I am reading one of the most beautiful books I have ever read. All The Light We Cannot See. I have so much to say about it, but I don't have time today because I am packing to go camping- midnight hole. This time I am bringing a wetsuit because I get so cold and this time I want to explore the emerald waters. I love it there. It reminds me of something very important to my heart. There is a nine mile run that I have figured out, a loop to an upper falls that is supposed to be beautiful as well. It should be fun. And I hope to finish the book. I have about 100 pages to go. It is about a blind girl and a German soldier. I cannot put it down at times, the story and the language so beautiful. 

Einstein suffered from terrible stomach aches. Ultimately, they are what killed him but he managed the pain all the way back to his 20s. I can relate. I have a stomach ache most days, sometimes they can be crippling. He was not very interested in food because of it, and I am the same way. I love cooking but am largely indifferent to food because of my stomach. Running helps. Yoga helps, though sometimes makes it worse. Writing can either help or make it much worse. It depends. For Einstein, his stomach aches drove him to live an even more austere and simple life. He liked to sit in his study and do equations. He had a small sailboat and he would sail. He took long walks and hikes. Elsa, his wife, understood this about his stomach and helped him manage through good food and her loving touch. I've learned to push through the stomach aches. I've had them since I was a little girl. I've learned to accept that they are just a part of me like any other feature. Einstein also didn't like to drive. I can relate to that as well. You miss so much in the car. I prefer walking. Einstein was famous for wandering around Princeton and getting lost because he was so deeply caught up in his thoughts. I aspire to that. To not have to drive much at all and to walk most places so that I can think and observe, or even get to that space I get to with running where I hardly think at all, I am just breathing, indifferent to where I am geographically, and pacing my stride. 

The last part of the book was the most interesting. It displayed a lovely and sad photo of Einstein at the beginning of one of the last chapters. The sadness in his eyes caught my attention and then when I finished the book, I went back to the photo and stared at it for a long time. It actually made me cry once I understood. 
"Do you think they will ever forgive me?" he had said to one of his dear friends. Einstein did not make the bomb, he was excluded from that process because he was feared to be a spy, nor did he want to participate. He did, however, write to the president and alert him to the potential of it, and that letter initiated the whole Manhattan Project. E=mc2 was the revelation that led to development of the ideas which then led to the bomb, but those formulations were developed by others. Einstein felt responsible though and never forgave himself for unleashing this knowledge on humanity. The portrait of him conveys this deep sadness, such a kind and playful man and the weight of the world. I felt and still feel an overwhelming sense of compassion and sadness when I look at this photo. He became famous and so celebrated for uncovering this incredible truth about the universe, and yet, it became this terrible burden on his conscience. 

Bone
by Mary Oliver

1.

Understand, I am always trying to figure out
what the soul is,
and where hidden,
and what shape 
and so, last week,
when I found on the beach
the ear bone
of a pilot whale that may have died
hundreds of years ago, I thought
maybe I was close
to discovering something 
for the ear bone

2.

is the portion that lasts longest
in any of us, man or whale; shaped
like a squat spoon
with a pink scoop where
once, in the lively swimmer's head,
it joined its two sisters
in the house of hearing,
it was only
two inches long 
and thought: the soul
might be like this 
so hard, so necessary 

3.

yet almost nothing.
Beside me
the gray sea
was opening and shutting its wave-doors,
unfolding over and over
its time-ridiculing roar;
I looked but I couldn't see anything
through its dark-knit glare;
yet don't we all know, the golden sand
is there at the bottom,
though our eyes have never seen it,
nor can our hands ever catch it

4.

lest we would sift it down
into fractions, and facts 
certainties 
and what the soul is, also
I believe I will never quite know.
Though I play at the edges of knowing,
truly I know
our part is not knowing,
but looking, and touching, and loving,
which is the way I walked on,
softly,
through the pale-pink morning light.

One of the nice things about being up here is that it is so isolated. That is also one of the hardest things about being up here. To get to this page, if it is not a cloudy day, takes a really long time and sometimes I lose what I have done if the connection breaks. It is frustrating but keeps me out on the water more, I suppose. I had this weird experience the other day where I had this dream about finding all of these bird nests filled with eggs. They were all stacked together with hundreds of little eggs. I was frustrated because I couldn't find an blue robin's egg. It was a random dream that I happened to remember that day. Late in the afternoon I went running. There is a wooded trail that veers off of our driveway and into a beautiful wooded area then blueberry field. It is so beautiful. This winter was hard though and so there are a lot of trees down. I have to stop a lot and bushwhack. That day on the run I got to the first treefall and gingerly stepped around the tree. When I got to the other side I looked back at the tree and then down to the ground. There was a little robin's egg, all beautiful and blue peeking out of the pine needles. I grabbed it in my hand and carried it the rest of the way, a little gift. I don't really understand why life works that way or what it means (if anything) but it does happen and it feels magical when it does.