My cabin in Jackson, N.Y, where I came to the country and wrote “Running To The Mountain,” the beginning of my journey into life.

June 13, 2009 — Gabriel Garcia Marquez is my favorite writer, and my favorite piece of his writing is his observation that a man can allow himself to be swayed by the conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.
  I believe this, very strongly. It is perhaps my most deeply held conviction. People who don’t see this suffer greatly with change and people who do understand the notion of adaptation.
   Today, I took Maria to Jackson, N.Y. to see the cabin where I wrote “Running To The Mountain,” and where my life began to change, in both awful and wonderful ways.
  Life has obliged me to give birth to myself, over and over again and nowhere is this more evident and emotional than on this hill, in the cabin now owned and much changed by a couple from New Jersey, who bought it because they read the book and came here looking for much the same thing I did. Mid-way through looking at my cabin, which was for sale, they realized it was the one I had written about, and they bought it. It was a rattling experience to go there with Maria and think of all that has happened to me and my life since I bought that then ramshackle little cottage, begin fixing it up, and had the strongest spiritual experience of my life.
  I was most often alone there, but never lonely. I read, walked, wrote and began the arduous and disturbing process of getting to know myself and the truth of my life. I fell into some dark places after I left the cabin, and some glorious ones as well, the nature of life.
 The cabin has changed. It is hardly recognizable, as is much of my life, but I still love the place, its sense of quiet isolation, it’s wondrous view.
  And the simplicity of being there, mostly with my two Labs, Julius and Stanley, who began my writing about dogs and animals, and thus led me to my farm.
  Standing there, on the mountain, walking through the house and the addition, I thought of friends made and lost, of a life changed forever, of pain and sorrow and joy and love. Of the threads of live that we weave and weave and weave. And here I am, some books and years later,  obliged once more to give birth to myself, today, tomorrow and forever.
  I’m not good at crying but I was close to it there. I am grateful to that cabin, and for the way in which it opened up my life.