cultivating the beautiful ordinary by sharing our tales and our tables
It’s 3:30 a.m. I’m tossing a turning again, beads of sweat rolling between my shoulder blades and breasts…again. I forgot to take magnesium when I was winding down for the evening…again. I’m dreading the alarm clock going off in just a few short hours and waking up groggy to the never-ending list of tasks that…
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I’ve learned to anticipate it as a spiritual director. It’s often one of the first comments a new client shares with me, sometimes hesitantly, holding a bit of shame as her voice lowers almost to a whisper. As if what she is about to say mustn’t be overheard, lest God strike her down right then…
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Silence was the language of my childhood—in our home, in the car, walking side-by-side. When our kids were born, I wanted to make sure car rides were filled with music and laughter and conversation. Some of the very best of the latter have taken place on the way to school. Here is one of my…
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It’s in the shadows and the unknown where courage blooms and fears are undone A choice To set our face like flint toward the tempest Where winds howl and doubts dance
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She teaches me what it means to go with my gut Trust instinct Heed a muse Frolic I planted an apple tree. Can I make a bath bomb? Let’s catch lightning bugs.
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Our oldest burst through the front door, wailing in pain. Since he’s on the autism spectrum, I have to remember that sometimes his reactions are incongruent with actual events, yet very real in his own lived experience. He’d taken a spill on the driveway while shooting basketball and was holding his hands limp in front…
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Last month our family was captivated by the World Cup. We went on emotional roller coasters, moved by the anthems of countries around the world, the ebb and flow of each match, and the implications of choices made (or not made) by FIFA, Qatar and the players.
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“the truth is my hope is mangled. it limps and creaks at night. you speak of hope like a white bird soaring. it’s okay that mine is the battered exhale, a bench with splintered wood.” — Cole Arthur Riley
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What are you? demands the bag boy as his hand makes sweeping, circular motions in front of his face. I am fire and I am frail. I am strength and sarcasm. Demonstrative and demure. I cry, I am human.
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We sit at the table she and I. Our weekly ritual of alcohol pads needles liquid chemo deep breaths band aids and painted toenails. She is well-acquainted with bellyaches on the way to another three-hour round of joint exams, therapies and phlebotomists. Another school day away from friends.
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