Walking . . . Is How The

Too Many Of Us Seem Far Too Fond Of Narratives Of Our Powerlessness, Maybe Because Powerlessness Lets Us Off The Hook... But We Don't Need Everyone On Board; We Don't Need One Magic Person In Office; We Need Ourselves. To Act. It's The Wind, Not The Weathervanes.

We Fly; We Dream In Darkness; We Devour Heaven In Bites Too Small To Be Measured.

[in Mountaineering, If] We Look For Private Experience Rather Than Public History, Even Getting To The Top Becomes An Optional Narrative Rather Than The Main Point, And Those Who Only Wander In High Places Become Part Of The Story.

Growing Up North Of San Francisco, I Immersed Myself In The Local Landscape And In Books About Native Americans, Cowboys, And Pioneers That Seemed To Ground Me In It, But To Pursue Culture In Those Days Meant Being Spun Around Until Dizzy And Then Pushed East.

In Her Novel Regeneration, Pat Barker Writes Of A Doctor Who 'knew Only Too Well How Often The Early Stages Of Change Or Cure May Mimic Deterioration. Cut A Chrysalis Open, And You Will Find A Rotting Caterpillar. What You Will Never Find Is That Mythical Creature, Half Caterpillar, Half Butterfly, A Fit Emblem Of The Human Soul, For Those Whose Cast Of Mind Leads Them To Seek Such Emblems. No, The Process Of Transformation Consists Almost Entirely Of Decay.