cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
I have shared pieces of this story before. The version where I am not the central character. The parts where I have yet to name the ways it sent me spiraling. How it upended my purposed life. It is the story I keep returning to. The one that becomes more clear as time passes.
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My surprised skin bumped into the chills of the new fall morning air. Inhaling deeply from its fresh coolness, I steadied my beating heart’s morning aches that were left over from last night’s racing internal discussion about a life and a death. A young 19-year-old woman hung, suspended before my mind with her long, coarse,…
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“Seven women met and attempted to solicit sexual services to an undercover police officer, and all were arrested on charges alleging misdemeanor solicitation.” My throat tightens, and I try to swallow. “It’s our goal to make it harder for these traffickers to operate in Northern Colorado. We want to help victims.” My heart thumps in…
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I have killed no less than 20 crickets today, at least 10 flies. They are the only noise piercing the silence of this writing retreat, the peace of this lodge which perches on a rock bed in the canyon.
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Four girls gaggle in the back of our van as I eavesdrop. They discuss Donald Trump, Miley Cyrus, the status of their braces, and length of their earrings.
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Nine mug shots appeared in our local paper’s headline story this week.
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My grandmother reaches up from her hospital bed and cups my cheek with her shaky hand.
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Compassion is innate, not simply a spiritual sense.
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The students’ expressions run the full gamut of what you might expect in a high school health class on the topic of sex trafficking.
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Boys and men are sexually trafficked, not just girls and women. If only we’d press up upon the gender-based glass ceiling, we’d offer boys a better chance at freedom.
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