In Wyoming, when I would feel overwhelmed, I would walk outside and the infiniteness of everything — the sky, the mountains, the blades of grass, the conversations in little hondas with rust spots — would soothe those chafed life spots. Everything was so big, and I felt so happy being so free and so small. I imagined myself turning corners in London and Algiers and clinking wine glasses on cross-country train trips and screaming love notes to a world content to bang on the pots and pans.
When do we all stop walking to the edge? When do meet in fields and not on cliffs? When does the every-day become something not to surmount, not to defeat? When can we let our shoulders shake; when can we stop being strong and fall, just a little bit? Why must every breath be so obvious?
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