cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
As I consider my final Red Tent essay, I remember the distinct feeling of writing my first piece. It came flowing out of my heart in a hospital room, and it “had to be” shared. In the midst of my processing and growth, the tent has felt like a protected space that holds my historic…
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Hope makes itself every day Springs up from the tiniest places No one gives it to us We just notice it Quiet in the small moment– Naomi Shihab Nye Most winters my husband and I travel south to capture some sunshine and warmth. We go to rejuvenate, to restore faith that the darkness of our…
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You might think I am a little crazy right now. It’s sunny, seventy degrees outside, and I am in my driveway, sitting in my car writing. It’s not comfortable or spacious, but it feels like home. I know the soft feel of the dark seats, how they stick in the summer and are cool in the…
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It took some time before I uttered the words. It was much like new lovers who hesitate to speak a risky “I love you.” It was a courageous declaration. A couple of years after I’d begun to write for public consumption, I had to submit an updated “bio” for an introduction. After reviewing my extracts,…
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Over two decades ago, I spoke what I thought was a final goodbye to my mother. I am easily transported back to the stark hospital room, the four of us adult children gathered together with our families. This ending followed her battle with a dreadful disease that ravaged her body for over six years. She…
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It was Certification Day, our first of several. I had been planning a distinct route for a smooth and predictable path. As far as I was concerned, there would be no detours. I was eager to get on our Zoom call later that afternoon. A month earlier, I had begun training to be a guide…
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I scuttled into the chilly room just in time to begin. Dropping my bulky coat and purse on the wooden bench, I grabbed my water bottle as I approached the group of strangers. I was a substitute for the day, eager to perform well and be competitive. “Thanks for coming!” one woman chimed as she…
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Who am I, and which part of me is real? It happens in the flick of a switch. The war within me between the “best version” and the “far-from-the-mark” mother. It doesn’t take much for this duality to be activated as pieces of my own story are stirred up. Both have a significant impact on…
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I have always wanted to be a camper. (Not a literal camper, but one who camps!) Perhaps it was the imagination I had when friends talked about overnights with Girl Scouts that sounded so luxurious. I also loved Laura Ingalls Wilder books, and her life on the prairie seemed a lot like camping to me.…
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“There will be a procedure. They are checking out what is going on in his lungs,” she mentions one rainy April evening. My shoe heels click as we walk down the sterile, grey halls of the big city hospital. Someone makes a joke to try to ease the tension we feel in our bodies. My…
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