Showing posts from August, 2019


Often while telling a story about a loved one or topic dear to me, the hairs on my arms will raise with a rush of chills and I know I've touched something special. Something that connects me to that energy I cannot explain that winds through space, time and the places in between. Sometimes I get that rush when I write. Often, I get that rush when it rains, the roar of thunder and wind and rain in the trees giving form to still air reminding me that movement is life. And death. I'm watching it rain outside my library window and can't decide if it's a peaceful calm happy sort of rain or the atmosphere shedding itself of an accumulation of dust particles that have just become too heavy to bear and so it's letting go. Maybe that's the problem: I haven't let go. My great aunt Viola died a month ago yesterday. At 95, I knew her time here was waning, but I miss her stories, her letters, and white-bread sandwiches. My sweet uncle Thurman died this past Saturda