The Atomic Weight of Love

We have to take flight. It's not given to us, served up on a pretty, parsley-bordered platter. We have to take wing. Was I brave enough to do that? Or would I be content to remain earthbound?

Of course women are flighty, I thought. We have more predators than men.

What are the evolutionary implications of kindness?

Take one Naive Girl. Bring to room temperature in the Big City. Add three cups Academia. If in one cup Encouragement. Fold in two drop Love. Sprinkle with one teaspoon Adoration. Mix thoroughly. Spoon carefully into greased Pan of Matrimony. Bake in Desert Heat for 25. Test doneness with Careless Toothpick. Let cool on Wire Rack of Inertia. Serve with generous dollops of Benign Neglect.

It was magic to be above [the clouds], to see their uppermost contours, the way they caught the light and held it, their vast shadows moving upon the face of the earth. I wished I could open the window and know what the world sounded like at that altitude. I thought about the solitude of that world, how it must be inhabited by the voice of the wind, only. ... I thought about what my crows saw as they flew above canyons and treetops, the birds-eye view of life. They would recognize specific trees, perches, and nesting sites from a completely different perspective than I could. Their maps differed from mine; they knew the topography, the contours of the landscape, on a much grander scale.

Passion walks the edge of control, teasing. It looks down at the rocks in a canyon and contemplates plunging, taking one fatal step to the right. It soars, having released the weight of consciousness of all but the moment. At

But Alden never knew how to measure the weight of a sigh. He could not predict the moment when the petal of a spent rose would release and descend. Alden could not tell me when a screech owl would cry out from a darkened pine bough outside my bedroom window and insinuate itself into my dreams. I

As I watched him, I wondered how many times a heart can heal. Are we allotted a specific number of comebacks from heartbreak? Or is that what really kills us, in the end—not strokes or cancer or pneumonia—but instead just one too many blows to the heart? Doctors talk of 'cardiac insults'—such a perfect tun of phrase—but they know nothing of the heart, not truly.

I would not open the door to hope, no matter how exquisite her feathers, how promising and sweet her song. I was done with hope.

writing is an intensely solitary endeavor, but a story isn't truly heard until many hands have held it.

To question, to ponder, and to learn. Education was my drug of choice—classrooms, books, lectures, pushing myself to understand.

I drew myself alone, but contentedly so, and purposeful.

And then I waited, which is easy, in concept. In practice, it's difficult to resist the impulse to fill silence, to let the person you love off the hook, to let them be.

My eighty-eight birthday arrives shortly. I cannot fathom that number of years. I admit to seeing an old woman when I look in the mirror–the short, wispy, flyaway white hair that is evident I cut myself, the thick population of brown spots on the backs of my hands and forearms, the still–vibrant blue eyes– and I am surprised, always, because inside, where I live, I am at most forty, still eager for change, still hungry for learning, still curious, still yearning.

1. Among the smartest animals on Earth, the American Crow is highly adaptable.

I was seeing a crow funeral, as impossible as that seemed. They’d gathered for White Wing. To say good-bye? To honor him? I couldn’t

Smart, dangerous predators, ravens are larger although more slender than the crow, with a thick neck and shaggy throat feathers.

A male Steller’s jay, his black head peaked with that bit of stegosaurus spike, joined the other jays in chastising me. I

This part of New Mexico was so much greener than Albuquerque, and I could see clear changes in vegetation as we gained altitude,

We dropped a second bomb—code-named Fat Man—on Nagasaki on August 9, and on August 15, Japan accepted the terms of an unconditional surrender.

We ventured east of the Plaza to the cool interior of the minuscule gothic Loretto Chapel to see the wooden spiral staircase,

shadowed portico of the Palace of the Governors on the Plaza,

RATIONING BEGAN IN EARNEST that summer—sugar, gasoline, even typewriters could only be purchased by using ration coupons. Every man, woman, and child was issued a coupon booklet

Genetics have given me a tongue I can roll, unattached earlobes, and the recessive trait of clear, light-blue eyes.

At night, I closed my eyes in my narrow single bed and prayed a godless prayer of gratitude for every moment, every opportunity of each day.

Careers in science?” “Careers in whatever. But not just careers—I’m thinking of lives of independence. Strong lives. Brave lives. How can a girl who’s only lived

A wise friend once told me that we only grow through pain—never through joy or simple contentment. Pain teaches us what we value, and it can teach us who we are (or strive to be). I believe that we build resilience, true strength, only through suffering.

I READ MY POEM “Recipe for Crushed Hope” to the women’s discussion group: Take one Naïve Girl. Bring to room temperature in the Big City. Add three cups Academia. Sift in one cup Encouragement. Fold in two drops Love. Sprinkle with one teaspoon Adoration. Mix thoroughly. Spoon carefully into greased Pan of Matrimony. Bake in Desert Heat for 25 years. Test doneness with Careless Toothpick. Let cool on Wire Rack of Inertia.