One year ago today I posted this photo on social media with these words: “I’ve been at this pretty much all day and haven't made it past the second page. Whose idea was it for me to write another book anyway?” I was buried in revisions of The Presence of Absence: A Story About Busyness, Brokenness, and
I have a few questions. How . . . ? Is it . . . ? What . . . ? I scratch them on a page in my journal. One after another; they keep coming. Through writing comes understanding. Not answers but illumination. I scribble prayer. (I wonder: is it okay to use such
The sun shone a few days ago. It was noteworthy because it’s been gray so we packed up our cameras, grabbed some coffee, and went for a drive. It was glorious. We talked, looked, and didn’t click the shutters on our cameras once. No matter. The sunlight did what it does so well. It revived
We went to see A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood yesterday afternoon. It was perfect. In a time when the world seems loud and angry it was a respite. Some thoughts as I watched the movie I’ve carried with me into a new day. I wish I was more like Mr. Rogers. He had a
My Christmas cactus is in bloom. Pretty and pink on my kitchen windowsill, it is a spark of joy in the dark and early morning as I wait for the Keurig to do its very important work. I saw something that explained, based on the shape, the difference between Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter cactuses. Maybe
I read Buechner first thing and, as usual, I’m enchanted with the way he dances with words. I’ll never be able to write like him, but that’s okay. I was never meant to. According to developmental psychologist Erik Erikson’s stages of human psychological developmental, I’m in late adulthood. I found it jarring, and somehow hard to
I spend a good part of the day on the sofa in the den, heating pad on high, surrounded by books. I can’t even muster the strength to go to the garden, so I send Gerry to water and harvest tomatoes and Swiss chard for supper. It feels like a wasted day. Countless things, indoors