cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
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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Once upon a time it was not okay to say, “No, thank you.” Somewhere along the journey of life, my no was swallowed up by duty and obedience.
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Her presence is just out of reach. I try to access her inside of my head, but I do not know where she is.
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Dear Eighteen, Here you are. Yesterday’s child is today’s legal adult, and yet, nothing has really changed.
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I breathe in the quiet of this day, a welcome pause in the middle of a full summer.
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