“You’re Luddites!” my friend from the city accused. “For farming with horses in this day and age!”
A rooster crowed; the goats grazed on the meadow. My husband and I had been too absorbed in the work of a small farm to have studied this movement. “What exactly is a Luddite?” I asked.Read More »
My fingers tremble, my breath rasps. I flex my thigh muscles and prepare to leap . . . do the long jump . . . go far . . . over the ocean to reconnect with my people, my roots, my dirt.
But first, there’s this little thing called bureaucracy:Read More »
I am sitting at the kitchen table painting black over the white cracks on a ceramic swallow’s tail.
Because there is always hope.Read More »
This is for PaulOn this street tonight we are all lying in our beds wishing everything were normal. “How can this be?” we ask. For we are missing one of the sturdiest among us. Paul.Read More »
I am eight years old and hiding behind a chair in our living room. My little brother and sister are hiding under a table. We jump out and shoot our toy guns towards a young man coming down the stairs. “Bang, bang! Got you, Chuck! You want to play with us?” We smile the smiles of young children.Read More »
My husband is gluing together pieces of the black ceramic swallow magnet that fell and broke. He got it two days ago from a conference he was attending in Lisbon, where swallows symbolize a love of old things, as well as return and hope, and such ceramic birds adorn many houses.*Read More »
Are You In For The Road Or Only For The Finish?I was in bed with the flu, lungs full of gunk, wheezing and coughing–when a knock came at my door and my teenaged son entered carrying a cup of tea and a book. “Here, Mama, drink this and read this book. They’ll make you feel better.”Read More »
