I can’t help the part of me that requires definition. I like labels. I crave order.
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cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I can’t help the part of me that requires definition. I like labels. I crave order.
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There is always a bad guy in my house. Light sabers, guns, swords, bows and arrows are often found on my living room floor.
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In the aromatic twilight of fading spring, a child is born.
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“He’s going to hit us,” I said calmly. John looked up from his passenger seat and said nothing.
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We were young when Sarah and I first met. I was 15, boy crazy and attempting to emulate my life from the movie Clueless.
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This month I found myself reflecting on the children’s book, “Are You My Mother?” by P.D. Eastman.
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I’m fairly certain I would make a lousy world-traveler.
Read MoreMy 33-year-old son will be released from prison in November.
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My heart is overflowing with the remembrance of mothers. Yes, I have more than one; I am more than one as I am a grandmother as well.
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The word, Moira, is a Greek word for fate.
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