My dog park friends Diarmuid Rooney and AC Caldwell left this book, in a bag of others, on my front step the night before I departed Portland, Oregon for Buffalo, New York. A random act of generosity, I am reminded each time I hold this book of our many magical conversations about love, mystery and the soul’s potential.
I have not read this book cover-to-cover; yet I regularly open it at random and I am never disappointed. Of the many underlined passages, this one remains indelible:
“We feel there must be something wrong with the natural vulnerability that accompanies joy and refuse to harvest those moments which bring nothing to us but pure experience itself, where even failure is welcomed as the salt that gives flavor to the feast.”