I truly struggle with crowds and the overwhelming statistics on population. When I'm all alone in my room, I can easily say that "God loves everyone so earth-shatteringly much." However, last summer, when I was walking through the crowded Times Square, I just couldn't fathom it. I couldn't understand it even when only looking at a small fraction of the population, without even considering those who have already lived and passed away. There were just too many people. Surely, I had been wrong. How could one individual matter among this colony of indistinguishable worker bees?

Reading this book really helped, and I would encourage anyone else who has the same doubts to read it without wasting another moment doubting God's omnipotence and his all-encompassing, umbrella-like Love.

You may not find the answers to your questions. In fact, you'll likely walk away with even more. But understanding, which is a completely different thing from answers, may gradually dawn upon you. There's also something to be said about fulfillment: it doesn't come in the finding but in the seeking.

Faith and hope aren't definitive things like knowledge, but they are more than enough. They are even better. They are transformative, fulfilling, and life-giving. I've learned that with more questions, I can love people just a little more. I can begin to see the individual.

Tonight, I went to the symphony. An older man sat in front of me and to the side a bit so that I could see his side profile. While the second piece, the Trumpet Concerto by Edward Gregson, was being played, I looked at him. Not just the glare from his glasses, but I looked at the music filling his face. It wasn't coming from the stage but from him. He stood transfixed and separate from the ticking clock of time. In that moment, I felt like I knew him. He was telling me some sort of story.

I've never done that before at a symphony and only in small bursts elsewhere. I admit to creating fictions about people I pass in the street or narratives about the people whose homes I inspect on my walks. I once saw a bird feeder in a tree and a porch on a house and imagined a man and woman sitting outside in the summer to watch the birds. She gasps and swats his arm to get his already undivided attention when she sees a hummingbird. They were her mother's favorite, so they're hers too. Fiction is fun, but truly seeing what is there and feeling familiar enough with a person, even if only for a moment, that you can love them is so incredibly good. It filled my bones with something. I don't know what it was, but I'm sure you've felt it too. And I thank Annie Dillard for it, for helping me in that moment to see the individual in that crowded place. (I'm sure the music was coming from many more faces there too, but it doesn't matter because I saw it in the one. I saw it in the one).

(So many scatterbrained thoughts that are likely incoherent, but I'm writing them at about one in the morning, so it's only natural they present themselves in this way).

As Martin Buber astutely observed, writing at his peak near the turn of the last century, the realm of ordinary days "affords" us that precise connection with God which redeems both us and our tiny corner of the world. God entrusts and allocates to each individual an area to redeem: this wrinkled and fragile life, "the world in which you live, just as it is and not otherwise."

A farmer has the power to unfetter souls and liberate divine sparks within "his beasts and his houses, his garden and his meadow, his tools and his food." Presumably, here and now, an ordinary individual would approach the bank and post office, the car pool, the God-help-us television, the retirement account, the car, desk, phone, and keys with a holy and compassionate intention. "Insofar as he cultivates and enjoys them in holiness, he frees their souls... He who prays and sings in holiness, eats and speaks in holiness, in holiness performs the appointed ablutions, and in holiness reflects upon his business, through him the sparks which have fallen will be uplifted, and the worlds which have fallen will be delivered and renewed."

"It is given to men to lift up the fallen and to free the imprisoned. Not merely to wait, not merely to look on! Man is able to work for the redemption of the world."

The work is not yours to finish, Rabbi Tarfon said, but neither are you free to take no part in it. This profound message reminds us that we all have a role to play in the redemption of the world, no matter how ordinary our lives may seem. We can find meaning and purpose in the simplest of tasks and interactions, and by approaching them with a sense of holiness and compassion, we can make a positive impact on the world around us.

The Mahabharata poses a profound question: “Of all the world’s wonders, which is the most wonderful?” The answer is, “That no man, though he sees others dying all around him, believes that he himself will die.” Birth, sand, clouds, numbers, encounters, evil, and the present moment – these are the elements that make up our existence. The essays in this work rekindle deep existential anxieties that we often try to repress, and then attempt to quell them through comparison.

An atom lost in the universe confronts the nature of things. We are reminded that anyone’s close world of family and friends is a small group compared to the vastness of the world. Millions of children die each year from preventable diseases, and yet we often do not blink. The paleontologist feels the sense of being “an atom lost in the universe,” and individuals blur in our minds. We suffer from what Ernest Becker called the denial of death, which is a kind of reality fatigue.

But then, we are also confronted with the studious eyes of a newborn baby in the maternity ward. The baby looks at us with a pure gaze, as if inspecting the world from a new angle. We are reminded that life glistens in her eyes, and that she has a self and a calm consciousness. We are left wondering why anything exists at all, and why we are aware of this question.

The author seeks comfort in distractions, but this book does not allow for that. It confronts reality in its essence. We are reminded of the sheer mass of humanity and their transience, and we are left with a certain emptiness. But perhaps this emptiness is a necessary step in coming to terms with our existence and finding meaning in a world that can seem so vast and indifferent.

