The streets of Dhaka, Bangladesh, are shimmering, pulsing corridors of color. Blue and gold, pink and sapphire green, crimson red, deep purple, and radiant orange brighten the urban drab.
A doctor once suggested that I use hypnosis to gain access to a self-critical inner voice that has plagued me since childhood. She said that the issues that had led me to seek treatment were unlikely to respond to conventional talk therapy.
Border Days in Grangeville have been held annually since 1911. Three days—July 2, 3, 4—of parades, cowboy breakfasts, pretty girls on horseback, and the oldest professional rodeo in Idaho.
My cottage on the western edge of the Great Basin fills with a 5 a.m. sunrise, a flood of orange light I can sip from my bed. Awakening, I remember that I heard a coyote during my sleep—a serenade from the underworld. Trickster Coyote gliding into the slipstream between the daylight touchstones and darkened dives.
It is Christmas Day in Lalibela, Ethiopia—December 25, the day chosen to commemorate the birth of Christ in the world of Western Christianity. In Ethiopia, the celebration won’t arrive for another fifteen days because the Ethiopian Orthodox Church adheres to the Eastern calendar.
In the beginning, from the inky black mouth of God, into a darkness so deep that any subsequent darkness seemed ironic, a pale simulacrum of true night, there was a word.
The First Man speaks: “You and I are of the same generation—baby boomers. We always had an eye toward the future and grew up in a certain abundance that our parents didn’t have growing up.