It has always been clear to me that words, on which I’ve built my creative life, can’t heal. They can illuminate and inspire… but those same words would be powerless to heal in the face of tragedy.
Blog Posts on Religion
This past Lent I thought I made an agreement with myself to enter into all the ceremonies of that six-weeks season of suffering… and then to reward myself with the glorious resurrection of Easter.
Women have always thronged to churches, finding solace in this image of holy suffering. Is it possible that someday we will throng to the images of the Queen?
The return of the prodigal recreates my faith in returns, generally—that the lost are never truly lost, or at least rarely.
For a restless woman, sitting is always a challenge… yet I believe the ten minutes I sit every morning literally save my life.
Afflicted with black humors these black, cold winter mornings, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I decided to wake up singing.
I would always find, outside my bedroom door, a basket with a child-sized rake, shovel, hoe and trowel as well as five or six bright colored packets of seeds: squash, tomatoes, radishes, lettuce. Mother was a passionate gardener and hoped that her five children would develop her love for getting her hands in the dirt.