cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
Sometimes I wish I had a magic forcefield around me that could protect me from the fiercest of strikes. When I think of a military strike, I think deliberate, planned, intentional attack…that is how I see abandonment. It is a military strike against my whole being that is planned and strategic so that it can…
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Everywhere I turn, there is nothing. Vast nothingness all around me. As far as my eye can see is emptiness. Dry, arid, dusty, flat and desolate nothingness. My heart is broken into a million pieces. Shattered into dust on the ground. It’s hard to distinguish between the dust of my broken heart and the dust…
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I was born aboard the Titanic many years ago. The ship that “even God himself cannot sink” according to its builders. What Man has pieced together, let nothing put it under – the cold North Seas.
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The arms of my oversized chocolate brown chair hold my tired body as I bring the face of my discontented daughter towards me. Her quivering lips latch on and her squawks slow to a grave whimper as she suckles the milk from my breast with a sweet hum of contentment. Oxytocin forges through my body…
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I had two kinds of reading material on the farm where I summered: Stephen King and Louis L’Amour.
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