I’m okay with the earth sleeping in the winter. I can take a break from foliage, petals, colors, but when the skies stay gray day after day, it gets tough. I don’t want to go out the door. A meeting to attend. I’m going, you understand, but I struggle with myself. I need a new voice in my head! I need to say “Thank you” and “Welcome!” to God and to the sun. (Both are out there, whether I can find them or not.) I make up my mind to leave the victim voice (in my head) at home.

Last week I sat in front of the laptop, glancing out a window to the side yard. Cloud-hooded day. Redbirds and finches overwhelmed the feeders, and a red-headed woodpecker pecked his way up the gray trunk of the bare maple. The moment was fragile, small like the upstart of a redbud. I was stunned to stillness. All of it, part of a story, a map, a piece of the whole. A few days later, three of us drove through the backwoods together to see what we could see. We came to a creek

It’s late evening when I hear about a high school classmate’s death. I learn via an email. My reaction is Whaaaat? Thinking I’ve misread the email, I reread it. Then I read it aloud to my husband, hoping he’ll hear a misunderstanding of the message. My brain is processing as fast as it can, but my heart cannot handle it. So I subconsciously process it all night. I rest, but I do not sleep. I think and think and think. It. Does. Not. Help. My friend’s death jars me. What furth

How can I tell you? Rectangles are everywhere in the living area of our house. Cell phones, Nintendo Switch, Nintendo DS, cords and chargers. New toys for smart boys. When playing, they are quiet and happy and focused. I’m old school and don’t understand half of it. I see the rectangles they hold in their hands as separating the twins from each other, from grandparents, from a sister. The boys look like they are here, but don’t let it fool you—they are not where they seem to