. . . he won't scatter Hot Wheels like breadcrumbs near the baseboards, in the bookshelves or across the coffee table.
I love it when the clouds are painted cotton candy pink . . .
Something miraculous and mysterious happens when we voice our stories — we give others permission to claim theirs too.
Standing across from you in our college chapel, I feel more than luck. I feel fluttering in my chest — not fear or nerves, rather, an awakening.
Where can we get a baby? / my son asks, his blue eyes piercing / in the morning's heel.
All I can think of is the news — the violence at our nation’s Capitol, the security breaches, the deaths, the racism on display. Worry lodges itself in my stomach while I scroll, scroll, scroll, searching for answers. The question I keep coming back to: Who have we become? My son only wants to talk … Continue reading Heroes and villains
It's raining again. Gray drenches the sky and crimson leaves confetti slick sidewalks. I sit in my orange writing chair finishing an assignment when my preschooler pretzels his body over mine, presses his face in close and demands, "Dance with me! Dance with me!"
"I just feel... trapped." I sigh this into my phone for what must be the 200th time in 2020. My therapist’s on the other line, likely sighing alongside me. She asks what’s trapping me. It isn't one thing, rather, it's everything...
Sunlight warmed her shoulders, and she felt something fluttering inside her, too. What was it, peace? Or maybe anticipation? She’d nearly forgotten the feeling.
Why can’t I focus? I write this in my pandemic journal, because I read journaling is a gift during this time and because “you’ll want to tell your grandkids about the 2020 pandemic” and because I already keep a journal. Focus? The situation at hand requires me to “work” from home with my preschooler underfoot. … Continue reading Work, worth and paying attention in the time of coronavirus