It’s Thursday in Montana. I’ve had the trip of a lifetime, and now I’m watching the smoke from forest fires settle over Whitefish and hide the mountains from view, like a gray cloak concealing a precious work of art. Back home in Florida, my family and friends are bracing themselves for the threat of Hurricane Irma, which CNN is simply calling, “a monster.” With images of Hurricane Harvey still fresh in our minds, almost everyone I know has filled at least part of their days with prayer or worry or both this week.
The first time I fell in love with the written story was when I was about nine years-old, and my mother read an Emily Dickinson poem to me from a leather-bound . . .