In the year of pandemic, we could linger in bed on a Tuesday morning and discuss our dreams. Stay in our pajamas. Savor juicy blueberry pancakes and the view outside our bay window. Beyond the glass is a tree I never used to notice — red pinpricks fleck its branches in early spring before becoming pale green buds that unfurl into cream-colored blossoms.
All I can think of is the news — the violence at our nation’s Capitol, the security breaches, the deaths, the racism on display. Worry lodges itself in my stomach while I scroll, scroll, scroll, searching for answers. The question I keep coming back to: Who have we become? My son only wants to talkContinue reading “Heroes and villains”
It’s my birthday. As I write, I am wondering what wisdom I have to share after 35 revolutions ’round the sun. Probably something about motherhood or paying attention. Or how to listen, how to make peace with your body, how to spot a seed of faith in a field of doubt. Those are essays I’ll write someday,
The vent above the laundry room, located directly beneath my bedroom window, was the best spot in the house for reading.
It’s raining again. Gray drenches the sky and crimson leaves confetti slick sidewalks. I sit in my orange writing chair finishing an assignment when my preschooler pretzels his body over mine, presses his face in close and demands, “Dance with me! Dance with me!”
dogs, especially puppies,
the friend who texted, “everything ok?” when you didn’t show up…
“I just feel… trapped.” I sigh this into my phone for what must be the 200th time in 2020. My therapist’s on the other line, likely sighing alongside me. She asks what’s trapping me. It isn’t one thing, rather, it’s everything…
The lightning bugs are gone. They’ve been replaced by the cicadas — blaring their calls of chicka-chicka, chicka-chicka, zaazz, zaazz. There are legions of cicadas, I suspect, hiding in the evergreens that overlook our backyard and in old oaks that line our neighborhood, aptly named Forest Glen. Some other writer might romanticize their singing, butContinue reading “How to survive a pandemic without losing it”
On nights when our son drifts asleep easily, I practice yoga in the livng room. I’d just rolled out my mat across the shadowed carpet one evening when a yellow burst drew my gaze. Flash-flash.
Sunlight warmed her shoulders, and she felt something fluttering inside her, too. What was it, peace? Or maybe anticipation? She’d nearly forgotten the feeling.