Own your spiritual power and intuitive wisdom so that you have the courage to live wild, wonderful and free.
My pearls were indigo blue. Their color symbolizes justice and wisdom. Before I watched Kamala Harris become vice president of the United States, I clasped my pearls around my neck.
As I rounded a curve in West Virginia, the sign came into view. It was enormous, plastic, glossy red and blue, and it stretched to cover the side of a half-collapsed barn: TRUMP 2020.
I was raised in a flat concrete suburb. I live in a flat concrete city. I belong here in this paved world and I am content. But I long for an Appalachian Fall.
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.
“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.
I’m a sucker for a new appliance and a fresh clothes dryer was coming through the laundry door – I was tickled pink.
“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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
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.”