goldenrod and the 4H stone
I was talking about compassion with my friend, Alison earlier tonight in the little window in her life between the moment she puts her young children down to sleep and the moment she herself falls into bed, exhausted. When I say talking, I mean texting. Alison and I are in one giant, years long texting conversation that never breaks off. I kid you not. I am sure if we subpoenaed the records from Verizon (it's not that we committed any crimes--I just can't shake the former litigation associate tendency to think of everything in terms of discovery, and if you don't know what I mean by that, you're lucky), you would find a kind of epistolary novel about two dear friends ruminating over just everything--through divorces and marriages and child birth and job losses and toilet training and kids off to college and then finally, last year, my cancer--our text messages are witty and exhausted and loving and cranky--like the two of us together. I love texting, I'll freely