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In SHE LOVED, WORDS On
October 13, 2016

She Loved Maple Nut Goodies

She loved maple nut goodies. And French Burnt Peanuts, too. Dime store candies that are easy to find and never melt on road trips.

So many road trips we took. Visiting family, going on camping trip vacations, and sometimes, just driving. Those were my favorites. And when the candies would most often come out.

I don’t know what kind of magic spell she cast on that purse but there was always something sweet to be found in one of the corners. After we ate cheese and crackers from the mini cooler that often sat on the backseat between my brother and me, we’d eat those little candies and play the license plate game, or the find-the-alphabet-on-the-billboards game, or I Spy. Read more

In ALL POSTS, ART On
October 11, 2016

Churning Gold

It is sooooo fall. With all this pumpkin bread, banana muffin splendor, and the promise of all things Thanksgiving, it has me thinking about…wait for it…butter. Homemade butter, to be exact.

And there really couldn’t be anything easier. No, really. Like one ingredient easy (two if you’re feeling salty). Think how impressive you’ll be when you show up to the dinner table with a little crock of your own homemade butter. Nobody needs to know the real story. Read more

In ALL POSTS, ART, WORDS On
October 6, 2016

Autumn Comes

Autumn comes
With fervent breezes
That smell of burnt marshmallows
And taste like spiced sugar and cream.

She first visits at night.
After the sun sleeps
And before it rises.
When the world is quiet and honest and clear.

Read more

In ART On
October 4, 2016

Sunflower Sisters

My BFF came to visit and ohmygosh did we ever live it up. Pumpkin spice lattes, sushi, laughing so hard we got bellyaches, clearance sales, thrift store shopping. And then there were the sunflowers. Talk about great timing! The most Kansas experience she could ever have.

img_8889c Read more

In ALL POSTS, SHE LOVED On
September 8, 2016

For Mom

I miss you. Funny how so few words can mean so many things, how they can abbreviate a layered complexity of emotion. Nostalgia, melancholy, laughter, pain.

I think of you every time I finish something I’m proud of.
I think of you every time I think of Christmas.
I think of you every time I’m in a hospital.
I think of you every time I laugh so much it hurts my belly.
I think of you every time I sing.

You loved it when I sang this song.

 

faithful to me

In ALL POSTS, WORDS On
August 6, 2016

Soapbox

You are so afraid to lose what you’ve swept into the corners
That you’re loathe to share the expanse of your yard.
We’re told to give him your coat when he takes your shirt.
Every time, not just when he can prove
He was born in the right place, or only when his papers are in order.
Only if she believes as you do, or if she lives as you think she ought.
Not only when you’ve been compensated enough. Read more

In ALL POSTS, SHE LOVED On
June 7, 2016

She Loved the Stories Hands Tell

She loved the stories hands tell. What every nick, scar, wrinkle, and freckle represents.

Artists’ hands with paint embedded in the knuckles. Farmers’ hands with dirt under the fingernails, rough patches from years of work, freckles from the sun. Mamas’ hands with pinpricks from quilting needles, wrinkles from being wrung during missed curfews, a little worn from countless hours in dishwater. Guitar pickers with their calloused fingertips, bakers with their burns. She could look at your hands and tell you your life story.

I used to hate my hands, blocky and sturdy with thick knuckles, not dainty and delicate in the least. I always thought mine are better suited for a plow than a piano. I told Mom this once. She held up my hands and called them beautiful. She said, just think of what these hands will do, what they will create, who they’ll care for. These are hands that can accomplish things, that will get things done. Love your hands, she told me, and they will serve you well.

I miss her hands, always warm, always ready to give. She held mine through every childhood fear, every insecurity, every anxiety. She squeezed mine after every amen around the dinner table. Her hand swung my arm back and forth on walks in the pasture and dried so many of my tears. I held hers for hours on her last day here, until she was gone, until the nurse had to make me let go.

May my hands endeavor to give the world a fraction of what hers did.

In ALL POSTS, WORDS On
March 20, 2016

Trick Knot

I weep for her now,
That girl I hated.
The one who dreamed of death
Of escape
Of freedom.

Why did I hate her so?
Because she couldn’t hear?
Couldn’t see?
Wouldn’t feel?
That girl, all alone and beloved. Read more