I love the idea of road trips – seeing the countryside, visiting friends, setting our own pace… Notice I’m saying that I love the idea of road trips. The reality of life on the road is somewhat less, um, romantic. Over the past five weeks, I’ve slept in my own bed a total of […]
You said it with sincerity and even a touch of awe. “I could never do what you do.” The thing is, my friend, neither can I. I’m just me. A woman a couple of years from forty, doing my best to love my husband and raise our girls. I didn’t plan to be a
I’m tired today. It’s the kind of exhaustion that makes the mind numb and the bones ache. We’re on the road, seeing friends and family one last time, and some of the goodbyes we’re saying feel like funerals. It’s too much. Too much. I’m weak, weary, and completely overwhelmed. If it were just me,
I’ll be packing up my plates soon, wrapping them well and putting them in storage for the next few years. There’s nothing flashy about them. They are earth toned, with leaves on the rim. I think I was nineteen when I bought them for a dollar each at Walmart. But I’m a little teary
“I realized I probably could have been famous.” My friend Julie sits across from me at a coffee house table. There isn’t a hint of bitterness, pride, or irony in her gentle voice. She’s right. She really could have been. I’ve known this woman for more than ten years, and every time I’ve seen
I have a few really close friends, women who know my heart and let me see theirs. These are the kind of friends who are open to the raw truth even when it isn’t pretty, and they are comfortable with tears, silliness, and even silence. My closest girl friend is my sister. A lifetime
Thirteen years ago, I was so pregnant I could barely breathe. My toes had disappeared beneath my belly months before, and I couldn’t even bend over to put shoes on my own swollen feet. I was done. Those last few days before I could hold my baby in my arms moved like molasses. And
I am needy. There. I said it. This is a label that has followed me most of my life. It has haunted the edges of every relationship I’ve known since someone first told me this in my early teen years. It’s the reason I have sometimes held back in my friendships, afraid of becoming
I love flowers. I love the way they smell, the way they bloom – the silent unfurling of fragrance and color. Some of the best things in life happen slowly, quietly, with little fanfare. Like the way I fell in love with my husband over months of phone calls, long drives, and twilight walks. There