Inside the gas station store, I do a strange dance with the woman across the aisle. We see each other and duck quickly to the next aisle, hoping to circle back, only to meet each other again, swerve quickly away and dart to the next aisle. Her eyes are laughing when we come nearly face to face again, both stubbornly hoping to own the next space. I smile behind my mask and maybe she does too, but soon she murmurs
Two great blue herons glide low over the tidal marsh, slicing through late afternoon sunshine with wide, graceful wings. Raucous cries rain down on me as I stop to stare—I’ve ruined their perfect fishing spot, so they head for another. I follow the path and duck beneath the soft, green branches of a live oak, covered in curly resurrection fern. Breathing in the primal, earthy odors of the salt marsh, I disturb a small white egret. Flapping wings erupt
I wake up every morning to the soothing tones of Jimmy Buffett’s song, “Breathe In, Breathe Out, Move On.” I lay there and listen a moment, longing to keep my eyes closed and stay in the oblivion of sleep. And longing, like the song, to be able to move on. I don’t want to get up. I don’t want to glance in the corner of the bedroom where he used to lay his furry head and see the empty space
A hush falls over the back bayou as the sun slides low over green mangroves. A white egret wades slowly in the shallows, long neck curved as it stares downward, then strikes, catching a small, struggling fish, which it swallows in one gulp. Nearby, an anhinga dives with barely a splash, then swims with only its sleek blue-black head and neck above the surface. The birds ignore me as I sit with my quiet laptop on the deck above the
Layers of ice streak my bedroom window as an arctic wind rattles the glass. A late sun struggles in to bless the yucca plant but its looping leaves dream of desert heat as it shudders in the cold draft. Winter in Ohio…again. I am dreaming too, wishing the snow away, but strangely euphoric as I sit at my desk, despite the fact my hands and feet are cold. Strange because the winter has been too memorable, marked by the death
I can’t write about you yet. My grief would melt the page And the ink would run together Until the words mirror my tears. I can’t write. Not yet. So small so long ago. A little ball of fur with big brown eyes And a stump for a tail. No. Not yet. I can’t write about you. They say…who are they again? They say
Sunshine streams through floor-to-ceiling windows in our octagon “tree house,” painting a golden sheen on twin keyboards. Outside, live oak branches circle the house, wearing long scarves of Spanish moss. Palm tree fronds dance in the wind, whispering above the soft roar of ocean waves. A few steps away, palmetto fans and prickly pear edge the path to the beach, where stranded jellyfish wriggle on the sand and seagulls squawk and squabble. Sound like the fictional setting for a novel?
It’s February in Ohio, so I am hibernating. I open the door only to throw a dog biscuit out on the back deck to coax my miniature schnauzer to put his naked little paws in the icy snow. He comes back to the door looking like a tiny abominable snowman with blinking brown eyes. He can barely move his short little legs. The snow sticks to his long fur like Velcro. He is 12 inches high and has to navigate
“Begin again…” Do you believe in magic? Forget about “abracadabra.” If magic words exist in this world, then “Begin again” are two magic words that jumpstart my days. When my work days seem never-ending and looming deadlines collide too closely with new deadlines, stress level spikes and life becomes a race against the clock. Too often we think the only way to succeed in life is to work harder and harder until we convince a boss we have earned a
“Dance…wait…stare…” I repeat the mantra in my head as I shuffle my feet, wait until I see the seams in the ball, and then stare through it as I swing the racket in an arc across my body. The tennis ball hits the strings of the racket right on the sweet spot and zings into the sideline corner for a winner. Yes! The sweet spot…it’s not just a sports analogy. Wikipedia defines it as “… a place where a combination
A wintry wind rattles the window beside my desk and sleet taps at the glass. The draft whistles through the room like a wraith with icy fingers, so I get up again—for the third time in an hour—to make a hot cup of tea. Could sipping hot tea boost my creative process? Couldn’t hurt. Back at my desk, warming my hands on a cup that says, “Reinvent,” I glare out the window. Stupid Ohio. How is it even possible it
“Summertime and the livin’ is easy, Fish are jumpin’, and the cotton is high. Oh yo’ daddy’s rich and your ma is good lookin’, So hush, little baby, don’ yo’ cry.” Like the lullaby from Gershwin’s Porgy and Bess, the word “summertime” holds so much joy for me. The cold, bare gloom of winter gives way to balmy sunshine and lush grasses and greenery. To me, it’s the cracking sound of a tennis ball hitting the racket strings, the whirr
Sunshine falls on my face and shoulders like molten gold and people pass by wearing short sleeves and flip-flops. Summer afternoon? Not even close. Naked branches and sparkling patches of snow melting at the edge of the creek remind me it is late February in central Ohio. Mother Nature teases us with a balmy, nearly 70-degree day and we choose to ignore the fact it was minus three last week. We escape our stuffy houses in droves, delighted to be
I stand on the grassy hill, watching the sun sink down into the horizon, astride my bicycle with my tennis racket, telescope, and hiking boots clutched in my arms. As the warmth of summer disappears along with the sun, I can feel the bitter cold and snow creeping up behind me like a mountain lion stalking its prey. “NOOOOOO!!!!!!” I scream at the top of my lungs. Cold, rainy, dark November. For me, it is the antithesis of everything that
Autumn arrived quietly today, wrapped in brilliant sunshine and summer heat. I walked down a path edged by swaying golden-rod and purple English asters, looking for signs of the season. Fall is a season that sneaks in softly after a green summer. You look up at the dark green canopy one day and the locust leaves have yellowed. A few days later, small bursts of bright orange explode like fireworks in the sugar maple trees. The oak trees burnish