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….
I forgot the frog. Left him in my purse instead of slipping him into my front jeans pocket, as I’d planned. He had been sitting on my desk at work, next to three beautiful, hand-formed clay stones imprinted with the words “Just breathe.” The frog is as big as my thumb tip and made of … More A Frog in My Pocket
“I can’t count the number of times I’ve been in jaw-dropping places in my life-in the mountains, at a picturesque restaurant, watching a sunset, on a boat heading to one of the San Juan Islands–where words got in the way of fully feeling and enjoying where I was.” ~Katherine Jenkins. “Lessons from the Monk … More A Roaring Kind of Quiet
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
Here’s what I know, today. Leaving a job I hated–after trying so very hard to love it–was something I should have done sooner. For five years, I worked my heart out in the middle of a little island, doing work that felt important at the time. For over two of those years, I had been … More Don’t think. Just do.
Do you read The Paris Review Interviews? Beautiful bits of writerly wisdom and insight. A recent link in my Twitter feed pointed me to the 1986 interview of W.S. Merwin, one of the first poets I read in my second stint of university, a time when I was feeling so very connected to the art of words. Of the many ways to understand and define … More W.S. Merwin On Poetry: “The completeness of life.”
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