July 27, 2020 § 1 Comment
Hot rooibos tea in a hand painted china cup, gifted by a friend.
Fresh cut lisianthems, lavender, mauve, and pink, clustered in a round glass vase on an old walnut table.
Homemade pizza crust and fresh tomato sauce. Roasted red bell peppers. Portobello mushrooms. Handfuls of mozzarella cheese.
Reading on the front porch surrounded by marigolds and cacti, a milkweed plant, a fern.
Sunshine in the late afternoon dappling a pink wall, a mint green couch, orange cushions.
Sunflowers in the windowsill.
Trips with your husband to Home Depot, to Tom Thumb.
The smell of ground coffee. Reading the Sunday paper. Grilling in a friend’s backyard.
Wine, lots of it. Red. White. Rosé.
Gin and tonics. Moscow mules in icy copper cups.
Just a cold beer.
Steaming, homemade waffles topped with honey and fruit and eaten with a friend.
Phone calls just to catch up. Phone calls for prayer.
A jazzy blues band playing a street concert. Neighbors seated in fold out chairs. Neighbors dancing, falling over with glee.
Bon Iver on the record player. A home with records to play.
Tentative plans held loosely. A camping trip. An airbnb reserved.
Seeing and knowing the Kingdom of Heaven is still right here.
January 27, 2020 § Leave a comment
I’m a bit behind on sharing this story — it came out at the beginning of the year, and here we are almost at the end of January! But isn’t this how Januaries typically go? We resolve, plan, push, and by the end of the month ask ourselves, what did we really do, where did all our hopes and goals and resolutions vanish? I, for one, spent a good deal of the month working on stories that I’m afraid ultimately look a bit too forced, a bit flat on the page. Though, perhaps not; perhaps they only look that way in the dim light of wintry January.
Here is what I want to share: An SMU Poet Brings a New Form of Storytelling to Your Phone. This story felt especially triumphant to me because it was one of the first journalism pieces I worked on since recovering from that pesky Lyme Disease, which still causes some nerve pain in my poor ol’ hands. Baby steps. One by one. Making it through this cold beginning month of the year.
I’ve noticed other bloggers will often share things they love on their newsletters and such, and while I can’t promise any form of consistency here with that sort of thing, I will share these two delightful bits I’m enjoying right now just for the fun of it:
A Sunday Note by Aningri. I look forward to this every week, and have to say Anna’s words almost always hit me right where they’re most needed.
And, Out of the Ordinary Podcast. I listen to this every Wednesday as soon as it comes out. I am younger than these women, and my life looks quite a bit different than theirs, but the universality of their friendship and the stories they tell always offer me just the right shot of encouragement and tenderness I need at midweek.
Here’s to a fabulous new year!
October 28, 2019 § Leave a comment
September 16, 2019 § Leave a comment
Just popping on here to share a short story I wrote a while back which has at last found a home in the lovely literary journal The Summerset Review!
I hope you enjoy Best Wishes! And if you read the story, do let me know what you think — it’s so nice to know I’m not writing into the void, and I cherish your thoughts. Happy reading!
June 24, 2019 § Leave a comment
Over the last year and a half, I’ve struggled to overcome what I now know is Lyme Disease. For those who missed it, I wrote about that struggle — and the difficulty of so many others — to get a correct diagnosis and treatment for the disease for D Magazine’s medical directory.
Lyme Disease is surmountable, but if left untreated it can be debilitating and even life-threatening, and the number of afflicted patients is on the rise. Which is why I’m joining my voice with so many other Lyme patients to argue: “With the rise in Lyme cases, healthcare professionals should be on the lookout for the disease, becoming more educated on how to diagnose and treat it properly.”
You can find the full story here. It was not a story I ever wanted to write, but one I hope will shed some light on this terrible disease.
June 5, 2019 § 1 Comment
In Korcula, we feast.
Our guest house is a good thirty minutes walk from town, and each day we make the trek along the blue-green water, sometimes more than once. This is Europe, so of course the cars mind the pedestrians. The miles add up, step by step, and soon we are walking six, seven, eight plus miles a day.
Thank goodness, because this is the land of plenty.
There is rich chocolate gelato dripping down fingers in the sun. A dry white wine, Grk, grown and distributed only on the island, tasted from a chilled green bottle alongside a sweet red wine, a cherry liquor, an herbal grappa. Goat cheese and cow cheese and black and green olives. Bread and olive oil so flavorful, it’s a meal in and of itself.
If this is not enough, fried shrimp and fried calamari caught straight from the sea lapping at our feet, and even a taste of salty crisp sardines dunked in tartar sauce.
Still more, though: cherry, cheese, and Nutella-filled, flaky, and warm pastries in the morning; black Americanos sipped at tiny tables in an ancient stone alley; later, a bus ride into the rainy hills to a seemingly otherwise desolate town, roses the size of fists growing before crumbling stone homes and quiet empty churches overgrown with the twisting of floral vines, to the popular Belin restaurant, home to homemade pastas and Dalmatian green beans and, why yes, the caramel cake for desert, why not?
It is not always so decadent, of course. The simple meal of bread and cheese and salami, perhaps a leftover slice of cold pizza, also suffices. But the abundance is a gift to be savored — call it fulfillment, satiation, the cup that overflows.
June 1, 2019 § 5 Comments
We have come to rest, he from the demands of work, I from the trauma of a waning illness which I am determined to wholly recover from, determined shall not hold me back. In the mornings, we drink coffee and eat yogurt and bread and cheese and salami and Nutella, reading and watching the perfect ocean. Is it indulgence? Or merely living life well? Leisure, really. The bliss of long night’s of sleeping without an alarm, of awakening to sunlight and birdsong, to afternoon strolls through the ancient medieval walls of a city built hundreds of years ago, a city bombed and since reconstructed, a city jam-packed with tourists from all over the world.
