This is the part where the fish finally understands why he could never dive deep. The part where he stops picking the feathers from his body, where he pulls his

journal 7.8

I woke up from a dead sleep to write this. Not because it is important, but because, suddenly, I wanted to write. It’s been so long. When I’m not writing,

night ramblings

It’s nearly 2 in the morning and I shuffle into the kitchen to make myself a sandwich. Well, let’s call it a sandwich. That sounds more elegant than a fistful

thinking it out

I never stop being amazed that people read my writing. I honestly can’t wrap my mind around it. Just think– if you read every post I posted in 2019– the

the rest of roses

It’s the itching. It usually starts like a flutter. I think I might have imagined it. I brush it away like a stray piece of hair may be dangling off

lilliputian logs

When I can’t quite build a thought out into something solid enough for this blog, I will often post it to Instagram with the tag #LilliputianLog. The last weeks have


I didn’t tell anyone about the first date I had after Dave died, until after. I was afraid it would be an embarrassing disaster, so I made up an excuse

pr\ early winter

It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you. It’s an issue of scarcity. I have run into a shortage of words. When the phone rings now, there’s nothing

mamasaur’s table

Listen to the silent ask. Let it pull me to my feet and stretch me into helping hands. Remember this is Mama, holding a stack of plates in one palm


1 In the sink of the prison cell, where we get our drinking water and brush our teeth, we wash our clothes, running the soap bar over the heavy fabric,

i messed up my theme

I accidentally changed the theme, and the prior theme no longer exists, and so now I have re-do everything, probably even re-do my entire self, and I’m not panicking, you’re