cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
It took some time before I uttered the words. It was much like new lovers who hesitate to speak a risky “I love you.” It was a courageous declaration. A couple of years after I’d begun to write for public consumption, I had to submit an updated “bio” for an introduction. After reviewing my extracts,…
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It’s in the shadows and the unknown where courage blooms and fears are undone A choice To set our face like flint toward the tempest Where winds howl and doubts dance
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One night, sitting in front of the family television, for the first time in my life, I sobbed at the end of a touching movie. The year was 1966, and the film Born Free aired in homes across America. The movie, based on a true story, tells of a lioness named Elsa, an orphaned lion…
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There is a black-and-white photo that sits in my office. The photo is of a favorite four-year-old. In it, she is outside. Even in black and white, I know the sky in the photo is brilliant blue. She is looking straight into the camera lens. Her lovely little face fills the frame, blonde strands of…
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In honor of the tenth anniversary of Red Tent Living, we are featuring a monthly legacy post written by one of our regular contributors from the past decade. Jan Meyers Proett is one of the original ten writers. The presence of her words, both here and in her books, has been life giving and restorative…
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The wind swirls as its taunts hit the weathered wood. The hail throttles the walls that hold her in and is a thunder in her heart.
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I, like many others, get by with a little help from my therapist. Each week, I find a quiet space to meet with her online, and I close the door. Sometimes it’s my car door as it sits in the driveway, sometimes it’s the door to my daughter’s bedroom while she’s at daycare. A quiet…
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As I walk along the road that meanders beside the waterfront of my hometown, I take in the sights and sounds of an early spring day in the Pacific Northwest: the gradient gray sky, the salty Salish Sea mist, the snow-capped Olympic mountains, the sporadic groupings of daffodils brightly declaring spring. I’ve walked this stretch…
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Twelve-plus years of pain, longing for relief. Some would say that I do not own the pain. Technically, they would be correct. My body does not own the pain; still, it ravages me. My husband grapples with a disease that demands daily attention to pain and loss. Sometimes the volume is turned down, but it…
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We sit at the table she and I. Our weekly ritual of alcohol pads needles liquid chemo deep breaths band aids and painted toenails. She is well-acquainted with bellyaches on the way to another three-hour round of joint exams, therapies and phlebotomists. Another school day away from friends.
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