I am going back and forth on the rating for this one: On the one hand, there's less than 150 pages and at least 7 sticky notes... this reflects well on the book. On the other hand, there's ... just something- A tone. A knowing-ness. A "Secret" vibe. - that made uncomfortable with the whole of the book. So, 3 stars, but with the caveat that I know Lindbergh was probably smarter & more in tune with herself than I will ever be with myself, and maybe that's off-putting to me?I look back at the sticky notes, hoping for some inspiration, wisdom: "Communication - but not for too long. Because good communication is stimulating as black coffee, and just as hard to sleep after." It's there, in the thoughts so clearly spelled out that I marked them to come back to later - her thinking through the value in and of her life, and finding out so many things about herself and her relationships, during this break from it all, sitting in an isolated cabin, walking on an abandoned beach. I don't know, something about it is so uplifting, this woman finding both the personal and universal truths in her life - "For 'there is no one-and-only,' as a friend of mine once said in a similar discussion, 'there are just one-and-only moments.'" - It's breathtaking and beautiful, and at the same time, frustrating to me. In a way I can't fully describe, the simplicity of it all (describing her thoughts and revelations as different types of shells) frustrates me. It makes me feel stupid, instead of inspired. Because I'm not making things as simple as they seem here, and I don't know how to. Part of what annoys me is her obvious privileges - to spare the time away, to take those breaths that renew her without constant pain or a child crying at her leg - when she counsels others to take the time for themselves, I feel that raging frustration of "Well, sure, but HOW Do You Do That In Real Life?" And I know her times were different, and I really don't know anything about her life at all (I know the basics, and looked up more after I read the book - The lost baby, the exile, the hounding press, the feminist icon, the naturalist, eventually disabled by a stroke and lost not all that long ago) but I know it was hard, and that she could put together the pieces with such clarity as she writes in this book ("Now, instead of planting our solitude with our own dream blossoms, we choke the space with continuous music, chatter, and companionship to which we do not even listen. It is simple there to fill the vacuum. When the noise stops there is no inner music to take its place. We must re-learn to be alone." And this is pre TV/Twitter/Tumblr, people, but it's my life.) It pisses me off and gives me hope at the same time. That deserves 3 stars all on its own, I suppose.