We know that in September, we will wander through the warm winds of summer's wreckage. We will welcome summer's ghost. Henry Rollins I can remember some years when September 25th was cold. I recall others when it felt like summer was lingering. I remember best, this day thirty-eight years ago when my son was born.
When we lose one blessing, another is often most unexpectedly given in its place. C.S. Lewis It’s an ordinary moment; the best ones are. Makiya is tucked into bed with a book, I’m on the couch nursing a back in spasm, and Laurinda is sitting on the floor folding laundry. We’re chatting and half-watching an
These bones I carry were borrowed from women much stronger than I. Know that when you need them, you can borrow mine.” Nichole McElhaney, A Sisterhood of Smoke and Ash The day begins with roll kuchen and a new summertime tradition is born. There is a nature walk. . . . sandcastles on the beach.
Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language. Henry James The morning harvest is plentiful: Swiss chard, beans, kale, salad turnips, and basil. While I busy myself tending to it all and making pesto, I put my helpers to work snapping beans. After the produce
Over the course of the millennia, all these multitudes of ancestors, generation upon generation, have come down to this moment in time—to give birth to you. There has never been, nor will ever be, another like you. You have been given a tremendous responsibility. You carry the hopes and dreams of all those who have
Summer afternoon—summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language. Henry James It’s hot. Kamloops hot. Hot as in it’s still 37C/99F at 8:00 in the evening when we’re driving home, having enjoyed supper and play in the park, and a stop to water the dry and
Our stories make us who we are. And each story has its own purpose and its own reward. Each story rings true and each story is worthy of the ages. There is no such thing as an insignificant life. Laurence Overmire, New York Minute: An Actor's Memoir Here, in the sweetness of predawn I sit