“Do you recognize this man?” One of the officers held out a picture of Jack. His toothy smile was unmistakable, although I noticed, even in the low-quality mug shot, an unfamiliar wildfire in his eyes. I nodded.
It is that stillness I search for in the transcendental north. The quiet amidst the buzz of living that I haven’t discovered in the nooks and crannies of my own hum of days.
A friend confessed that she could easily pour all her money into eating at GR restaurants. Another, smiling wryly, said quickly: “I couldn’t. I’m not sure I have the wardrobe for it.”
Growing up, I occasionally went with my dad to both the hospital and the mission. I saw the way in which he interacted with the patients of the hospital and the clients of the mission.
I already am super weird about being on time, and a lot of my friends seem to view a deadline as more of a suggestion, rather than a hard fact.
The clever phrasings, the lilting harmonies, the bone-soaking sadness, the hard-earned joy—it fills me up with the subtle satisfaction of uncertainty.
I glean donated furniture after things that mark some kind of unraveling—an estate sale, a move, a downsizing. I’ve begun to think of my work as a conservation of energy.
But the snow does not fall only on the ill-prepared. It falls on 4.0 students, kids flunking every class, and overwhelmed first-year teachers alike.
A serving of oatmeal eaten straight out of the brown paper package gets a five out of ten stars when eaten in my kitchen, but eleventy-twelve stars when eaten atop a mountain.
My fondness for toilets began in first grade when I staged a protest in the Jackson Elementary School girls’ bathroom. I objected to recess, of all things.
