As I move closer to the end gate, life takes on new meaning for me. "Youth" really "is wasted on the young." I'm glad I've lived long enough to share your wisdom that nothing really is mine. Everything, including my children, is lent to me for a time, and then I need to learn to let it go. Thank you for the gifts of your wisdom, Abby. Can't wit for your next book!. xoxo
That may be the funniest opening to anything I've read in a long, long time. I'm going to remember that I learn something new every day - even if it is the same dang thing!
Abigail thank you for the reminder.. I too caretake a spectacular little piece of this planet for whatever time I have left and tending it is my daily pleasure…currently because I am in the mountains of Colorado, I spend everyday trying to keep it alive due to a serious lack of water.
I talk to the trees and touch them when I walk by and ask them please to stand strong and weather this drought with me….
I love that you talk to your trees, and touch them. I hope the drought will end, and soon. Thank you for sharing your little piece of the planet. I am imagining you there.
I catch myself now and then saying “my land.” I try to remember to say “the land I share with… countless other living things.” Two days ago my sweetheart told me there was a deer that has died in the back path in the meadow. He said it was gruesome and didn’t want to move it, but just wanted me to be aware. So I have not walked back there since, even though I can sense its presence now from inside the house. Just because I know it’s there.
But what a beautiful thing to just lay yourself down and die on the land you live on, and go back into that beloved land that has nourished you for your whole life.
I might walk back there today and acknowledge the life of my fellow land dweller.
This is so beautiful and tender. I find so much comfort among the trees. I often wonder what they have seen and heard. How they know this place perhaps better than we ever will.
Always a thrill to experience another of your literary triumphs. The power of your writing is an unfailing and gracious gift. In this instance—that mortality need not diminish the joy and blessings of a sense of wonder
I do so agree. Here in England we do not have a locust to lend pleasure but the butterflies have stepped in and are doing their colourful dance all over our buddleia bushes. Long after everyone has forgotten who we are the butterflies will still return to the buddleia and bring joy to the next and the next and the next generation
I do love your writing, Abigail, and have just bought your most recent book.
The temporal nature of our stay in this world was brought home very powerfully and touchingly to me today. I live in London, but have taken my 15-year-old grandson to Paris for a few days. Yesterday he walked up the Eiffel Tower (with me reading down below), which is the sort of experience I expected.
Today, I took him to Notre Dame, which was heaving with people and we were hot and I was just beginning to wonder whether this had been a good idea when he started to look up at the architecture and the space and the age of the place and was transfixed. He stared up, took photos, stared into space and was clearly having one of those very special moments that happen to us only once in a very long while. We had sat down and were there literally for one hour. I kept saying we could move and he kept saying 'just a little longer, granny' and who was I to argue. I suddenly felt enormously privileged to have brought him to such an experience. He said afterward that he tried very hard to imagine all the crowds away and to imagine being alone there in the 14th century. He is an unusual boy, for whom I have enormous affection and, well, it was special.
I have just asked his permission to write about it here and he encouraged me. He subscribes to and occasionally reads my Substack. I hope to be a bit more articulate in a future post than I feel right now.
I can’t help but think that locust feels your love for it — that it’s a love startled new every day just makes it better. Worth keeping in its limbs and leaves. 💚
Abby, so lovely; the perfect observation on a summer morning! and yes to not “owning;” I feel that so strongly when I look at my grown children. sometimes it’s painful.
What is yours to keep? Secrets, maybe. Well. This, Abigail Thomas, is deeply profound.
Thank you, Beth. So kind of you to say.
I am just back from the post office, thanking YOU!!!!!! xoxoxo
As I move closer to the end gate, life takes on new meaning for me. "Youth" really "is wasted on the young." I'm glad I've lived long enough to share your wisdom that nothing really is mine. Everything, including my children, is lent to me for a time, and then I need to learn to let it go. Thank you for the gifts of your wisdom, Abby. Can't wit for your next book!. xoxo
Thank you, Marilea. You know everything I know, but you used such kind words in your response. Thank you again.
