My self is precious, and it needs and deserves nourishing as the center of my life, not an outcropping.
I don’t know if any woman is allowed to have two best friends—there may be a rule prohibiting it written in the stars—but I will boldly claim my two.
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.
These are the women I know I can call on in times of need…who will understand what I want, oversee my progress toward some form of wisdom with courage, humor and compassion—and, above all, tell me the truth.
All of us who live alone although close to family and at times sharing seasonal celebrations know that we have a core of friends who are not just an alternative to relatives. They may know us better and even love us more!
Pantaloons and golden curls do not limit her temerity. It fascinates me to see that this long-forgotten children’s book seems in a strange way more modern than The Trial.
What do we offer each other? Shared habits, shared likes and dislikes, an astonishing ability to chose the best possible presents for each other; and the frankness that never seems barbed by ulterior motives—to instruct, to reprove, to create distance. Frankness that is a bridge to closeness rather than a bulwark against it.
I’ve always drawn a firm line between my writing and my cooking. Bonnie Lee Black has managed to meld them both.
Now that Christmas has fallen half way out of the day-I imagine it on its edge, sliding off all those cards that wish, so blandly, “Season’s Greetings” (and what are they?-I am coming to terms with the usefulness of Facebook.
SO HERE WE ARE after all these years—more than fifty—gathered together for the second time since we graduated from the private all-girls school in Louisville, Kentucky—before the Civil Rights Movement, before the Women’s Movement, before Vietnam and all the wars that have followed it.