As I begin reading the collection of nineteenth-century Stiles letters that may provide the core of my next book, I’m brought reluctantly to remember two long ago incidents when loneliness pushed me closer to belief.
This Beautiful Weave
It strikes me that I have days like Sunday which seem to be a beautiful weaving of threads: red, blue, and all the other colors of the rainbow.
On Memoir
Memoir writing is a much more serious task than it’s often considered to be. It’s not informal, it’s not casual. It really is the writing of history.
Women Holding Things
As a worldwide conflagration of violence has broken out, we women are not even holding our own. Our voices and faces no longer appear in the news.
Groundhog Day
Today I’m celebrating something that happened several decades ago when Hopscotch House, belonging to the Kentucky Foundation for Women in Louisville, was just getting started and we needed an executive director.
Silver Heads
It is with dismay but not surprise that I read a description of the reaction of two “Silver Heads” to Tracy Emin’s panels on the main doors of the National Portrait Gallery in London.
Truck Driving Woman
She is, she told me, a professional long-haul truck driver, steering eighteen-wheelers with enormous trailers across big swatches of this county.
Umbrella
For my daily walk I borrowed a big black umbrella. But—how to open it?
Throwing Apples at Indians
Every time I ride the Southwest Chief East or West from Lamy, New Mexico—my preferred way of traveling—I meet at least one fascinating fellow traveler.
King’s Day
When I listened to Dr. King’s speech on NPR Sunday night, I was moved by the great power of his church-trained voice as well as by his revolutionary message.