Anyone who thinks loving the earth is beautiful has never kept a compost bucket.
Squishy pumpkin guts. Black coffee grounds. Gobs of gooey matter whose origin as food is no longer discernible.
We load the bucket into the back of the pickup truck and ride to Binghampton where we lift the lid of this paint bucket that we’ve fancied-up by calling...
I went for the mummies hanging in the trees. What I found were the ginkgos.
The yard had won “Best Overall” for its eerie bodies wrapped in spidery cocoons swaying from tree branches. I wanted my husband to see it, simply because it was spectacular. I’m more a fool for Halloween than he is, but those upside-down bodies!
When we turned and left...
Someone I care for dearly is caught in an unjust situation. Yesterday, I railed at “the system” that threatens to open its gaping maw and swallow him whole. Today, I am overwhelmed by our lack of forgiveness.
We excoriate each other over perceived injustices which often are, in fact, injustices. If we knew that fact so firmly and...
I am now doing an exercise I can’t spell.
Pilates, I think, which sounds so exotic (another word I can’t spell). No big deal, except, as a writer, I’d like to know the word for what I’m doing.
“As a writer”—same reason it galls me when I end up pawing through my pocketbook searching for the nonexistent pen....
My husband thought I was going to leave him because I learned how to turn on the TV.
Friday night, he was late coming home from work, and the seventh game of the World Series was starting—I was motivated. Two controls is one more than I can handle (I’ve learned not to look for an “on” button) but when he came through the door, there I was, watching...
My cousin, a psychologist, was visiting me in Memphis. He walked from room to room. Finally, he turned to me and said, “You have all these odd creatures in your house.”
Wonder what he’d think of me now?
But Halloween demands a certain amount of dementedness, don’t you think?
This eyeball walks. That’s Elvis...
Give people a story that echoes with familiarity yet rings brand new.
I had that thought several days ago, which was followed yesterday by this quote from Harding Davis courtesy of A.Word.A.Day (which I love): “The secret of good writing is to say an old thing in a new way or a new thing in an old way.”
I love the old echo. I also...
I reactivate this blog, and Michael dies.
Yesterday, I was all pumped up about creativity and possibility. I was infused with enthusiasm, drunk on inspiration and the power of the Spirit.
Today, Michael died.
I am bewildered by what happened: how can a man who wrote about his change of luck, whose last article was about finding a new safe place...
Reactivating the blog, which has taken me through the maze of remembering my password, changing the email (because they thought they’d sent me an email to an address that I couldn’t remember ever having set up – no chance I’d remember the password to THAT) and re-familiarizing myself with how to add a new post.
What happens when you facilitate a group of writers who have experienced homelessness? You learn. You learn things that you – by which I mean me – would otherwise never know. The main thing I’ve learned is that homelessness can befall any of us. Our immense creativity will not keep us out of homelessness. Our love of God, our...