My son has a yellow plastic clock that I bought in a futile attempt to ready him for kindergarten. It has a face with big numbers and hands but no mechanism—you must use your fingers to mark the time, and once you do, you are already late. A second has passed. Now, two. A storyteller…
Time races by Like a child Run amok Splashing at puddles Wishing for luck I anticipate Cells slowing As they will Urgency and dread builds Then dissipates I search for breath and breadth To fill me With presence and peace Not so pressingly Now As I am…
I am only half listening. It’s all too fast—for what I worry is too sick a mind. But something cues me back in. The speaker, David M. Peña-Guzmán, from San Francisco State University, is talking about the phenomenology of whales, but what catches my attention is when he mentions the bends. He explains that the…
I keep waiting for inspiration to write on the theme “slow.” The only things that come to mind are clichés: slowing down in a sped-up world; staying present in an era of distractions; the art of doing nothing. None of this feels fresh. Frankly, slow is not sexy. The number one rule of writing is…
The squeaky clunk of metal in rapid succession has become a routine part of my morning soundtrack. It is as if I am attempting CPR on the “Push for Signal” button, which metaphorically is not too far from the truth. I am trying to revive my morning by getting my kids to school on time…
I am, by nature, enormously impatient. I always stop the microwave with two seconds left. I just cannot wait for those two beats before devouring my warmed food. I often shoot off a text—or worse, an email—too early, not having the patience to give it a quick glance before pressing send. I cannot stand…
I wonder what it takes To ride the Tilt-o-Whirl from one inch below the line. A new set of boots? A fast fiver? A diversion? A boost so sly That a fluff of puffy hair Or solid boot heels Could mean the difference between Seeing the world And not being quite good enough Or are…
A sigh escapes my lips as I bend over to stack the white ceramic plates in the cabinet. He’s doing it again. His comfortable warmth sidles up next to me, the soft plaid brushing my arm, as he leans in to set the matching bowls tidily in their place. Working together, the dishwasher is emptied…
“I know you’re busy.” My 81-year-old friend says this to me as I’m leaving his new apartment. He doesn’t drive anymore, so we moved him into town to be closer to church and the bakery and the bank. Places he can walk. Places where everyone knows his name and he theirs. His second day in…
It happens here every spring. As leaves break bud and flowers bloom, people are struck with inspiration to plant fruit trees. Summer seems so close at hand, and visions of sun-warmed peaches replace sugarplums dancing in their heads. Local gardening forums are filled with requests for advice on what varieties of cherry do best here…
How did I watch Her soft hands pull his stiff body closeto dress his purple skin Still cold from the hospital fridge How did I watch Her face split with horrorwhen she realized his armswould not bend Not even For his mother SARAH currently lives and works in Edmonds, Washington. She would describe herself as painfully shy by nature…
Like many people wanting “more” out of life, I am often in search of the thing that will be the answer. Recently, I’ve been finding feathers everywhere. Mostly crow feathers. The internet tells me that this a sign that I am being protected and am not alone. When I asked my energy worker during…
Kindred 