I had never seen the color green like that before.
Touching down at the Shannon Airport in southwest Ireland, the lush, vibrant green landscape of my ancestors took my breath away. It was August 2005, and I was about to embark on a collegiate semester abroad.
Count my daughter among the millions of kids whose first word was “doggy.” For a several-week stretch, “doggy” was also her only word. She used it liberally, be it a salutation for the grocery store clerk or pointing out a squirrel in the backyard.
We don’t have a dog anymore, but there’s something about dogs. Kids just love them. Mine are no exception.
Robert Morgan has a rare and cunning gift: he can sift through the detritus of the past, pluck objects and images from his memory (especially his childhood) and elevate them to the point where they become — in the sense that Joseph Campbell uses the word — “numinous.”