cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
One day, when I was three or four years old, Mom and I went to visit Dad during his lunch break. As we sat with him on the steps outside, his colleague offered me a piece of cheese. I took the cheese, put it in my mouth, and told Mom that I had to go…
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The beginning of Mom’s cancer journey turned my world upside down. The weekend after her abnormal scan brought all of the siblings together, several from out of town. Every weekend following felt like a holiday in those early days, when hopes were high that the right smoothie, sauna, or supplement would change the game and…
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As the “local daughter,” once Mom’s diagnosis of metastatic pancreatic cancer was confirmed, I toggled between showing up and removing myself from the space as much as possible so that her other children could get what they wanted and needed from her dying process. Out-of-town siblings and their families visited often. Mom’s sisters and brother…
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Goodbye begins July 27, 2020, with a text. The doctor just called with the scan results, and it’s not good. Can you come over? My brand-new 14-year-old is in the middle of blowing out twisty rainbow candles on an ice cream birthday cake. It is homemade by a sister and looks delicious. We finish singing…
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I exit an evening exercise class to daylight. Contrasted with the darkness of prior weeks, the streaks of pink in the sky invite me to hope. I feel a brightening in my spirit. The light always returns! This season, my soul mirrors the winter weather pattern of the valley where I live. One day all…
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Wherever I am That is my place I belong and bring goodness and life to the space I don’t have to ask For permission to be I can step up and show up with all that is me To exit or enter Each is my choice I also determine the use of my voice I…
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This season feels familiar. I find myself repeating these words often. When this happens, I have learned to take notice. It is the start of a new school year. The four children who live at home range in age from 15-10. These are my (not so) littles who are now the ages of the “bigs”…
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I began engaging my parents in storywork by asking about the menu notebook created by my dad. That cloth-bound, 70’s style, denim-blue, three-ring binder filled with a month’s worth of menus was a distinct childhood memory.
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Your story was so well-written! I smiled. It felt good to have my writing affirmed following the pain of sharing the words with my training group. The hard processing part was over, and we were relaxed, preparing to leave for lunch. I laughed and replied lightheartedly, I’m a good writer!
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O. EM. ZHEE! A five-year-old voice pierces the quiet murmur of morning, projecting itself across the classroom during before-school playtime.
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