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Come here, fawn, and be my pet. I will feed you slivered almonds and cranberries. I’ll stroke your nubby horns while we sit by the fire. And as you grow, I will tell you stories about the woods. How the snow melts and leaves behind vernal ponds for peepers and salamanders.
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I spotted Kim McMillen’s remarkable little book, When I Loved Myself Enough, in a Cape Town bookshop during my Christmas holiday a year ago. After a brief glance, I bought it for my mother, or so I thought. Flipping through the pages at home, the sane and life-affirming insights surged through me. I realized I unwittingly had bought a gift for myself.
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In all families, everywhere, there are characters. Some of them are awful. In no society on earth do families consist entirely of reasonable people, of nurturing elders, and of flourishing children. Families—you have to love them.
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Nothing about our wedding was traditional. In fact, when you get right down to it, using the word “wedding” is quite a stretch. Our anniversary celebrations are no more conventional, and John and I planned to mark our twenty-sixth just as we had our twenty-fifth.
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Floating there, immersed in a world within a world, I felt a swift and unexpected gratitude. I was thankful for technology. That huge pool was a miracle enough in itself—warm, welcoming, stimulating and hygienic, but that was only the beginning. Kai and I were both miracles, too.
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There is simply not enough time. There never will be enough time together. We are all dying, and we have to enjoy the moments when we can. We must learn how to live present in this life.
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