“We are civilized generation number 500 or so, counting from 10,000 years ago when we settled down. We are Homo sapiens generation number 7,500, counting from 150,000 years ago when our species presumably arose. And we are human generation number 125,000, counting from the earliest Homo species. Yet how can we see ourselves as only a short-term replacement cast for a long-running show, when a new batch of birds flies around singing, and new clouds move?”
“Ours is a planet sown in beings. Our generations overlap like shingles. We don’t fall in rows like hay, but we fall. Once we get here, we spend forever on the globe, most of it tucked under. While we breathe, we open time like a path in the grass. We open time as a boat’s stem slits the crest of the present.”
“For every one of us living people, including every newborn at the moment it appears, there are roughly one thousand pounds of living termites.”

Probably my favorite Dillard (along with Holy the Firm).

Her works have a certain charm that is truly captivating.

The world she creates is otherworldly, filled with strange and enchanting elements that draw the reader in.

It's as if she has a unique perspective that allows her to see beyond the ordinary and into a realm that is both mysterious and close.

This book is a continual read for me.

Whenever I start to feel unmoored, I turn to it for comfort and inspiration.

It's like a reliable friend that always knows how to ground me and make me feel centered again.

The words flow like a gentle stream, carrying me along on a journey of self-discovery and wonder.

I can't recommend this book enough to anyone who is looking for a truly special reading experience.

It's a gem that will stay with you long after you've turned the last page.

Probably would have loved this when I was eighteen. At that age, life was full of excitement and new experiences. I was constantly seeking out things that would make me feel alive and passionate. This might have been a new hobby, a thrilling adventure, or a deep and meaningful relationship.

Eighteen-year-old me was full of dreams and aspirations. I had big plans for the future and was eager to make them a reality. I was not afraid to take risks and step out of my comfort zone. I believed that anything was possible if I worked hard enough and followed my heart.

Looking back now, I can see how much I have changed since then. But I still remember the excitement and enthusiasm that I felt at eighteen. And I know that a part of that young, passionate me still exists within.

Don't get me wrong. Annie and I are going to be serious friends.

However, this has dragged on for me. It seems that the process of building this friendship has been a bit long and perhaps a bit tiresome.

I think that if this were to happen in school, it might have been different. In school, with the constant interaction and shared activities, friendships often develop more naturally and quickly.

Maybe I would have loved it then. The excitement of new friendships in school, the shared experiences, and the sense of belonging that comes with it.

But now, outside of that school environment, it feels a bit more challenging. Nevertheless, I still look forward to building a strong and meaningful friendship with Annie.

Despite the slow start, I believe that our friendship has the potential to grow and become something wonderful.

This one had truly surprised me, especially after having read her Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. I had anticipated that she would fix her gaze upon the tiniest of things with an amazing depth of connectiveness and profound insight. However, this time, her gaze was firmly turned towards religion and humanity.

It was not at all surprising that she did not receive the same high scores on Goodreads for this work as she did for her Pulitzer Prize-winning piece. People are often rather touchy when it comes to matters of their humanity and their perception of God. Those who read too casually and have a visceral reaction to what might seem like a negation of God will miss out just as much as those who read with the assumption that she is on their anti-religion side. In my opinion, she is neither.

She moves seamlessly from one scene to another, in different times and places. She lays these scenes out before you, allowing you to discover the themes, draw the connections, and most importantly, question. Questioning is the very foundation of understanding and insight. There is a thread of sadness woven into the fabric of this book: the murders of millions, which were intentional and sanctioned. There is a consideration of both the twisted and the sublime, without any overarching moral code imposed by Dillard. Instead, they are held up against the icons of religiosity and spirituality, as if being held into the light, so to speak. This one does not glitter in the same way that Pilgrim... did. But though it is offered just as gently, it shines with a jarring importance that cannot be ignored.

The closer we draw near to death, the more intently we follow the news.

Such profound reflections from Anne Dillard truly endeared this book to me. It is filled with concise paragraphs on various aspects like birth, death, God, good, and evil. I found myself becoming somewhat addicted to each page. If we were to liken our book collections to wine comparisons, this volume would surely land in the Chianti section. It is medium-bodied with high acidity.

This is where they wash the newborns like dishes.

Lest one might think Dillard simply rambles on like a Zeppelin song, she actually weaves everything together, like ordinary beads on a never-ending string, through the life story of Pierre Teilard de Chardin. A philosopher, priest, geologist, and wanderer, being a Jesuit, he believed that one could discover God in all things, even in the vast Gobi Desert.

The spark of goodness within things, that Gnostic-like spark which even the most evil tendency encloses, gives evil its very being.

This is a book that defies easy categorization. In fact, I checked the local library to see where it was shelved, and it was placed within the Essays section. However, the library copy seemed rather uncertain of its place on that shelf. It could just as easily fit into other areas. I gave it a good pep talk to ensure it understood that it was different and, thus, more valuable.

