Who is this one who’s convinced she must improve me?
She tramped through the oxalis on a wet January evening, wondering at the recirculating advice device that seemed to be her brain.
A “retreat of solitude.” That’s the way she had described her coming week in the half- collapsed cabin, hunkering up to a leaky wood stove.
“Alone with my own thoughts” she had said. “Away from the breakneck speed of screens, terrorists, presidential candidates. (Really? Him? Again? She thought. That’s reason enough to hide in the woods for two years, not just a week.)