People kept telling me I didn't look pregnant. At 5 months, my sister-in-law studied the slack of my shirt over my flat tummy. "Can I touch it?" I hesitate. "Sure." There's nothing there but the slight pouch from my slouchy posture, a relic of adolescent shame about my 6'0 stature. Taylor and I attended his… Continue reading Vessel: thoughts on motherhood and the body
Let me first say that I love Meryl Streep as much as the next person. After all, no one else flings a skillet full of potato in the exact style of Julia Child like she does. Or channels the glacial air of Anna Wintour with such compelling ease and confidence. But at the risk of… Continue reading A place for outsiders? Meryl Streep and Hollywood’s self-proclaimed inclusivity.
I was in the kitchen multi-tasking my way through an elaborate quiche recipe. I sizzled bacon, caramelized vegetables, leaned my body weight against the rolling pin as a crust began to take shape. When I heard the doorbell, I felt a little thrill of anticipation. Maybe I was getting an early Christmas gift or a… Continue reading Leo: snapshot of a small grief.
I still remember the sinking, stones-in-the-stomach feeling that came over me when Atticus Finch lost the trial defending Tom Robinson. I'd been in bed with my covers huddled around me in the chill of my converted basement bedroom when I broke into hot salty tears and ran off to find my mother. I'd never read a story like To Kill A Mockingbird before, a story where the bad guys won. I kept waiting for Scooby Doo and Shaggy to pull off the masks of the thieves and reveal their scruffy faces, red and cowed. I couldn't believe that moment in the story never came.
I’m a millennial to my core. I fall in the correct age range. I took a year off after college to accumulate “experiences.” I completed a degree in theology which, as my grandmother keeps reminding me, will never come to any practical use or gainful employment. Like every 18-35 year old with their parents’ Netflix… Continue reading Planting: a millennial’s guide to motherhood.
For me, the phrase “writer’s bock” fails to capture the phenomenon. Block implies that there is inspiration idling somewhere in my brain; it just can’t run the proper channels to my fingertips. The term “writer’s block” gives my blank, Twitter-grazing mind far too much credit. I have just finished a year of hospital chaplaincy work… Continue reading A Net for Catching Days
Sitting in the noon light of the atrium, he locks his eyes on mine and says, “27? You look older.” The chatter of thirty lunching employees quiets to an indistinct drone. “You know that’s not a nice thing to say to a woman.” “Hey,” he shrugs. “I tell people, I gave my arm to live… Continue reading Worry Lines