Safe, Not Sorry | Part 2 of 2
I’m feeling raw today.
Best to start with
A Reality Check Read the rest of this entry »
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I’m feeling raw today.
Best to start with
A Reality Check Read the rest of this entry »
That’s how I’d headline my teenage and young adult approach to making decisions. Safe, not sorry! I still carry remnants of this in me, even though I know nothing is necessarily safe, and there’s no guarantee I’ll never be sorry. Life isn’t safe; Read the rest of this entry »
Part 1 focused on my infatuation with a gifted young man. I can’t say I actually met him at the mission conference. He probably never knew my name. Yet I daydreamed about a possible future with him, Read the rest of this entry »
This blog is about connecting the dots in my life. Part 1 reminds me of something I share with thousands of young children. Here’s my attempt to show and tell what I mean. Read the rest of this entry »
Fall in the 1990s. I’m in my 50s. A friend gives me a covered tea-cup. It’s lovely. When I get home I read the inscription on the cup and begin weeping. This isn’t about me. It’s about someone else. I can’t even imagine my way into this approach to life. Read the rest of this entry »
The last line of the dream names my hunger: “She seems lonely for someone to talk with about real life.” Other parts of the dream identify behaviors I might want to leave behind, and a few unexpected personal capacities and resources. This post focuses on my hunger, and describes how things begin falling apart. Read the rest of this entry »
Hunger. A fierce, relentless presence. Sometimes for food when I was a child, later for sisterly conversation. Not friendly polite talk, but safe, open, honest two-way conversation about our fears, agonies and dreams as we were growing up in the 1950s.
It wasn’t that we consciously chose not to talk with each other as sisters; it just wasn’t safe. Besides, back then I wasn’t aware of being hungry for this. I focused instead on staying out of trouble. Sadly, I didn’t pull that off very well. Read the rest of this entry »
nest in clover bank
sleepy summer afternoon
salty river smell
* * * * *
I’m 8 or 9 years old—
a budding writer looking for somewhere to write
and something to write about. Read the rest of this entry »
Telling the Truth 