These glorious summer mornings, I grab my cereal bowl and head out first thing for garden strawberries, blueberries, and, dripping from the brambles, raspberries like red wine. The sun heats my neck, the chilly breeze raises my hairs, the exuberant sparrows greet me, and I snack right there, bursts of pungent sweet obliterating all else. …
Snow began at 8 a.m. and is coming down fast and furious. My thirteen-year-old languishes upstairs with a head cold, missing school, although I suspect the kids will be sent home before the day is up. My creative work is also at a welcome standstill, one writing text under an editor’s review and my middle-grade …
Every year I’m surprised by how much spring looks like autumn. I’ll walk to work, delighting in the crab apples blooming pink or the fruit trees snowing petals, then do a double-take: The elm shakes with brown seeds; the maple’s winged clusters are bright red.
We are each a jewel in a mighty net. When we are unaware of this, disasters like the pandemic happen. When we are aware and bring whole, open hearts to our common plight, the net sparkles.
How writing binds self to creation remains a mystery. I write to find out.
We can breathe freely again, we can walk outside without guarding our steps, we can propel ourselves long distances safely, we can even comfortably, amazingly, sit! This exultation only comes from weathering winter; it’s a unique gift for having suffered the cold.
The most powerful, willful action springs from acceptance. In Minnesotan terms, we take the “bad” weather and make the best of it.
Sometimes I sleep through the concert; most times I sleep through it even when I’m awake. This morning I heard. Who knows why?
None of us, it turns out, are separate, siloed identities. We’re all mash-ups of each other.
