Articles about Linda
In this time of schism, rent as it is with bitterness, sorrow, and grief, what I want to write about often seems irrelevant. I’m a dinosaur. An anachronism.
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“Grammy, we’re friends, right?” he said. We sat at the kitchen island side-by-side eating lunch, my 3-year-old grandson and I.
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I’m a sucker for a new appliance and a fresh clothes dryer was coming through the laundry door – I was tickled pink.
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“Sorry,” I said to the Madonnas in my office, my voice as small as a whisper. The ceiling fan whipped the word into disjointed letters.
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I adore my grandson. I adore the feeling between us when we are together. I adore the ways he invites me into a world that is less than 3 feet tall and closer to the heart of things.
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A mystical, wild, green path through a maze ends in a thick tangle of hedges. It’s a drawing on an oracle card from the deck, “Wisdom of Avalon.”
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The compliment I cherish from those paid to me across my career as a mental health counselor is, “I could tell you anything.” I do not judge secrets.
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Our friendship was forged in parenting daughters who became best friends in first grade and remain so, thirty years later. We were a study in cultural contrasts.
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A writing expert and colleague said, “your voice is either fiercely sensitive or sensitively fierce.” Her feedback stopped me in my tracks. I hadn’t thought of myself as “fierce.”
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I’m a natural storyteller, a bard, and I love stories. I’ve been thinking a lot about what it means to hold a balance of stories in my heart, stories of happiness and love right alongside stories of pain and suffering.
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