not make him a better farmhand.
Heartbreak seems to run in a seasonal cycle.
I suddenly identify very strongly as an Episcopalian. Never thought that would happen in a million years. Husbands, it turns out, and husbands’ families, are very persuasive.
That mug Kathryn gave me as a joke, back in 2007? I want it to become reality.
Pyrrha might be simultaneously unpredictable and perfect.