I love having a routine. While I truly admire people who seem to thrive in the midst of chaos, I am just not one of them. Without taking the time to create a sense of order for myself, I become forgetful, I lose things, and I stumble over my thoughts. Continue reading Morning Rituals
I suppose this is what I mean when I say we cannot possibly know what will manifest in our lives. We live and have experiences and leave people we love and get left by them. People we thought would be with us forever aren’t and people we didn’t know would come into our lives do. Our work here is to keep faith with that, to put it in a box and wait. To trust that someday we will know what it means, so that when the ordinary miraculous is revealed to us we will be there, standing before the baby girl in the pretty dress, grateful for the smallest things.
From Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar by Cheryl Stayed. Thanks to Grace for recommending this book — serendipitous timing.
I must have still been in high school when I found this piggy bank in a thrift store way out in Berlin, NJ — a city not nearly as exciting as its name would suggest. For some reason, I’ve been oddly attached to it for as long as I could remember, even making some efforts to “restore” it way back when I wanted to go into art restoration as a career path. Continue reading Scraps
Do you ever walk down the street on a sunny day and hear a phrase of music and feel your sternum crack open just a tiny bit? Do you know what I mean when I say that? It’s a feeling. It’s not a theory. It can’t be pinned. It’s what I want to capture every time I write a poem and I keep writing poems because I never think I’ve captured it.
The Middle of Things: Advice for Young Writers by Andrew Soloman is one of the best pieces I’ve read in a long, long time. If it made any logical, and legal, sense to do so, I’d quote the entire thing here. Instead, a few snippets that touched me deeply:
The worst mistake anyone can make is to perceive anyone else as lesser. The deeper you look into other souls—and writing is primarily an exercise in doing just that—the clearer people’s inherent dignity becomes.
She seems to exist in only two possible situations: on the back of a Harley, gray hair poking out of her motorcycle helmut, or standing on the sidewalk, somewhere between confused and straining to recall where she was going when she walked out the door.
She must be 80, at least. Her white hair is bobbed and frames her tan, wrinkled face, which is speckled with age spots and the corporal paraphernalia of a lifelong smoker. She likely has dementia, but I’m no doctor. She waves every time I walk past, with the innocence that only the really young or the really old have the capacity to possess. Continue reading Enjoy Your Life