Then, it’s onto a ferry that whisks us across the Adriatic to an island, Mljet, legendary oasis of Odysseus, possibly a haunt of Paul’s. I am determined to make it, but here again, the splitting pain, the lying on a strange contraption called a “back jack” that miraculously eases said pain, the walking through it because I did not come all this way only to suffer.
We take a boat across a teal-blue salt lake to an island on the island — St. Mary’s, home of a Benedictine monastery. In hat, dress, and sandals, I circle the monastery walls in the sunshine, clamber over crumbling rock steps split by red poppies, white lilies, purple and pink wildflowers buzzing with giant honey bees and yellow, green, and orange butterflies. It is a fecund place, overgrown and blossoming, a tomato and zucchini garden here, a stained glass window of Mother Mary there. Along the way, an occasional weeping juniper.
The monastery is under reconstruction, but I imagine the monks’ prayers anyway, lingering in the sweet, quiet air. I join mine with them and take a photo of their seclusionary walls. Are we all praying for each other, at the heart? We find a sunlit slab and promise to return the next day, for a swim in the warm, buoyant salt water. No wonder Odysseus stayed so long, my guide book says. It is the isle of bliss, Edenic.
“I feel better,” I tell Jared. He says, “And tomorrow you will feel better. And the day after that, better. And the day after that, better.” And on and on, we live in this space of not-yet-healed, moving toward what is whole and holy.
The next day, I do surrender my body to the water, but only part ways — in reality, it’s freezing. Afterwards, we walk for seven miles around the lake, feeling better. And even better.
May 25, 2019 § 2 Comments
Is it foolishness, or acting out of a sense of hope? I say the latter, but is that merely because I am greedy for beauty, greedy for a return to that version of me who went, went, went, on planes from here to there, longing to see with my own eyes these views of glory?
I am being too poetic here.
What I mean is this: we bought two tickets to Croatia when it seemed so very likely that my health was on the upswing, and then, one week out, my back erupts in excruciating pain.
Why now, I wonder? Just last month, I spent a long weekend camping in Big Bend with no Lyme symptoms at all, and now, a slight turn of the back at my desk and suddenly, I am back on the phone with my doctor, back shelling out money for therapy I pray will alleviate the pain that is all-consuming before I must confine myself to a tiny airplane chair for eight hours.
It’s the pain that does it: I can think of nothing else. My doctor reassures me: this will pass, your system is simply vulnerable, you. Will. Be. Fine. But that part of my brain based in fear only remembers this time last year, when it was uncertain why I was in so much pain, whether the pain would ever stop, and I am doubtful, though still, there is the acting out of hope, the slow preparations, Jared’s reassurance that he will be with me, to help.
On a Tuesday, we board the airplane, I take a muscle relaxer and fall asleep with a knife in my back, a whisper of a prayer like smoke rising with me into the darkening, eastward sky.
And then, suddenly, Paris, the city that never ceases to enchant. We thread the dingy underground Metro, and emerge into the sunlight — oh, city of lights! Ten years since I walked up and down beneath the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, another five since I tromped the long lane of the Champs Élysée, eyes widened with the wonder of Paris, of Nutella crepes and cigarette smoke and flowered balconies and the ritzy, rich shops — tight black jeans, sugar-spun scarves, occasionally, a burka. We walk along the Seine, tired, red-rimmed bleary-eyed, stopping before the Louvre for a quick photo, sipping chilled Rosé, eating at a tiny round table a croqué madam, croqué monsieur, blackest espresso, deux café au lait, s’il vous plait. Once, I sat in classrooms and learned the language, but how much I can’t remember.
Oh well, the main thing is this: in the morning I wake in Paris, pain-free.
How quickly I forget pain once it passes. “After great pain, a formal feeling comes,” says Emily Dickinson. For me: a forgetfulness. Was the pain ever so bad? Did I ever curse God Himself in the fury of a child who’s fallen and can’t understand why she smarts so? Did I ever see Jesus, standing at my church near the altar, seated beside me in my room, floating above me in the bathtub where I soaked my poor muscles in the hope that heat would ultimately alleviate the pain? He did come with me, pressing the knife of His hand into my back where the split occurred, that invisible wound I carried and became all of me, all-encompassing strange companion of white-lit nerves.
But now: all is forgotten. I sit beside Jared on a sunny terrace overlooking orange-tiled roofs and the green-treed islands of the blue Adriatic. Birds chirp and the breeze is cool. Dubrovnik, Croatia, our city of rest. My body, slowly restored, sign of mini-resurrection.
May 4, 2019 § Leave a comment
Just popping onto this small corner of the Internet to post a quick update from this sunny Saturday morning in Dallas!
I’m thrilled to share this short story I wrote a while back, published in the May issue of The Woven Tale Press, a lovely international literary journal that features literature and fine art. The story, “Go Boom”, also happens to be the piece that was performed last month at Texas Bound, the Dallas Museum of Art’s version of Selected Shorts. The talented Rosaura Cruz, a local Dallas actress, read the story; here’s a photo from that night!
February 14, 2019 § Leave a comment
Over the past few years, I’ve enjoyed following the trajectory of the cross-generational music partnership, Liturgical Folk. They’re the unexpected artistic pairing of a retired Anglican priest who writes remarkable religious poems and a young songwriter who composes unique folk songs. If you missed it a while back, I wrote about them for The Dallas Morning News.
This past week, I published a follow-up story about their latest albums and the success of their project overall for Christianity Today. As it turns out, Liturgical Folk is part of a broader trend within the Anglican community right now — revitalizing music in the church with liturgy, poetry, and personal response.