Anne Dillard

and this morning started a bit different already, too – instead of checking world news, i browsed blogs. there was a new post in my topography, with these lines in it:

“A weekend trip south, to Blue Poppy's, to spend time with wonderful Lizardek and her lovely mom, and Elizabeth and her T. Ambling walks in the sunshine with a crowd of golden pups. Every moment filled up with wonder and delight and gratitude: these women come from my planet. Some days I feel entirely alien to the orbit of people I'm surrounded with at work. People who aren't apt to contemplate karma, or Annie Dillard, or gel matte transfers, or the way light falls on a row of golden gourds on a vintage chest of drawers. But these women, they are brilliant, insightful, generous, and beautiful. They make my heart sing.“ (link)

coming from the same planet. it's a funny way to put it, but it's true. and the post took me further – it made me take a look at Annie Dillard's writing. this is a bit of her biography:

“After a near-fatal bout of pneumonia in 1971, Dillard decided that she needed to experience life more fully and began work on Pilgrim at Tinker Creek. She spent four seasons living near Tinker Creek, a suburban area surrounded by forests, creeks, mountains, and myriad animal life. When she wasn't in the library, she spent her time outdoors, walking and camping. After living there for about a year, Dillard began to write about her experiences near the creek. She started by transposing notes from her twenty-plus-volume reading journal. It took her eight months to turn the notecards into the book. Towards the end of the eight months, she was so absorbed that she sometimes wrote for fifteen hours a day, cut off from society without interest in current events (like the Watergate scandal). The finished book brought her a Pulitzer Prize in 1975 at the age of twenty-nine.”