There is a small statue that sits on the bookshelf just above my computer.
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cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
There is a small statue that sits on the bookshelf just above my computer.
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My grandmother reaches up from her hospital bed and cups my cheek with her shaky hand.
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I remember the day my mother shared with me a little bit of her story as a young girl.
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My husband recently returned from Onsite’s Living Centered Program.
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In the aromatic twilight of fading spring, a child is born.
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His name is who? Mine yours and ours mistaken toil stone still Yet He rolls on Dusky skin basking against roads of red silence.
Read MoreAm I awake? I open my mouth to scream. This is a dream, wait I can’t breathe.
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I let my father name me
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Do or die, just know this may cost your life.
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