cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
Last month my 88-year-old mother moved into an assisted living facility located 4.5 miles from my house. This is four miles further than we’ve lived from each other for the past nine years. While it may sound like a negligible change, it feels much more significant, for this half-mile has been traversed far more often…
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When I was in my mid 20s, a woman at church, who was just a few years older than me, had gone home to bury her mother; her father had died a few years earlier. “I am an orphan,” she said upon her return. I thought it was one of the oddest things I had…
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Growing up in a working-class neighborhood in Detroit during the 1950’s and 60’s, one couple stood out as being different from the rest of us and to my mind, they were very exotic. Unlike our other neighbors, this couple had no children and the woman worked in an office downtown. The man was Hollywood handsome…
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The kitchen clock breaks the silence of the early morning as I wait for the Keurig drip to complete its work, reminding me that the demands of the day have begun. Coffee and quiet reflection, reading, solace and contemplation must fit neatly into increments metered out by the demands of the day. Numbers soldier their…
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