I’ve logged more experience than most with simplicity and the complexity you discover inside simplicity, minimalism and asocial behavior, endurance and landscape.
Here is the truth: I think some deep wisdom inside me (a) sensed the stress, (b) was terrified for me, and (c) gave me something new and hard to focus on in order to prevent me from lapsing into a despair coma — and also to keep me from having a jelly jar of wine in my hand.
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Frederick Reiken is the author of three novels, most recently Day for Night, which was a finalist for the 2010 Los Angeles Times Book Prize in fiction. He lives with his wife and two daughters in western Massachusetts, where he’s the coach of his five-year-old’s soccer team. He teaches creative writing at Emerson College and will be the writer-in-residence at the Netherlands Institute for Advanced Study in 2014.
But there’s a force that pulls with quiet, steady gravity; a single force that doesn’t go away, no matter where I am or what I’m doing. It seems primordial. I suspect it has something to do with love. Or that it is, precisely, love. Whatever name one wants to give it, it is the force that trumps all else, the force that causes me to wish to be right here, just as I am, forever, watching my daughter as she makes another valentine.