advent journal
The same year Nelson Mandela was released from prison — 1990 — Wendell Berry published a book of essays called What Are People For?. Not long after, John Prine released an album called The Missing Years . This week — twenty-three years later — I picked up the book at the two days after Nelson
advent journal
a week of advent has passed only tonight did I bring the boxes up from the basement so we could start hanging memories on our tree it will be tomorrow before I hang any lights in place of the dead ferns that give our old house a boo radley feel
advent journal
there is no such thing as silence in the calm of any quiet you can hear hearts breaking dreams dying thanks giving sadness singing hope harmonizing losses mounting faith enduring grace pervading love crashing in listen closely listen . . . for your name your name mine, too Peace, Milton
advent journal
My day began early after ending late the night before because I made a mistake and scheduled two catering gigs — lunches — at the same time in two different places. Thanks to my friend Laura, who has been a sous chef on several projects, both events went well. But after leaving
advent journal
Friday night I am going to see John Prine. It’s an early birthday present, and a great one at that. My friend Terry is picking me up from work and we are driving over to Greensboro to soak up one of my songwriting heroes. Today at work at the
advent journal
I have spent the evening baking, not writing. I have swirled my sadness into the mix of butter, sugar, eggs because I know what to do with butter, sugar, and eggs. Baking the same cookie doesn’t feel repetitive; why does writing about grief feel as though I am saying
advent journal
Over the past several weeks, I have been working towards another book. What that means for me is a string of almost daily photos from Cocoa Cinnamon, our neighborhood coffee shop, of my coffee, pen, and notebook because I find it best to write in longhand in the early stages.
advent journal
We gathered this morning in our church, along with Christians around the world, to observe the first Sunday of Advent, our intentional, patient walk to the birth of Jesus. Our tradition on this day is a service called “The Hanging of the Greens” (needless to say, we are not alone)
poetry
it is the morning of the next day -- I have come down- stairs to the kitchen to make coffee . . . the room still smells of pork chops and laughter; the empty glasses -- both wine and water -- stand like a skyline on the old farm table that soaked it
poetry
we walked tonight at sunset just in time to see the fading sun reach across town for an old building and bask it in the splendor of what was left undone home now my kitchen smells like that sunset full of sorrow and stories while the singer reaches for what
Uncategorized
a year ago, this room was filled with reclaimed lumber and pregnant dreams; now I sit in my spot, trying to give birth to new ideas as though I have always come here. the path from then to now is not mapped, but discovered -- looking back into the woods
Uncategorized
Several years ago, Thanksgiving became synonymous with pie at our house. The week before I go on a pie baking frenzy and the results are shared throughout the neighborhood, as well as around our table. Here are a few of the recipes that have become keepers over the years. I&