Feed the soul. For some, restfulness and quietude come easy. For others, like me, we have to work at it, purposefully. I try to keep a big-ass Zulu basket of crafts, mittens, books, and dried snacks in my car for those moments I need to make a quick getaway. Find me on the beach, basket full of warm pretty things.
2016 is the year it all came crashing down: our belief in the systems that govern us, and the people who govern the facade of those systems. But like the tree in this photo, sometimes there’s a surprising beauty in fallen things.
During the solstice sunset, I was in the car driving with my daughter on the way home from college for winter break. I’d planned to pull over at one of the highway lookout points that provides views of the rural landscape to catch the day’s shift to night. I warned my family the night before: we were getting on the road before 11AM, returning books to the campus bookstore first thing, grabbing breakfast to go, spending no more than 20… Keep Reading
Last Saturday at the lighthouse the morning tide had almost engulfed the jetty. I prefer high tide, the way it moves, breathes, slinks up the shoreline to greet and warn you. The ocean is a beautiful treachery.
Water always calls to me. The solitude. The romance. The constant churning of earth beneath the tide. Every important thing in my life is, or has been, a characteristic of the sea: my daughter, a small sea bird; my brothers, bright sturdy boats; my father, a lighthouse; my mother, a mooring; my lover, a fisherman; and myself a mermaid. These roles shift over time, but unlike the shoreline they never erode. These are the people who anchor me.