I am on vacation this week. What am I doing? Getting my kid settled in to school and starting a 6-week course on writing and fear. I am and have been terrified to write what and how I want. Afraid of not being taken seriously as a writer, of not contributing to the world a relevant and powerful and purposeful narrative. Afraid of community and isolation, undernourished by academe, but suckling its teat in penance. Enough. What if all… Keep Reading
Gemstone. My very first Mother’s Day gift, 20 years ago, was a lovely emerald ring. Years later when I sold my wedding ring, it never occurred to me to part with this ring. It is the only ring I wear and it means the world to me. I will give it to my daughter when she’s older, maybe as a “something old” pendant the day she marries or maybe when she becomes a mommy. And someday she will give it… Keep Reading
Display window of fashion school on Newbury Street. Sometimes when I am a bit unraveled, I pin and tuck my disheveled self, mindful to drape it prettily over the parts easily bruised.
I altered my daily commute last summer to drive past this sign as often as possible.
These little berries on the old sour bush.
Seven years ago I stood on Church Street in Atlanta and wrote a poem comparing my lover’s kiss to the first bloom of spring.
Light. When I was 16, I abruptly changed my pink and yellow ruffle and lace bed linens and curtains to black and silver. From wonderland to wasteland in a weekend. I had tossed splotches of black paint on the walls to compare matte versus gloss finishes when my parents returned the paint cans to the hardware store and scheduled me for church counseling to rebuke my newfound love for the dark side. For all of high school, I was somber… Keep Reading
A rusted bike chain at the opening to a junk yard in Salem. We found this gem on a day trip to Salem for my birthday last spring. What drives a person to transform the property around their house into a repository for dilapidated things? What stories live there? Season upon season — snow, rain, wind, and sun — these discards are blanketed amd then disrobed. The line between trash and treasure is an imagined one.
Elizabeth in the garden surrounded by daisies, but not of the Buchanan variety.
Pink. All shades of pink including it’s mother, red.