I live in Memphis on an island with wild edges and a dog who loves them as much as I do.
I have a wood-burning fireplace in my house.
I go to St. Mary’s Episcopal Cathedral where the Dean stands up in the pulpit and preaches the most unsettling, Holy truths, in a caring, loving way.
I can walk to the grocery store. I can walk to the coffee shop. I can walk to the cleaners, but I don’t because if I’m going to the cleaners, I’m toting clothes.
I have a weekly writing group where we can talk about anything and, while you might get hooted for your comments, you know you’re loved.
I have a monthly writing group that is made up of some of the finest writers I know.
I have wind chimes outside my bedroom window and a dove of peace that coos.
I have good friends who invite me to meet them for coffee where we exchange wisdom and laugh.
I can hang out at Caritas Village whenever I want.
I can drink the world’s best water straight from the tap.
I know how to work the burners on the stove.
I walk past flowers blooming in my yard whenever I leave through the front door.
I can see the Mississippi River—sometimes sparkling or flat or muddy or laced with the deepest sheen of blue—every single day.
I know my way ’round Memphis town. I know which direction is east, west, north and south. I don’t get lost.
I have a bathtub.
I have a printer.
I have a guest bedroom where people can come and stay and fill the house with love.
I can go for walks in the Old Forest in one of the country’s most famous parks where the boughs lean over us like a hushed sanctuary.
I know where to buy petit fours.
I share this life with my husband, whom I love dearly and who is with me most anywhere I go, but life in Memphis would be bereft of fun without him.