When Bee was a baby, I’d sit down during her naps and write long-winded letters to her: personality peeks, successful milestones, my own parenting fears/doubts/triumphs. It was a beautiful practice, and I always imagined bundling them up to offer her on the day she’d perhaps decide to become a parent, too. But as she grew
I married Ken for his heart and his mind, sure, but a close third was his chili recipe. For chili or for worse, I say, and listen, it is just not every day a guy wrecks the kitchen to make 85 quarts of chili and then cleans up after himself. Who is this man? Where
Why yes, I do happen to be super reliant on the 5 minute pick-me-up method. When my mood starts blending into the sky – bluesy, gray, blah – I reach for the Official Winter Blues Cure jar. But I’m always cheating, putting back a few slips of paper (jumping jacks – feeling lazy! build a
Ken and I met in college. We’d both been selected for a semester-long project that all-too-closely resembled The Real World in those days: 15 students were filmed as we worked/napped/ate together in a towering mansion off campus producing and directing three documentaries for PBS. There were fights and tears and new love, and I still
The greatest thing about living in the Midwest is the affordable travel factor. Save some nickels on a fixer-upper and – boom – you’ve got yourself a cheap home base where you can travel the world, stamp your passport, road trip to Anywhere, then mosey on back home to wash your whites/visit your mother/downward dog
This post is brought to you by my own personal amusement, and also by the current controversy surrounding a topic that, despite the fact that it cannot adequately be described as even remotely controversial, not by any stretch, is still dividing women as if it were the Red Sea, or Marcia Brady’s side part. —
In a world where perspectives are many, where options are many-er, where we can order pizza or not, read Tolstoy or not, vote left or not, it is impossible not to bristle. It is impossible not to be wrong. — Last week, I was wrong. And it was largely uncomfortable. It is uncomfortable to declare
Overheard, today in yoga class, amidst downward dogs and cedarwood incense: Focused gaze. Drishti. Look up. — One of my instructors is a horse trainer by trade. The way it works, she says, is that you move a horse with your gaze alone. If you want the horse to move, you motion to that area
