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
I spend the entire morning sitting upright in bed, surrounded by friends in the form of words, doing my best to hold my head still. I sip ice water and swallow Gravol as the essential oil diffuser on my bedside table hums a healing, and fragrant, tune. I pray, mumbling words aloud, because to form them
I am haunted now as I never was before by the sense that we all of us have the mark of God’s thumb upon us. We have the image of God within us. We have a holy place within us that gets messed up in a million ways. But it’s there, and more and more
Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don't be afraid. Frederick Buechner, Beyond Words: Daily Readings in the ABC's of Faith Six-plus years ago when my book, Two Hearts: An Adoptee’s Journey Through Grief to Gratitude, was published I was terrified. I felt naked and exposed. I was, figuratively, both of those.
But now in September the garden has cooled, and with it my possessiveness. The sun warms my back instead of beating on my head . . . The harvest has dwindled, and I have grown apart from the intense midsummer relationship that brought it on. Robert Finch It is dark now, at an hour when
Photography is the art of observation. It has little to do with the things you see and everything to do with the way you see them. Elliott Erwitt I spend the morning in my manuscript crafting, if not sandcastles, rudimentary structures that lay the foundation for them. Maya let’s me know that it’s time