The waves here change each day. Sometimes the water is tinged brown with seaweed. Sometimes the water is calm and clear to the sandbars. I used to swim in the Gulf without an ounce of fear. I tried floating the other day, and it took … Continue reading Bluesy Dispatch from the Redneck Riviera
I am never going to get it Right. What I know: I hunger to connect. With the land, with people. Is there a different way to visit another universe? I hunger for wildness. And so I pause to walk the length of my gravel driveway … Continue reading Prayer Life on the Mountain, August 2021
As we pulled out of the driveway on Friday, a doe lay on the side of the road next to our mailbox. Her body stretched out on her right side, as if she chose to rest on this particular bed of pine needles. Only, her … Continue reading Directions to My Home
So, here is what was supposed to be. You were going to bake with cast iron for our 10-year anniversary, and I would craft a kickass haiku. Something like… Blueberry pie night’s Snow moon blinks on salt water Beach sand sugar beams But these words, … Continue reading The Poem That Never Happened
He clears a back room, so I may have a writing space of my own. He tells me, “Why not? Just write. Let me support you.” He plans to one day build a writing cabin. He can do this because his hands belong to his … Continue reading Let Go
I am weary of my worn out sentences that begin with “I” – those crutches I lean on while the voice of an old writing instructor lets slip from the corner of her mouth, a grimace – her clear indication of disappointment, and perhaps this … Continue reading Rock-Making
Dedicated to the Free Range Writers of Missoula, Montana Black bears and back alley compost bins Rogue apple trees in the Bitterroots The dead raccoons hanging from branches Shootings stars, lupine, and phlox Cultural appropriation Ponderosa sap tucked in the cracks Air so dry, … Continue reading Stuff I Can’t Fit Into a U-Haul
Each time I sit down (let’s get honest – crawl into bed and prop myself up with four pillows), all writing notions evaporate. I should tie a small notebook around my waist and jot sentences down as soon as they strike, rather than the usual, … Continue reading Pandemic Inventory in Missoula, MT
Sometimes I do not know my face. I see a woman mistaken for an abuela on the Stockton to Sacramento Greyhound. Or, my mother if she never dyed her hair. Maybe I am the sepia photo of my great grandmother when she was a … Continue reading Unknowing
If I were to say my parent’s stellar success as physicians did not affect me, I’d be lying. No, they didn’t pressure me to have their ambitions. The consistent message was to be the person God created me to be. The problem is, what if … Continue reading Mis~tak~ing
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