cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
Decades ago, I went grocery shopping after the funeral of a dear friend who had died much too young and way too swiftly. His tragic death left one of my closest friends without a partner and their young children without a father. Arriving home after the funeral, I was anxious, emotionally untethered, and in need…
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I am crumpled up on my kitchen floor, head in hands, hiding beneath a soundtrack of Fernando Ortega and Bifrost Arts, hoping my kids don’t notice I am weeping, It’s holy ground, but it feels like falling apart.
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There is a magical hour, when darkness lingers and daylight is yet an illusion. It is in this hour of endless night when babies like to be born.
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