In Lebanon, the name Elias is nothing more than George or Josh and as common as Matthew here in the states. Unfortunately, growing up in Tennessee, however, that was not the case. I was pegged as exotic pretty early on, even with whitish skin. I would notice the teachers’ eyebrows advance in caution often before … More Awareness is a form of Gratitude
A certain sadness to slow us down, is that what it takes? Or a gem in the road, and for a moment, without question, We give thanks or not. Today the apple trees seem full in bloom as if suddenly—and wasn’t yesterday a different story? Of course, my heart swelled in joy for them and … More the mayflies and the apple blossoms
I don’t know where it comes from, that empathic or intutitive connection to the other worlds. Do witches and seers just happen like an oddity, by chance and without reason within a narrative? I’m not necessarily calling myself a witch, maybe witchy, at times but I have been curious. My dear … More A Run Down Beuhler’s Hill
I don’t know too many people who have willingly read the story of their last relationship. Fortunately, I used to date a writer. Her work is phenomenal and I expected nothing less when reading the draft of her first book. I guess I gave it away already but, yup, the book is written … More Beautiful.
I’m not terribly interested in keeping quiet about this matter. Sensitive yes, but I can’t get to my point without first revealing something awful; besides, I imagine this experience is something that others have seen. This past week I was asked to participate in a mediation between myself and another staff member, an older man … More A Wasp in the Garden
I wouldn’t want to write a dog story if there wasn’t a pretty message at the end. And there’s always an end isn’t there? I think the 90s and early 2000s was the golden-era for those heart wrenching, eye-socket flooding, emotional deluging dog movies, weren’t they? I mean, Old Yeller was way ahead of its … More The Story of Elsa
I would like to believe myself a descendant to some wise old bird aware of the terrors of being a poet in his time—or maybe just always consumed by some obsessive work. In his time he would pass up the expediency of machines or the draw of making a family to seek joys in … More Why the Cottonwood Gave Up Everything for Spring.
My mom looked off for just a moment, as if some story had always been near to her and seemingly always there after all these years. As she recalled the events, the colors of the room went dull and her words became crisp and vivid. “There was that one time.” She started, as if every … More The Preciousness of Every Little Thing, Every Little Memory
To at times be indecisive, is it not as natural as the shifts in weather? Somehow, this world has managed to live, resilient and unending—
To be alone and not feel that loneliness, this takes many years. To discover, when in search of those places that offer solace in solitude, certainly, this takes many years.