As I begin writing, it is exactly 1:00 pm on an exceptionally beautiful spring day. My apartment on the third floor of an apartment block in Heemstede is flooded with light. I like to sit here at … read more.
No. It will never be enough. Never
enough wind clamoring in the trees,
sun and shadow handling each leaf, never enough clang
of my neighbor hammering,
the iron nails, relenting wood, sound waves
lapping over roofs, … read more.
It was during one weekday morning, at Red Hill Universalist Church, when I made the discovery. It is possible to jog four–five miles around the inside of a church sanctuary while listening to Mozart. I think the year was … read more.
Below is a poem I wrote a few days ago. I’m not deluded, I doubt it will make any difference and it certainly won’t change the minds of any insane/megalomaniac leaders. But writing a poem is maybe marginally better than not doing or saying anything. … read more.
My Mom’s favorite Methodist hymn was Maltbie Babcock’s “This Is My Father’s World.” It became my childhood favorite. Babcock, a Presbyterian minister, wrote the lyrics in 1901. The words of the hymn suggests that Nature, or the Universe, is a manifestation of … read more.
We all have different stories to tell. The first lockdown hit me at a particularly confusing time, less than a year after my husband died. I was just beginning to make a few good friends in my newly full time rural home. The … read more.
Though Covid19 restrictions have loosened somewhat, and we are now able to do things we have not be able to do for more than a year and a half, it still feels like a very strange world, and we know that we have … read more.
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