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Jealousy is one of the occupational hazards of being a writer, and the most degrading. And I, who have been the Leona Helmsley of jealousy, have come to believe that the only things that help ease or transform it are (a) getting older, (b) talking about it until the...
"If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the...
I almost missed it, but it’s been one of those weeks, and the very last proverbial bump-in-the-road is a 2-inch incision with eleven stitches across the back of my shoulder. Rest and don’t get hot and sweaty, the doctor tells me. Down here at the edge of the hot and...
My mother helped make me an artist because she taught me to see as one struck by wonder. Through her eyes, I first treasured thistle's down and oak's curved limb, leaf's shadow and bird's wing, the shapes of clouds and the kind of smiles made only with eyes. My mother...
Neither Abby nor I feel good, but summer’s winding down, and we’ve set...
I hadn’t left the house in three days. My kids morphed into independence...
Dear Heavy Heart, I know you. I know your dark dread that rests heavy like a...
Dear God, There is a way in which I sometimes I felt a sense of belonging....
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