At certain intersections of my life I have been aware of a clear memory of my father at my age. When I turned forty-one, I could remember Dad at that age because of one the persistent fragments of memory was the birthday card I wrote for him that year: life begins at forty at least…
The barrage of ice and snow that runs from Texas to New England has brought us only rain the last few days, still the heavy blanket of grey clouds, the persistent drip of the drizzle, and the still shortening daylight have been their own perfect storm for me. I have worked hard to be industrious…
The day has been grey, cold, and rainy here in Durham. If I were in Boston, there would be snow on the ground, adding a little poetry to the gloom. When I arrived at Cocoa Cinnamon I had a hard time finding a seat because the little room was packed with people who had brought…
The same year Nelson Mandela was released from prison — 1990 — Wendell Berry published a book of essays called What Are People For?. Not long after, John Prine released an album called The Missing Years. This week — twenty-three years later — I picked up the book at the two days after Nelson Mandela…
a week of advent has passed only tonight did I bring the boxes up from the basement so we could start hanging memories on our tree it will be tomorrow before I hang any lights in place of the dead ferns that give our old house a boo radley feel in the fall we are…
there is no such thing as silence in the calm of any quiet you can hear hearts breaking dreams dying thanks giving sadness singing hope harmonizing losses mounting faith enduring grace pervading love crashing in listen closely listen . . . for your name your name mine, too Peace, Milton
My day began early after ending late the night before because I made a mistake and scheduled two catering gigs — lunches — at the same time in two different places. Thanks to my friend Laura, who has been a sous chef on several projects, both events went well. But after leaving my journal and…
Friday night I am going to see John Prine. It’s an early birthday present, and a great one at that. My friend Terry is picking me up from work and we are driving over to Greensboro to soak up one of my songwriting heroes. Today at work at the computer store, I told a couple…
I have spent the evening baking, not writing. I have swirled my sadness into the mix of butter, sugar, eggs because I know what to do with butter, sugar, and eggs. Baking the same cookie doesn’t feel repetitive; why does writing about grief feel as though I am saying the same thing over and over…
Over the past several weeks, I have been working towards another book. What that means for me is a string of almost daily photos from Cocoa Cinnamon, our neighborhood coffee shop, of my coffee, pen, and notebook because I find it best to write in longhand in the early stages. I like thinking through the pen…