cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I always thought I was going to die young. My death was probably going to be the result of something dramatic and tragic, like a major car accident or a freak plane crash. I simply could not (or would not) imagine myself getting old. I turn 40 this month. Four decades of living. How did…
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It’s a blurry line really, A delicate balancing act: Holding you, holding me. I’ve ignored you And denied you. Pretended you were someone else.
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As I walk along the road that meanders beside the waterfront of my hometown, I take in the sights and sounds of an early spring day in the Pacific Northwest: the gradient gray sky, the salty Salish Sea mist, the snow-capped Olympic mountains, the sporadic groupings of daffodils brightly declaring spring. I’ve walked this stretch…
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She is alone. Left to figure it out on her own. Trying to make sense of the darkness. Unable to comprehend the heartless. Where are they now? Somewhere better without me. Hollow halls, emptiness calls I’ll just wait silently.
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