The Past is never dead, it's not even past.

William Faulkner wrote that in his novel Requiem for a nun, and my mom liked to quote it a lot. I found an addendum of sorts to it online

recently, a quote by a writer named Greg Isles from his book The Quiet Game. I want to

read it to you because I think it speaks to grief in a powerful way.

Iles wrote, Faulkner said the past is never dead, it's not even passed.

All of us labor and web spun long before we were born, webs of

heredity and environment, of desire and consequence of history and

eternity. Haunted by wrong turns and roads not taken, we pursue images perceived as new, but whose providence

dates to the dim dramas of childhood, which are themselves but ripples of consequence echoing down the generations.

The quotidian demands of life distract from this resonance of images and events, but some of us feel

it always.

The past has felt especially present to me these last few weeks.

Perhaps it's because of the holidays I've so long avoided or the anniversary of my dad's death last Friday, but the

dim dramas of my childhood have been playing out very brightly in my mind.

The grief I've so long buried is increasingly, insistently trying to make itself known to me.

I just don't know if I'm ready to welcome it.

I'm not sure what's more embarrassing my desire to weep or my continued

difficulty in doing so. This is all there is with me, Anderson Cooper.

My guest on the podcast is Ashley Judd, but before we start, I want to mention that we're going

to be discussing the death of Ashley's mom, singer Naomi Judd, who died by suicide. If you or someone you love is struggling,

help is available. In the US, you can call or tax the National Suicide and Crisis Lifeline

at 988.

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