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THE ART OF CONVERSATION
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THE ART OF CONVERSATION

My son and I went on a fishing trip in Idaho once. He was in his teens. I remember we were floating down the river with cliffs on either side. I was taking my rafting very seriously when my son took my arm and shouted, “Dad. Dad. Are you seeing this? Pay attention. You’re going to...

EVERY LITTLE THING
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EVERY LITTLE THING

I’ve been waiting for this home to tell me what it wants to be since arriving the day after four surgeons deposited a chemo port in the right side of my chest. To be fair, this is the first time in the forty-one years I’ve been renovating homes that something more pressing was occupying my...

Every Three Months
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Every Three Months

INTRO: My hairstylist recently asked me, “How has your cancer changed the way you live your life.” I found myself answering as I hoped I would— Surprisingly, the colors aren’t faded but more vivid than before—In many ways, my creativity has intensified because I’m no longer interested in pleasing others so much as being true...

FORTY ONE YEARS
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FORTY ONE YEARS

Before I was eighteen, I had soared above the clouds more times than I can remember but never on a commercial plane. That first jet-propelled flight it felt silly, given my age and flight experience,  to still myself while a member of the crew pinned to my gauzy white blouse this tiny little set of...

A CRACK IN THE SHUTTER
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A CRACK IN THE SHUTTER

Just over the bridge, the lesser-known twin of Avignon sits quietly gloating in a confidence of superiority that subdues the need for unnecessary debate. This is Villeneuve, the embodiment of the notion, “What is, simply is.” Sometimes the loudest lessons are learned in the quietest place. The cobbled streets make getting from one lamp post...

LIKE A MOTHER: Part Deux
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LIKE A MOTHER: Part Deux

I like to think that typing is the fingers making known what the mind sees, the colors of endless dreams set down in black and white. I wonder what it is you picture when you long for something…Is it the same thing laid before you in real life? Three boys. A good mother would write...

VIEW From a Tree
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VIEW From a Tree

José has come this morning to cut down an 180’ tree that looms over our cottage, blocking the sun as it beams its morning light through dense branches and out over the water to the geese, impossibly loud in their frantic conversation. It’s as if they know that something is coming or perhaps that it...

Help!
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Help!

I hear him before I set eyes on the man once wholly my Daddy, now mentally disfigured by what the world let in— How curious that this is the scene that seeps into the crevices of my recent days.   There is no great wall that separates us from Heaven and Hell, only a door...

HIDING PLACES
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HIDING PLACES

There are days I hardly remember what my body has gone through. Those days are bittersweet—Despite the anxiety that accompanies the memory, the thought of “what was” makes my “what is” more precious. In the early days, when the scars on my belly were pronounced, I would quiet my mind by turning up the volume...

EMBEDDED THINGS
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EMBEDDED THINGS

The days surprise me and not always in a manner of my desire. Still, even the hard news teaches something, though I am not always convinced that the lesson is worth the loss. I have owned six Danes…each as necessary and omnipresent as breath, each leaving a hole in their departure as immense as their...