I’m teetering between my faux George Foreman grill, my sauteing brussels sprouts in my soon-to-be (hopefully) renovated kitchen sans working oven, and my incessant thinking:

They say gingers have a freckle for every soul they steal, and I knew this to be true.


I am lost and drowning with neither ship nor shore.


My family led the service for the circus train after Bob’s accident.


It was an ordinary exchange on a stormy day.  Uma Dumas and I met on the grassy plain as the whole graying sky, procession of clouds and all, watched.

I want to write.  I am helplessly snatching time here and there.  Vegan and meat tacos warming and my paleo steak waiting to be cooked, as my husband meets a man in the town next to us to buy an amp for $40 for our first gig, and it’s Nina’s birthday (my 15 year old).  Everything just as it should be in the house, but I am locked inside my head, listening to the beginnings of stories I want to write, writing and rewriting their beginnings in my mind as I stir this or that and hurriedly hasten the “ready” for just the right time for us all to come together.  Will my beginnings come together?  Will my beginnings be as magical as what created this magical, busy family?  Beginnings feel so difficult because there must be endings to beginnings.




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