By I stand at my desk looking at the sunshine out of the front window in the house where I became a mother, twenty years ago. I’m recalling the months after my middle son was born. I was desperate to feel my body as my own again, so I started doing
Out of the Blue, a Poem for You
Some days, writing is like a laser beam: sharp, focused. Other days, it’s like a flood: deep, dense. This day, this morning, I woke with an emotional hangover. Yesterday–my second Mother’s Day without my mother–was heavy with unexpected grief, conflict, and affection. My children saved it, of course, as did
A Story of My Mother’s Last Gifts, at The Story Project – TONIGHT
A little over two years ago, I told a story from the summer I wrote The Oat Project for a program here in Colorado Springs called The Story Project. Like The Moth Radio Hour out of New York City, it’s live, local storytelling without a script. Tonight, on this Mother’s
