My mom used to tell me that you can't make a living out of caring.

I was thinking about that this morning. We are unpacking now and I always move too slowly. Always have. I stop and look at things, remember. Often I find a novel or a book and just begin reading. Hours will pass.

I unpacked The Angel On The Roof last night, Russell Banks' short story collection and I stole it away from the boxes and have been reading it since. The stories are wonderful, it has one of my favorites, The Moor, but it's the introduction that always gets me. Banks talks about his mother telling stories and telling stories in general and the staying power or lack thereof of those tales.

Years ago an ex-girlfriend in an attempt to be really cruel told me that all I want is someone to listen to my stories. I remember the comment, in fact I hold it close to me and have had since then. In many ways she was right at the time and beyond that. It makes me sad. I wonder if it's still true. Funny, in the context of writing this blog.

I haven't threaded the connection togteher but my mom telling me you can't make a living out of caring sidles up right beside it. Two thoughts together.