I’m reading Virginia Woolf’s “The Years,” the only one of her novels I haven’t read.
Learning From Virginia
This summer is my sixth at Summer Classics, and I’m fortunate to be re-reading Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway with seventeen other people and two tutors, as professors are called here.
Give Us This Day
Now, as always, there is the question of our minor influence as women on public events, even now when our faces and voices seem to indicate our ascendancy.
Daughters
Last weekend I wrote about sisters. Inevitably I am now writing about daughters. Both posts concern lives of privilege but are not limited by that definition.
Out of Darkness
I have learned in dark times to turn to a few trusted resources.
Every Three Seconds
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.
Small Is…
The little house is the cocoon for my escape, as smallness is and has been for so many others.
Touch
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.