the young, young children, O my brothers, They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others, In the country of the free. -Elizabeth Barrett Browning My daughter is banging on the piano, my son lamenting because he didn’t get his way, fingerprints are streaked on the windows and toys litter the floors; these things have suddenly became precious to us; today we walk through…
My daughter grabbed my hand, twirling me into a dance. I hesitated for a second, glancing at the mixing bowl on the counter, the dirty spatula in my hand. But her smile convinced me to drop everything, and we whirled gladly around the kitchen together. I soaked in her giggles, her blond hair lit on fire by the sun, her blue eyes that always seemed so much older…
There is an overgrown bush outside the front door, proudly leaning against our house as if blazing; its pink and red hues are brilliant in the light. The leaves have spilled everywhere along the walkway and the lawn; our feet tread over them in awe, and crush them carefully in our longing. Each day as the children and I head out on our daily walk we pass by…
‘In this dark and wounded society, writing can give you the pleasures of the woodpecker, of hollowing out a hole in a tree where you can build your nest and say, ‘This is my niche, this is where I live now, this is where I belong.’ And the niche may be small and dark, but at last you will finally know what you are doing. After thirty years…
One day, about 14 years ago, Larry and Colleen Wolner decided to give me a job. They had recently purchased one of two coffeehouses in Winona, Minnesota, and were in the process of making it their own. I had worked in that coffeehouse for 2 years, and hoped beyond hope I could stay on staff. They let me, and my life was forever changed. Larry and Colleen were…