Memories of Mosquitoes and Maine
I’ve never been lost, alone, on a mountain in Maine. My dad prepared me too well for that.
I’ve never been lost, alone, on a mountain in Maine. My dad prepared me too well for that.
All of us still named the same reality.
It engages with a central human issue—invisibility and erasure—on personal, familial, and systemic levels.
I laughed at these wedding magazines, and implicitly, at the women who read them, until this year.
I remembered my baptism when I dipped my hand in the frigid blue water of a glacier, when I felt mist clinging to my face and dampening my clothes, when I watched the graceful, floating powdered sugar descent—deceptively powerful—of waterfall after waterfall after waterfall.
The urge to stick shells to objects is nearly irresistible.
Small talk is the price one must pay to eventually become known.
I’ve marveled at the sun and the snow and the water and the trees because somehow I’m lucky enough to experience it all.
To think that we can use social media without being influenced by it is the height of arrogance.
Have I mentioned yet that I love Sunday nights and that maybe I have a proprioception problem?
Alienation and brokenness abound. Redemption, mercy, and grace do too, although seeing them may take microscopic attention.
The assumption is that I would have unfinished business that necessitates ghostiness.
July 3 was the day that more people than I can remember told me they loved me.
Notice people, watch them, and see what you learn.