cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
First, I wrote Leyla. She was a teen I thought my own teen girls might like. Leyla was for them. A Turkish girl, wandering the old city, who falls into an epic adventure to uncover a secret passed among women for two millennia. As she learns to embrace her own strength, she must also accept…
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I see you hovering at the base of the big slide, ready to catch your little daredevil as he proudly descends the last of the challenges this big kid playground has presented. And I am aware of your young mama heart, a little sad that he’s already conquering these obstacles.
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There is a place I like to go that makes me feel brave and beautiful. From the congested street corner you might miss it. If you didn’t know what to look for, you would be carefully watching for the tram or from which direction the long line of honking taxis will emerge first. You might…
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I had a meeting at a familiar hotel last week. We entered the parking lot in the same way, from the same angle that the unmarked minivan I was in had cornered the sex buyers so many years ago. My body flinched as it remembered the look in the buyers’ eyes, the slouched shoulders of…
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I have a memory of belonging, of feeling at home.
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The hours are ticking down on the year and snow is blanketing the roads, sticking in clumps on branches and bistro lights. The inside thermometer reads a number as ridiculously high as the outside number is low, and I am still chilled to the bone. My husband and I are reviewing the year and finishing…
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I stepped in dog shit today. In a different pair of shoes because I stepped in it yesterday, too, and hadn’t had time to clean them. Yesterday, I was mad, but today? Today, I nearly collapsed. “I am a prisoner in my own home,” I moaned, head between my legs, trying to hold myself together.…
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I have a black-and-white photo of my grandmother from the 1940s that I treasure. She’s dressed in pants and a flannel, kneeling in the grasses of an Oklahoma prairie, focused on something ahead. Balanced on her shoulder is a rifle of some sort. Her hair is short and curled, messy from the breeze. And though…
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Ours is a lineage of the road less traveled; the wild beyond and the risky unknowns; hope that propels forward buoyed by faith that remembers. She has led us through the years and courses through our veins. We are of the women throughout time and culture who have walked dusty plains, sailed turbulent seas, and…
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A long time ago, I read. I read books I paid for that I wouldn’t need to review, to interview the author, or to underline because I was studying the plot structure. A long time ago, I wrote. I journaled, sent newsletters, started blogs (five and counting), and submitted articles. A long time ago, I…
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