In the photo of the kitchen fire, We are dressed for Christmas: Me in a flammable hand-me-down jacket, Her in her costume jewelry And her Edward Scissorhands t-shirt.   The...

My father, tangled in the height of adolescence, wept outside Old Saint Paul’s Church as spring died, reading Desiderata. The poem lay inscribed in rock at the...

Through the harsh whistle of a bullying Blue Jay from the feeder, the Common Yellowthroat’s wichity-wichity-wichity, we find our own through bill and tap and rhythmic drumming on drainpipe, bone...

True Story Metaphor for My Parents' Divorce In this shrinking house, I am still growing, my wrist gripped between window and sill, one toe pinched in neat...

When I went to pick my daughter up at pre-school, the kids were on the playground. Her teachers eyed me uncomfortably and glanced across the slide at...

We can speak to the rain, but it does not say anything to us. “Why are you so strong? Why do you want to flood us?” we ask...

The hives have gotten through another year— I’m sure you’ve heard of the alternative. Buy soon and you can have the Holsteins here. No guarantee of how...

Yoga tape today played fast-forward, then upward- downward-- pen in child’s pose. Weeds through cobblestones pulled and piled, blown apart-- roots stay in the ground. Dishes in the sink are now...

In 2009 I traveled near South Korea's Demilitarized Zone to visit and write an article about the then 79 year old shaman Kim Keum Hwa. During my second visit, she surprised me by asking me to get up and dance. After, and for the duration of the day, she and several of her disciples encouraged me to pursue a path as a shaman.

Time to bathe al fresco watched by frosty stars and a crescent moon. I twist quickly for warmth beneath needle-like strands of hot water dispensed by an ancient...