A morning alone at the cottage. No breakfast. Only coffee and water and the buzzing of the 40-year-old refrigerator fueling me as I head straightaway into two years of sobriety, fourteen years of marriage, and another autumn that leads to months of cold, stories unfinished, travels not taken, amends not made. The water will run. … More 9:30 am, Saturday Morning
On the porch, I pour hot water over the blood. Some seeps through the cracks. Some—bright red globules—float away over the edge. The rest, the kind found by crime scene investigators, bonds to whatever invisible blood bonds to, and waits. … More a glimpse of morning
For me. For you. The blue overlays the white, but we fight for clarity as we march toward destiny—an everchanging, growing evolution of experience. We won’t settle, except for slow times when recharging is necessary. An hour on the couch to zone out or laugh, be amazed, or afraid. Two chapters in a chair to … More simple depth
Once you start taking a hard look at yourself, measuring your decisions, weighing consequences, it’s easy to not drink. It’s easy to turn the other cheek. It’s easy to believe in others, and most of all, it’s easy to believe in you. And once you get on that path of believing in yourself, you pick up steam day by day, and become, in a way, unstoppable. … More one year later — looking up
Bird, apple, orange. I’m happy to be torn. Into so many pieces. They see me. Different directions. The refraction. Light on my edges. The kids’ drip, drip, dripping faucet. The bathroom sink. My little boy is 15. He has a razor and shaves. My little girl is 11. She wears eye shadow sometimes. They are … More bird, apple, orange
You know how you wake up with a song in your head and it sticks there while? What if you put on the headphones and played that song? And what if you did it every time you woke with a song in your brain? Would it change the course of your day? I think the … More distillation
(Recently, I asked my students to experiment with freewriting…just letting words roll out from wherever they come. So, I thought I would do the same.) I don’t feel like being metaphorical or creative or moving this morning. I want to get on with the day, but it’s already here. Somehow, I get into it without … More freewriting blasphemy
Early Sunday morning. A car stops on State Street because a flock of geese crosses the road. They are doing what they’ve been doing for millions of years. Moving from Point A to Point B. They’ve experienced disease, drought, famine, and legitimate predators—not the weekend gun-jockeys that pop them off in parks during three-day hunts … More crossing the road
Chickadees, Blue Jays, and Robins are at it. Singing and fighting. Because it is Spring. Earthworms slide across wet sidewalks. Black and gray squirrels leap from powerlines to branches and dance across streets. Most of them make it, but some don’t. We pass these little bodies each day without a second thought. My kids … More making bacon during COVID-19
We were five weeks into it. My trips on weekends to visit. S.B. was living on Stieber Street. Doing her best. Trying to teach art to kids that didn’t get regular meals, words of encouragement, or hugs. She was raising a two-year-old. By herself. In a neighborhood that was just a step above questionable. The … More to S.B. on her birthday
The Crooked Steeple 