Then I went home and indulged in a glass of Chianti and water.

Book Season = Spring (for good must exist when the gardens bloom).

I truly and sincerely hope that there isn't a really outstanding book by Annie Dillard that I'm somehow overlooking. This is because when I read this particular one in high school, I didn't take much pleasure in it, and it actually deterred me from delving into more of her works.

I do recall some beautiful and vivid imagery within the pages. The account of the Chinese army specifically has remained firmly in my memory all these years later. However, that's pretty much all that comes to mind. Otherwise, I generally found myself rather bored while reading it.

It's a pity that this one experience had such an impact on my perception of Annie Dillard's writing. Maybe I should give her another chance and explore some of her other books to see if there are hidden gems that I've been missing.

Anything by Annie Dillard is truly worth reading.

I first discovered her remarkable works when I was reading 'Pilgrim at Tinker Creek' in the 70's.

That book had an immediate and profound impact on me.

The way she described the natural world, her keen observations, and her deep philosophical insights were simply captivating.

I loved that book so much that I have re-read it several times over the years.

Each time I pick it up, I discover something new and gain a deeper appreciation for her writing.

Annie Dillard's works are not only beautifully written but also offer a unique perspective on life, nature, and the human experience.

Whether it's her essays, poetry, or memoirs, she has the ability to transport readers to another world and make them see things in a different light.

If you haven't yet discovered the works of Annie Dillard, I highly recommend that you do so.

You won't be disappointed.

In this audacious little book, Annie Dillard embarks on a profound exploration of various themes.

She ponders the mysteries of God, the inherent holiness of newborns, and the insignificance of each individual in the vast expanse of geologic time. Her prose is sharp and astringent, yet it is also filled with a wry appreciation for the brilliance and genuineness that exists among us. At the same time, there is a barely controlled horror at our animal fates and our capacity for indifference and evil.

Dillard unfolds her meditation in discrete chunks. Each of the book's seven chapters is divided into segments, presented more or less in this order: Birth, Sand, China, Clouds, Numbers, Israel, Encounters, Thinkers, Evil, and Now.

What is truly impressive is how these diverse subjects come together. Take sand, for example. The earth's rivers create it by breaking up rocks, and then spew it into the sea, which throws it back to form beaches. The ocean merely refines it. But this leads to the question: Why are ancient civilizations buried so deep? It is because of sand and loess. We are being patiently buried by the Earth, which steadily takes us back.

Dillard wants us to ponder such accretion. We are as ephemeral as clouds, both individually and as generations in the course of time. Our civilizations too pass away. She finds herself reading the news more faithfully as she ages, succumbing to the delusion that we and our time are unique in human history. But she quickly dismisses this, stating that our times are ordinary, just a slice of life like any other.

Meanwhile, we the living continue to encounter each other. Dillard's prose is distilled and rigorous. In the holy land, she witnesses birds mating in the air and snails engaged in a long act of copulation in wet litter. A Palestinian boy urinates his name in the sand behind a camel. In China, she watches a man pulling a plow harnessed to his body, creating long blue shadows.

Grounding her juxtapositions in the astonishing facts that we often overlook, such as the eight million gene combinations in each of us and the one million years it takes for a river to move a grain of sand one hundred miles, Dillard earns her flights of fancy and even her despair.

Reared as a Pittsburgh Scotch-Irish Presbyterian girl, she converted to Catholicism, then absorbed Jewish mysticism and finally called herself a "Hasidic Christian." In this book, she wonders about the nature of God and questions the idea of an all-knowing deity who presides over our suffering.

Onward we go, and Dillard notes the paradoxical view that heroism and holiness are in the past while our time is uniquely historic and significant. Both are erroneous and prideful notions, as she elegantly dismisses. In fact, the absolute is available to everyone in every age.

But who is wise? Dillard quotes Confucius weeping when he understood he would soon die. Maybe he just loved the world and hated to leave it. Or perhaps it implies something less, like common surprise. We are just here for the time being, playing with new gizmos and forgetting our ancient ancestors' skills. We don't mourn those we can't imagine, whether they died yesterday or 10,000 years ago.

An excellent example of zooming in and out in an essay can be seen in the works of certain accomplished writers. The way they meander through various details and ideas, yet always remain purposeful, is truly remarkable. Writing essays well is no easy feat. It requires a great deal of skill, creativity, and the ability to organize thoughts effectively. However, there are some who have mastered this art, and Dillard is无疑 one of them. Her essays are a testament to her talent and expertise. She has the ability to draw the reader in with her vivid descriptions and engaging stories, and then zoom out to offer broader insights and perspectives. This dynamic approach keeps the reader engaged and interested from start to finish. Dillard's work serves as an inspiration for all those who strive to write essays that are not only well-written but also thought-provoking and impactful.