It's been an hour since thunder boomed and the boys skittered into my bedroom, into my bed, under the covers. Since then it rained and rained and rained and then the clouds pushed off each other and the sun resumed its role. But before that happened, Holden intertwined his fingers and said a prayer, even... Continue Reading →
incubus cd
There is this little thing David Sedaris wrote--the introduction to a collection of short stories--and in it he describes candidly and masterfully what it is to try to fit in and then to finally, after trying to be someone else, develop a confidence in his own opinion, which is what coming into ourselves is, if... Continue Reading →
different kinds of quiet
There are different kinds of quiet, but we talk about it as if there's only one. You know how Eskimos have all those different words for snow? I want different words for different types of quiet. There is a still, which isn't exactly quiet but is calm. It's birds fluttering in the trees and wind... Continue Reading →
writing as a constant
The thing about writing is that it isn't constant. I say that to mean both it is and it isn't. Constantly, we are in the process of writing. Writers are observing the world around us in great detail, documenting it in notebooks or on receipts or napkins or in blogs or on Twitter. We are... Continue Reading →
writing on the prairie
Last week, Jen and I were in the panhandle of Nebraska, which is the Northwestern corner, almost Wyoming or South Dakota. She was there on an instructorship, me on a scholarship, and I tell you, it felt like being celebrities. Although I suppose everywhere we go together, her and me, it feels like that. We... Continue Reading →
solving our riddles
If sadness is contagious--and I think maybe it is--I'm afraid I gave it to my son. Often people who aren't sad think the people who are sad are only that way because of things that happened to them. That because of horrible things, they are sad. And sometimes, maybe that's true. But also, there is... Continue Reading →
voice
I was not rebelling by smoking dope or drinking, I was testing ideas. I was experimenting with voice, what I could say and still be heard in an atmosphere of prescribed truths. I remember the first time I questioned something I heard at church out loud. I must've been around twelve. I remember the answer... Continue Reading →
Bucket Filling
"Mom, you're filling my bucket," Brandon said, after I told him how smart he is, how proud I am to be his mother. "What does that mean?" I asked, knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it. "Everybody has an invisible bucket," he began, "and when you compliment someone or do nice things... Continue Reading →
