In late-August the leaves on the trees in my neighborhood started to show the first signs of turning color. It was easy to miss the subtle change, and I did for many years. Now I’m in the autumn of my life and sense a kinship in the shift. The intensity of summer and the almost
It’s early, and the sun is in my eyes and I think I should move, but I don’t. If the sun is in my eyes, it means it’s not really so early after all. How can it be? I’ve already spent hours reading, praying, and sitting in silence and still I’m hungry for more of
Today, another fit. Or maybe a start. I don’t know. I’ve kind of lost track. The other day the thought came unbidden: I’m looking forward to fall. I know. I’m aghast too. But this waiting and hoping, one day of sunshine followed by two more of gray, all the ups and downs and ins and
I’d like to have something to turn to find Seven Steps To . . . get to the other side of what challenges me. Something concise, steps to take, boxes to check, and a measuring stick with which to note progress. Surely someone has crafted such a thing. But no. Of course not. Though many
Fits and starts: that’s summer this year. A few days ago, I sat in a small darkened community theatre and had the joy of watching my granddaughter perform in William Shakespeare’s Much Ado About Nothing. This Monday morning, I look ahead to a handful of quotidian days before the next summer shift. The ordinariness of picking
A blush appears at the top of the eastern hills. I watch it grow in brilliance, peak, then fade. Now there is no indication that moments ago the sky over the hills was bright pink. I would have missed the magic if I had run for my camera. Sometimes the wisest thing one can do as
It’s too loud. The cacophony has risen to such a level that I struggle to hear. There’s just too much. Of everything. Snow falls, unwelcome on this last day of February, but with it comes a whisper. And a beckoning. I step outside with the Yorkie and, as white feathers fall around me, a blanket of