cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
Getting older is not for the faint of heart. I am keenly aware of this today as I feel the pain from a chain of events that started with an old knee injury. I’d been concerned after experiencing pain and decreased range of motion twice in the past six months, but each time I chalked…
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“We women in our late 40s need a scapegoat,” my doctor, who is the same age, said, “and hormones are usually a viable option.” I wasn’t prepared to hear my doctor use the term “scapegoat.” That’s a term usually reserved for my psychology and religious circles, where abuse is often the topic. But she knows…
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Am I where I’m supposed to be? Do I have the inner strength, gentleness, and wisdom to venture out once again into the unknown?
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More grey splashes against dark curls. Cheeks sag and skin spots darken. Aging creeps in with Crow’s feet around my eyes.
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A few months into our relationship, my high school boyfriend started calling me, “Mallorina, my Queena.” As a 16-year-old, I’m not sure there was a nickname more flattering than this one. Actually, 38-year-old Mallory really wouldn’t mind answering to it, either. It was young love, but I knew my boyfriend adored me and went out…
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I turned 60 a few days ago. How about that? Sixty. 21,900 days. I am likely about 2/3 the way through my imagined years. I don’t often think about measuring time, but significant birthdays have a way of making more obvious the ways we keep our time. As friends and family called to celebrate with…
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I had never been more excited to schedule a pap smear. When my OB-GYN’s clinic called to tell me I could see my doctor before she retired, I yelled excitedly into the phone, “I’ll be there!” This is the woman who cared for me and delivered three live babies and two miscarriages with me. During…
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It’s Halloween. The sun blinds me on this brisk fall morning as I fill bags with candy for the trick-or-treaters who will come by for our neighborhood candy hunt. I set with care the individual bags on our stoop, flanking the iron jack-o-lantern decoration we have enjoyed for years. I feel a tinge of grief…
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Before me sits a well-groomed 75-year-old man named Richard. His button-down shirt is tidy, and his khakis are well pressed. He is a former pilot and used to being in control. He is witty and quick to answer, navigating questions with a rapid side step. One would never know just by talking to him.
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The cheap, squat container of white cream makes a wild claim: the power to stretch time, to make it elastic and supple. All I have to do is grease my face nightly, submit to the sting, and it will dam the water that is bubbling beneath the surface, conspiring to burst forth and rake my…
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