I am saddened by the death of Philip Seymour Hoffman. He is an actor I admire and he passed so young.
I have been busy with my book, Love Letters to My Daughters-in-Law. Book Passage is offering help on self-publishing so I signed up, unaware, which is a good thing, of all that is involved. In self-publishing, it is up to me to find a photo for the cover. I do not perceive myself as a visual person, so it has been interesting to head out with a camera, taking photos of rocks, buildings, fairy doors, and hearts, hearts, hearts. I have learned that inside shooting requires the darkness of night, and the light of the lamp that hangs over my kitchen table works well, so I now have about 500 photos of hearts, hearts people have given me over the years, hearts arranged in a multitude of ways, and in differing rays of light. I also took some photos of a statue my mother gave me years ago. The statue is of a little girl and my mother thought she looked like me and perhaps she does, as I was, and may still be, inside, and energetically and enthusiastically.
I have felt the book was done but now I go through it yet again, super-critical, since I don't want to pay for an editor, though BP suggests it since it is difficult to find our own mistakes. I sit with that. Does it matter if there are errors? I thought it did, but now I'm thinking I could make a game of it. "Find the errors, if you dare." Are there errors in this life? Has Hoffman's life ended as it was meant to be?
Here is an article on building our own coffin. Perhaps in some ways, each breath we give and take is that building, if we allow ourselves to see and feel the delicacy and preciousness of these moments we share.