the beauty of an ordinary life
Let’s open with a confession: While I’ve sent countless notes, cards, postcards, etc., there are at least as many notes I should have written but didn’t. And I regret every one I didn’t send. Every note I waited too long to write (and send), not realizing that it’s never too late. Every note I wrote…
I caught a nasty cold in Seattle, and it was – by and large – my own fault. It’s possible you’re wondering, “what was she doing so far away from Memphis?” and I’ll tell you. But first I must give credit where credit’s due. The reason I got a cold was that I failed to…
The part of this that is a story, at the beginning, is mostly true and very short – hardly even a story, it’s so short. But it’s true nonetheless, in the important ways, and amended appropriately because it isn’t mine. A number of years ago a dear friend was hosting Thanksgiving dinner. More specifically, a…
This may seem disjointed; that’s simply the way things are. My friend Harriet, the Harriet who is very much alive, is a quilter. She sews the most beautiful quilts (and other things, too) and has the best sewing adventures to tell, stories I would share except that they are hers and not mine. I mention…
When I started writing this, 143 days ago, I was sitting on a porch in Santa Rosa, Florida. It was quiet, because it was early, and the sky was just beginning to lighten. I was alone, save for the birds. There was coffee, the sound of waves, a flutter of breeze, an occasional car on…
Once, a long time ago, for a short time, I was a fly fisherwoman. Fly fishing, like so many other things, was a short-lived pursuit that began as a lark, took hold for a bit, and then petered out, partly through changed circumstance, partly through competition from other activities, and mostly because I thought of…
First, I should clear up a few loose ends, because things have been a bit disjointed around here lately. A few of you are wondering, because a few of you have asked me directly, how my writing is going, if I’m still working on any of the books I’ve mentioned starting. So, here’s something I…
Perhaps the real purpose of keeping a journal is for the assurance, at some later date, that one is still oneself – voice, hand, and eye as distinct as fingerprints. The years spanned are a blur, but each minute is frozen in crystalline precision. Only in time do the entries divulge what they always were:…
