Red Clocks (2017)
“Allow me to offer my services.
Eivør Mínervudottír did things she wasn’t supposed to. Took plunges.
“It doesn’t work for everyone,” said Dr. Kalbfleisch at their first appointment. “And you’re well over forty.”
Woman who is thin and ugly. Cruel and ugly old woman. Witch-like woman. Mínervudottír was forty-three when she died; the biographer turns forty-three in April. Crones to the bone.
“You need to cultivate acceptance,” said the meditation teacher. “Maybe motherhood isn’t your path.”
Accepta...nce, thinks the biographer, is the ability to see what is. But also to see what is possible.
She puts on her running shoes. Her gloves. Dark out: she’ll keep to the lit streets. She jogs up the hill, focusing, as her track coach taught her, on the balls of the feet pressing at the asphalt, press and release, press and release. Her breath is stiff. Sweat tingles in her armpits and at the top of her butt. She’s too out of shape for running to feel good, but it feels correct, a corrective—slam the blood through every vein, unseat the sediment, flush the channels, ask the heart to do more.MoreLess
Eivør Mínervudottír did things she wasn’t supposed to. Took plunges.
“It doesn’t work for everyone,” said Dr. Kalbfleisch at their first appointment. “And you’re well over forty.”
Woman who is thin and ugly. Cruel and ugly old woman. Witch-like woman. Mínervudottír was forty-three when she died; the biographer turns forty-three in April. Crones to the bone.
“You need to cultivate acceptance,” said the meditation teacher. “Maybe motherhood isn’t your path.”
Accepta...nce, thinks the biographer, is the ability to see what is. But also to see what is possible.
She puts on her running shoes. Her gloves. Dark out: she’ll keep to the lit streets. She jogs up the hill, focusing, as her track coach taught her, on the balls of the feet pressing at the asphalt, press and release, press and release. Her breath is stiff. Sweat tingles in her armpits and at the top of her butt. She’s too out of shape for running to feel good, but it feels correct, a corrective—slam the blood through every vein, unseat the sediment, flush the channels, ask the heart to do more.MoreLess
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