Monthly Archives: March 2020
Someday I think I’ll stay, and perhaps that will be the hardest choice of all.
When it is, in fact, your duty not to go anywhere, going to nowhere starts to look like going somewhere.
It’s been almost a month since I hopped on the 92 bus and sat next to my soccer teammate on the way to our game, both of us taking turns to explain why we’re running late this time.
No one has any idea what to do, and we’re all trying to use what we’ve got to make things work.
When confronted with a dozen or so unexpected snails, one faces questions of moral principle one never thought one would.
It’s tempting, as the writer, to make a trite connection here to challenges I have previously risen to (a potentially boring speech about crossword puzzles).
If language has a glue, it’s social interaction.
Your urgent missile of alarm last night was most unprofessional.
Whoever said money can’t buy happiness clearly never bought a cozy cerulean sweater.
Will the sting of the adhesive ripping against our tender skin be an experience we can learn and grow from?
If terroir survives the conceptual transplant from grape-growing to bread-baking, then it’s no surprise that I’ve failed to replicate my grandma’s bread.
This time it felt different, like the distance the prayers travel to reach the Lord was shorter than usual.
Please assist humankind by divulging any variations of the masculine nod not encountered in this scientific journal.
How do you speak confusion to God?
God’s belly-deep groaning plead
from lake and trees’ lips;
I don’t fear, no, I tremble.
It feels so wrong to continue living normal life in the aftermath of a tragic storm.
“Why is no one washing their hands before going to lunch?!”
MATT (trying to save face, smiles): Thank you everyone! God bless!
I worked as an auditor until I didn’t.
Tzunuum was a plain, humble hummingbird; so simple that she had no dresses or jewelry for her wedding.
It feels like the stars are marching on inevitably but purposelessly, favoring—as always—fear, anger, patriarchy, and established power.
“Kids can’t learn when they don’t feel loved, right?”
People will die, the economy might tank, and my Italian honeymoon’s on the line, but somehow, it feels like I have a conflict of interest.
“There are peacocks in Creston?!??”
A few months ago, I found myself at a weekend-long turtle monitoring session on Honduras’ southern coast.
It’s like merging onto a highway when you’re not sure you remember how to drive.
And I’ve realized I like wading into expansive subcultures very shyly.
A robin pulls a fat worm from the ground in the middle of a traffic circle and life suddenly feels too grand, too expansive, too beautiful to possibly come to an end.