Hi best beloveds, This is just a quick note to let you know you can listen to me chat with Britt about forgiveness, blogging, prison, and life. (Search for “Love Your Enthusiasm on Google, Apple, or Spotify. Or click the image above to be taken to the site.) If you have time to listen, I’d love to know what you think. Are you a fan … Continue reading podcast: forgiveness, etc
You don’t always live with it. Sometimes you tuck it under the bed with all the other monsters, and fall asleep. Or you bury it six feet under the ground with other beautiful leaves that have turned to crunch. You cover it with dirt, and then sand, and then more sand. You sit on the beach, build a castle, and warm yourself in the sunpour. … Continue reading prepositions of pain
I’m going for 30 posts anyway. I like to push myself.
At the doctor’s last week, he said I needed to stop pushing myself. That I need to do literally one thing at a time. Continue reading blogging: (b)link
Do you know the story of hippo? How he has to open his mouth wide every few minutes to show Papa God that he hasn’t eaten any of the most favored fishies? Continue reading trauma: hippostarfish
May 23, 2015 The water bottle is crinkling. Around it, conversation is soft, muted, somber– but there’s no volume control on plastic. I turn to look at the small hands holding it. He’s balanced in his mom’s arms, joyfully squeezing sounds out of the bottle. I smile at his mom, and then I make eye contact and smile at the little one. He grins, looks … Continue reading griefjoy
A panic attack in the middle of Long Beach. Continue reading september 29
My cats didn’t eat my husband’s dead body. I asked. The very nice lady said she would have noted any bite marks or removals from the body during the autopsy. They have to do an autopsy when someone dies and isn’t found for two days. They have to do an autopsy when a 35-year-old man dies and there isn’t any obvious reason why. You have … Continue reading ungroomed grief
I sparked my first match when I was six years old, in the harvest season, for the Festival of Lights. It was a matchbook stick and my big brother helped me tear it off. The cardboard end was unnaturally angled, and bent even further when I gently slid it against the rough striker on the back of the folded book. My fingers already smelled and … Continue reading all the little lights
rarasaur 