Not Guilty by Association

For my son’s high school senior retreat, we were asked to write him letters that he could open during a period of reflection and meditation. The theme was “Where do you come from?” We were encouraged to tell stories about grandparents, great-grandparents, etc. My throat tightened in an all too familiar feeling. My German great-grandfather…

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Crown Jewels

Just inside the front door of my childhood home is a large built-in bookcase my father made when my parents bought their first house. On the nearby coast, my mother found a beautiful piece of driftwood to fill its center space, making the uniquely shaped object the focal point in our living room. Anything of…

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Treasure Hunter

Show-and-tell Fridays were days my brothers and I lived for as we progressed through grade school. We simply brought our dad. Well known among our peers as the man who brought unusual artifacts and interesting stories of Native American folklore to life, he also brought the pride of his ancestry. He easily looked the part…

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The Texture of Gratitude

On days when I’m reminded that life is a gift and not a right, gratitude feels strong and interwoven, like burlap. It holds all my hopes; hopes that are indelibly entwined with my battle with a chronic illness. Gratitude’s texture is thick and coarse, its fabric worn and heavy, having survived years of sweaty, hot…

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Wanderlust

Twilight was settling over Paris as we emerged from the Metro to walk to our apartment on Rue de la Fontaine au Roi. A cloak of lavender sky was settling over our final day in the City of Lights, and we felt serene and satisfied. Well, almost satisfied. Reed and I had a craving for…

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