cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
The stage was a mere platform, less than a foot above the crowd, and I had purposely invited others to share it with me. The student union ballroom was fully opened- round tables and rows of chairs and standing room only at the back. Over 650 people packed the space for the inaugural human trafficking…
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Here’s a hard truth I’m grappling with lately: dignity for some necessitates dignity for all.
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We are sipping coffee near the courthouse. I’ve just witnessed a man plead guilty to a felony charge: trafficking a minor.
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I sit between them, each silently working their laptop, manning conversations, tracking story details. Occasionally, the radio goes off, another cop comes in to grab coffee, the one at the desk collects intel online.
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As summer nears, my anticipation grows. These are the months I nurse my addiction to books, indulging my list and pairing sun and hammocks with words.
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If we agree on one thing, perhaps it is that we’re all human? Since nothing else approaches unifying these days. Perhaps there is that?
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We say there are exceptions. Not everything is black and white.
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I drive between two towns frequently and have my eye on an abandoned home. I will call it Middle Grounds, the coffeehouse I dream of opening.
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Once a year my body succumbs to illness. I shouldn’t complain; I have a strong immune system. I am grateful. But the timing is always off.
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