It has been a long time since a book has cut me so close to the bone . . . some passages so eerily similar to my own private thoughts, the ones I have bravely scribbled upon the plethora of pages beside my bed.
Stumbling across a raw truth in someone else’s work can feel confrontational, jarring at first and then once settled feels more like a shared intimacy . . . like a clever wink from a friend who knows all of your secrets.
With masterful strokes, Jodi Picoult paints a story as complex and fascinating as the hieroglyphs in the ancient Egyptian tombs she describes.
She excavates and explores relationships, the delicate structures of love that we build throughout our lives . . . and the rooms we meant to finish (on that elusive someday).
Sometimes life gets in the way and changes the design, our blueprint forever altered. Nearing the end of life we begin to ask ourselves . . . Which of those room-like relationships had the best angles? Did we provide enough light to fill up those spaces? The choices we’ve made and the ones that were made for us . . . the contemplation, the multitudes, and wonderment of it all. Incomplete monuments . . . our lives unfinished.
My final thought — We are all broken and beautiful. Sometimes we bind ourselves with fear or place too much focus on endings that we forget to fully live out our story.
The Book of Two Ways is a must-read and has grabbed a special spot in my top twenty.
—I give it all the stars.
