By I subscribe to several travel and photography newsletters, and Eye Prefer Paris is one of my favorites. Its genteel and gentle tone, straightforward photography, and glimpses of a Paris life consistently charm. It’s a glimpse into a life that is definitely close to how I think of as Ideal, a
On the Occasion of Getting the Results of a Biopsy
On the Occasion of Getting the Results of a Biopsy a poem by Jene’ Jackson I lifted my eyes to the sky after hearing “all clear” at a dreaded follow up To see two hawks circling between contrail X’s hallways the high ways. The hawks circled each other together but
Civil War of My Books
I’m having a weird relationship with my books lately. I have many, many books. I had many books before my mom died, and then I got most of hers, and now I have even more. And they’re great books. I call myself a “literary survivalist.” Someday–we all know it will
Nine Years in the Making – The Oat Project memoir
And so it is here. The Oat Project is done, ready, being read by presale and (from way back) full subscribers. Are you ready? I don’t feel ready. But I’m doing it anyway. Right now, this minute, I’m simultaneously wanting to RAWR, flee to the beach and hide my head
THE Announcement – My Mom’s View
ANNOUNCEMENT (Please read, then watch the video): Nine years ago, I started a project that became transformational then seminal: Over the summer of 2007, at 37 years old, I finally came of age via doing 22 things I’d never done, like getting drunk, going dancing, getting a tattoo, and smoking
Back to Life: Weeping Salaams with Hugging and Wailing Dancing Spinning Gratitude and Pie
It was February 2012. I was about to launch the serialization of my book, The Oat Project. I got a call from family saying my mom was in the hospital. She had beaten cancer twice since 2008 but had struggled in the year before with “maintenance” chemo. She was having
The Gifts of Empty
The kitchen is where my inner science geek and slapdashing artist get to dirty dance…pure alchemy. Cooking has always given me energy, yes; but it also requires a focus, effort, and sense of play that I haven’t been able to muster often over the last year and a half since
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
Gigantic, Google, Macrosomatognosia, and Me
This post has no neat and tidy ending. It does have a soundtrack, though. Go here to listen to the musical version of these words. It’s 11:38pm on “G” day for the A to Z April Blogging Challenge. I was determined to catch up and post today but got busy.
