Three months, give or take. I am, in a distance measured by time, three months down the road from the diagnosis and surgery
I have been writing stories; full-on efforts to plunge my heart down deep into the flow of what goes on between and
I have only lost “normal” to the extent that I thought that I “had” normal in the first place. I do not want my past life back. I do not want it, because it is not mine to have. I want the life I have now, this present moment.
I used to be a lawyer. Truth. I’m not anymore, but I figure having once done the whole law school
About life, death and healing.
It is a most perfect fall day; blue sky and lovely sun, everything so fresh. My buddy is gone. We
Today is Gordy, Sr.’s birthday and last week was my Dad’s. I don’t know the proper etiquette for acknowledging the birthday of
The farm, our farm, IS a lot of work; it is also a great source of joy and personal satisfaction. It’s not just the big picture of it, but the little scenes that make my heart sing. A hundred times a day these things catch me – – first my eye, then my heart. I am swept up in the beauty of it, the intimate moments that arise because we are woven together, both two-legged and four-legged, in a web of caretaking and daily living. Someone is always eager to share those moments with me.
I hate being called out. Gordy actually knows this about me and, while that knowledge doesn’t stop him from doing it,
I joined a writers group. I am not entirely certain about this. It is a difficult thing figuring out the
I am an interpreter of a language of small things. There are some days when this is mostly all of