I can hear her. On the nights The wind screams through the trees And the waves crash In rhythmic chaos On the shore. When night is darkest And bejeweled skies Tell no secrets.
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cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I can hear her. On the nights The wind screams through the trees And the waves crash In rhythmic chaos On the shore. When night is darkest And bejeweled skies Tell no secrets.
Read MoreIt’s a cozy, quiet Sunday morning. I type near the Christmas tree, a sleeping pup curled at my feet and a YouTube fire flickering noiselessly on my TV because my apartment doesn’t have a fireplace. Outside, the world glistens, covered in its first true blanket of snow. These Midwest mornings, the ones that stretch from…
Read MoreThe podcast mic still shines from the back corner of the closet, wrapped up in chords and tucked away near storage boxes. I purchased it last year with some award money I received for my graduate thesis. I had been determined to put the money towards something that pushed me to keep creating. The only problem–and…
Read MoreA 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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