David Brooks

Creeks, the Atlanta Braves and Proust

Last week I went on a walk, and I felt practically lured into a creek. I first sat by it to enjoy the sun, think, pray, see what happened. The next thing I knew I was climbing around, busting up dams that had formed with winter’s leaves and branches, stepping on rocks, jumping around, and even feeling a little bit sorry for people rushing by in cars, not knowing that they too could stop and play (It’s really okay). And all at once,

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It Had to Be You.. Didn’t It?

I met my husband 32 years ago today. The story involves a raccoon coat, a mud puddle, a five-minute conversation, and then a call to my mother to tell her I’d “met the man I’m going to marry.” To which she replied, “What about your boyfriend?” (but that’s another story!).

We talked about soccer (not exactly a passion for either of us), and that’s the only topic I remember. We laughed about something, and it seems that we forged some connection over finding the same,

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