The woman sits crossed legged on the shore of the silent lake on a crisp spring morning. The lavender mist hovers above the water, as she watches a flock of brown and black birds bob along the surface.Read More
A few months ago, I was given a seat from an old movie theatre. The theatre was called The Regent, and it was the one my parents bought in 1949 when I was five. When it closed six years later, I never gave a thought to what might happen to any part of it—the projectors, the screen, the seats—but then, over fifty years later, I happened to hear that a small local museum was mounting an exhibit about small-town theatres. I contacted the curator, and told her what I could about our theatre.Read More
The last time I saw my mother, I received the gift of some powerful clarity about something, and it's something I need reminding of every day.
She saw herself, and thus this world and me, through a filter where all she saw was weight. It truly was ALL SHE SAW when she looked at me. Or at anyone.Read More