“There comes a time when the world gets quiet and the only thing left is your own heart. So you'd better learn the sound of it. Otherwise you'll never understand what it's saying.” ― Sarah Dessen, Just Listen When I sat to write a piece about "time" to...
Time. It’s on my side. Sure it is. Am I the only one who gets the urge to sock Mick in the nose upon hearing that lyric? But then I remember he was young and invincible when he wrote it. So, instead, I just want to hand him...
In this issue of X : Our Collective Offering, we reflect on self. That mysterious space between what you see and what others see. That space between what we know and what we want to believe. It’s hard, if not impossible, to get caught up...
"Time is but the stream I go a-fishing in." -Henry David Thoreau Alongside the river of my imagination I found an old camera. It comes from long ago. A deep brown wooden box with tarnished brass knobs. Its appearance at once intrigued me and filled me...
'I weep for Narcissus, but I never noticed that Narcissus was beautiful. I weep because, each time he knelt beside my banks, I could see, in the depths of his eyes, my own beauty reflected.' ~ Paolo Coelho Narcissus gets a bad rap. He falls in...
Reflections are the beauty of a childhood imagined. The daydream of life captured in a flash of sunlight and sea sparkle. I dig turning the world on its end; diving inside (outside) to peek beneath (beyond) the ordinary world I face everyday. The dreaminess of reflection...
In this issue of X : Our Collective Offering, we ponder...
What drives this introvert to others initially is a needed, but seldom obtained, connection — craved shared path or experience, a witness. While difficult, I long for the adventure that only strangers can bring to one another. That simple chance to gain a shared kindness...
The day started at dawn, the sound of young women sweeping dirt into neat rows with twig brooms just outside my window, the strokes striking a rhythm punctuated by the sound of clanging as aluminum spoons stirred morning porridge into metal cups. Young women swept...
Once as a boy traveling along a country road past meadow and farm, my grandmother sat firmly behind the wheel of a pea green ford with imitation wood sides. There was no destination at all, as summer evenings where apt to produce. This was the...