Because we can't escape our ancient hunger to live close to nature, we encircle the house with lawns and gardens, install picture windows, adopt pets and Boston ferns, and scent everything that touches our lives.

Knee-deep in the cosmic overwhelm, I’m stricken by the ricochet wonder of it all: the plain everythingness of everything, in cahoots with the everythingness of everything else.

We try to exile ourselves more and more from nature - not always consciously: We build houses; we dismiss nature; nature has to be outside, because we're inside. God forbid something like a cockroach comes inside, or some dust.

Which is crueler, an old man's lost memories of a life lived, or a young man's lost memories of the life he meant to live?

Part of the irony of environmentalism is questing for solutions when you know you're part of the problem.

Mystery causes a mental itch, which the brain tries to soothe with the balm of reasonable talk.

Hit a tripwire of smell and memories explode all at once. A complex vision leaps out of the undergrowth.