That may be the funniest opening to anything I've read in a long, long time. I'm going to remember that I learn something new every day - even if it is the same dang thing!
Thank you!
So freeing to not own a thing. Lovely, Abby.
It is. Thank you.
Abigail thank you for the reminder.. I too caretake a spectacular little piece of this planet for whatever time I have left and tending it is my daily pleasure…currently because I am in the mountains of Colorado, I spend everyday trying to keep it alive due to a serious lack of water.
I talk to the trees and touch them when I walk by and ask them please to stand strong and weather this drought with me….
I love that you talk to your trees, and touch them. I hope the drought will end, and soon. Thank you for sharing your little piece of the planet. I am imagining you there.
I catch myself now and then saying “my land.” I try to remember to say “the land I share with… countless other living things.” Two days ago my sweetheart told me there was a deer that has died in the back path in the meadow. He said it was gruesome and didn’t want to move it, but just wanted me to be aware. So I have not walked back there since, even though I can sense its presence now from inside the house. Just because I know it’s there.
But what a beautiful thing to just lay yourself down and die on the land you live on, and go back into that beloved land that has nourished you for your whole life.
I might walk back there today and acknowledge the life of my fellow land dweller.
Thanks, Abby, as always, for your rich offering.
This is so beautiful and tender. I find so much comfort among the trees. I often wonder what they have seen and heard. How they know this place perhaps better than we ever will.
Always a thrill to experience another of your literary triumphs. The power of your writing is an unfailing and gracious gift. In this instance—that mortality need not diminish the joy and blessings of a sense of wonder
Abigail, you are a delight and so wise! "Little that we see in Nature that is ours." Wordsworth.
Butterfly watching with my dad delighted me as a child. Now when I spot one, it's a wink from Heaven from my father.
I do so agree. Here in England we do not have a locust to lend pleasure but the butterflies have stepped in and are doing their colourful dance all over our buddleia bushes. Long after everyone has forgotten who we are the butterflies will still return to the buddleia and bring joy to the next and the next and the next generation
Nicely put, Richard. Yes. Life goes on, we are a tiny speck in the richness of this planet.
Such a beautiful reminder. Thank you 🥰
Thank you very much.
I do love your writing, Abigail, and have just bought your most recent book.
The temporal nature of our stay in this world was brought home very powerfully and touchingly to me today. I live in London, but have taken my 15-year-old grandson to Paris for a few days. Yesterday he walked up the Eiffel Tower (with me reading down below), which is the sort of experience I expected.
Today, I took him to Notre Dame, which was heaving with people and we were hot and I was just beginning to wonder whether this had been a good idea when he started to look up at the architecture and the space and the age of the place and was transfixed. He stared up, took photos, stared into space and was clearly having one of those very special moments that happen to us only once in a very long while. We had sat down and were there literally for one hour. I kept saying we could move and he kept saying 'just a little longer, granny' and who was I to argue. I suddenly felt enormously privileged to have brought him to such an experience. He said afterward that he tried very hard to imagine all the crowds away and to imagine being alone there in the 14th century. He is an unusual boy, for whom I have enormous affection and, well, it was special.
I have just asked his permission to write about it here and he encouraged me. He subscribes to and occasionally reads my Substack. I hope to be a bit more articulate in a future post than I feel right now.
Your words meant a lot to me today. Indeed, secrets and loves lost and found are ours to keep.
I can’t help but think that locust feels your love for it — that it’s a love startled new every day just makes it better. Worth keeping in its limbs and leaves. 💚
Abby, so lovely; the perfect observation on a summer morning! and yes to not “owning;” I feel that so strongly when I look at my grown children. sometimes it’s painful.
Thank you, Debbie. And it is a beautiful summer morning here too. A day to enjoy.
Sometimes it is painful, but I'm not sure why. Will we miss all the worrying?
Secrets. Only secrets. A remark worth pondering. Thank you.
Thank you. I'm so glad you got caught by that.
By the way, Abigail, muttnick is Martha in Tennessee. Love you!
oh my god! Martha!! Love you too!!