Shortly after publishing this post, my inbox became a beautiful jungle of sorts. I heard from hundreds of writers, creatives, and artists sharing a wide range of perspectives and experiences – Leaving social media? Impossible for my business! – to I’d love that. But how? I was curious to notice that, within each email, there
We had been preparing for a move, a temporary one, in which we would spend our first summer sleeping on a raw 160 acres of newness, of mountains, of yarrow. And all was in tumult. Ken and I were juggling our own proverbial spheres – he, putting finishing touches on a rental property – me,
Months ago, I am stuck in San Luis Obispo. The plane needs this one part, says the attendant. We had to order it. Might be here Thursday? It is Sunday. The airport is small, and a sudden swarm of indignation thickens the air. We have homes, we argue. Lives! Babies who need our care,
I am being interviewed, and the voice on the phone asks me why I’m not very social on social. It takes me a second to decode his words, or even his intent. Social on social? What? Is it not part of your strategy? he asks. You know, do you not see it as an essential
Image Credits: Iron & Lace for Camp Climb Summer camp for the young me was this: wet socks drying on hickory branches. Cold Dr. Pepper from the canteen. Legs dangling from the top balcony of Amity Hall, lost in a continual conversation with stars and the dirt beneath.
I’m no stranger to the immense personality crisis Mother Nature endures throughout an Indiana spring. This year in particular, our entryway has danced between parasols and parkas more times than I can count. Sundays spent chattering on a back porch, kids swinging wildly on a hammock chair, popsicles at the ready. Monday morning? Snow, and
Our Christmas tree towers in the dining room corner. The starless top is drying, browning, but the lights are still strung delicately. (The cranberry garland off to the birds long ago.) I haven’t been able to take it down, and not for lack of want. The space will be nice, I think. The pine needle
It began last summer, the itch. — I’m no stranger to the itch, have had many in a lifetime. Every creative project I’ve ever endeavored to explore has been a direct result of a prickle’s first beginning. The early notion, the quieting of all else. Once the itch turns feverish, begins to keep me awake