cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I AM RADIANT, VIBRANT, AND MAGNETIC. These are the tender, yet bold, and, honestly, very necessary words a beloved friend strategically taped to my desk when I wasn’t looking. I’m in a season where the language I use to talk about who I am, my personality, and my strengths and weaknesses feels like it can…
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“I left something for you in the fridge.” My daughter’s text was no surprise and made me smile as I scrolled. For the past several years, I’ve known what I’ll find when I open our carport refrigerator where snacks await our active grandchildren. This tradition comes with a story that left both of us forever…
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Downsizing. The word sounds sad…and old. I am like a hermit crab, looking for a new shell, but not a larger one—a smaller one, to fit my smaller life. Purging. I roam around my big house, tossing overboard the flotsam and jetsam of my previous life.
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November is here, and once again, we approach the holiday season. This year brings opportunities that have been missing during the previous twenty-something months. Opportunities that invite us to engage with our whole selves, dysfunction and all.
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“What is grief if not love persevering?” — Vision (WandaVision, ep. 8) The cardboard box near my feet is worn. Across the top the words “family pictures—basement” tell me it was packed as we consolidated things in our Michigan basement before moving to Austin. The box holds about eight large-size Ziplock bags stuffed full of…
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It’s Halloween. The sun blinds me on this brisk fall morning as I fill bags with candy for the trick-or-treaters who will come by for our neighborhood candy hunt. I set with care the individual bags on our stoop, flanking the iron jack-o-lantern decoration we have enjoyed for years. I feel a tinge of grief…
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The word “pink” has a special place in my heart.
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Five of us crowded together on the bow of our beloved family sail boat.
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It has been three years since she left. The missing of her grows like sprawling crabgrass over my tender lawn. I long to hear her voice and see the sparkle of life in her brown eyes. Eyes that saw me. She would have delighted in the things that have happened since she’s been gone. I…
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Our histories leave trails behind us Whether we remember, or not Clues, leaves of Lórien let fall By our younger selves In hopes We might come back someday To rescue the little child within In hopes We might remember To find healing In hopes That we might forgive The child within And finally remember Who…
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