If I threw a rock down the gullet of this deep, lonely blog, would it hit at the bottom? Would it splash into some river run-off of old melancholy or all has that all dried up? Lodge itself into the thick damp remnants of fear. Or would that flung rock just hit the dry, cracked … More Echo echo echo echo….
Nature doesn’t take more than it needs. When it rains, the drops are welcomed for what they are. Used up quietly. Sunshine is thanked in the way leaves warm to green and birds chime at daybreak. Nature waits and blooms and fades, pushing into or pulling against a river’s current or sandy soil. Nature finds a … More Nature, Nurture
There is a man who lives in his truck behind the church near our house. He’s been there since springtime. It didn’t take us long to give the dark-haired man a name: “Walter.” We felt unsettled that he was around, stuck, with seemingly no where to go. This is our neighborhood, our space. We walk the dog in the late evenings, and … More Not Walter
Walter White. If you know this name, you know Heisenberg. It’s been weeks since the series finale of “Breaking Bad.” In this house, we are veiled in lethargic mourning. Evening television is flat, faulty, unsatisfying now that we have finished a month-long Netflix marathon of watching the life of Walter White evolve and dissolve. I miss … More My Inner Heisenberg
said Alice Munro. Then she won the Nobel Prize for Literature. What a beautiful accomplishment for a woman who described herself this way: “I’m not really an intellectual,” […] “I was an okay housewife but I wasn’t that great.” Be inspired to do two things today: 1) Visit your library and take home a book … More “I think maybe I was successful in doing this because I didn’t have any other talents,”
While reading my free copy (Starbucks iTunes Pick of the Week) of The Revised Fundamentals of Caregiving by Jonathan Evison, I came across this lovely description: “The sky is oppressive: slate gray and inching eastward. Not a sky for dreamers. A sky for people just trying to get by.” I paused. Reread the lines. Looked up at my own … More A Muse Is a Terrible Thing To Waste–If She Actually Has Something To Share
Field mice tell lies better than my husband when he began to fail, first in the evenings, counting out the rows and weights of the day’s downed wheat. his fingers an abacus on mother’s old plaid oilcloth. He counted the season’s crop, the winter’s stock, winnowing numbers over and over until no space remained in … More The Farmer’s Wife