The blinking cursor on my blank document seems particularly demanding this morning. I had a piece written last week that was set to go out today, but every time I think to click “Publish,” I know in my spirit that it’s the wrong move. So I return to the blank document with the boldly blinking cursor that asks: WHAT. WILL. YOU. SAY. I cannot publish a post this week that doesn’t speak to what has happened in Charlottesville. Silence is loud in events like this one. As I wrote on my social . . .
A few days ago, I began writing this verrrrrry heartfelt piece about [retracted, because you’ll read it soon enough]. I had no doubt I’d finish it up in time to send it out to you this week. I was wrong. I don’t often do this, but I had to push its publishing date back a week to get the piece just right. Because I hate to miss a week with you, I’ve decided, instead, to tell you about this wild thing that took place a couple of weeks ago. Here’s what happened: Not long ago, my husband . . .
Last Wednesday, I shared a piece that felt particularly vulnerable and scary. Shortly after I hit "Publish" was when I got scared, flipped out, cried, and decided never to write another word again. Sometimes writing brings out the irrational in me. What unfolded, however, was this really beautiful sense of community. It was the kind of thing I write for. I was so encouraged by your own stories, your messages, and the many of you offering a brave and gracious, "me too." You've reminded me why . . .
I recently listened to Anne Lamott’s TED Talk about the 12 things she’s learned from life and writing. Anne says, “Go outside a lot and look up. My pastor said you can trap bees on the bottom of mason jars without lids because they don't look up, so they just walk around bitterly bumping into the glass walls. Go outside. Look up. Secret of life.” Last weekend, my husband and I went for a walk through a beautiful wooded area near our home. Twenty four hours earlier, I had learned that I am . . .
Years ago, my uncle and his family were in town for the holidays. We didn’t get to see this side of the family very often, so our time together was always too short but so sweet. It still is. I’ll never forget this particular visit because I very much irritated my dad by using a “nice” bath towel, rather than letting one of our guests use it. This was wildly confusing to me, mostly because I didn’t realize we had varying levels of bath towels, some of which were intended for specific people . . .
I hate peas. There, I said it. I cannot stand peas. I think they are disgusting, both on their own and mixed with other ingredients in a dish. A few weeks ago, I made a recipe that called for peas. Being the rule follower that I am, I bought a bag of peas and included them in the dish. That evening, while having dinner with my husband, I was complaining incessantly about how much the peas were ruining my entire culinary experience. “Why did you include them in the recipe?” My logical . . .