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The Church of Old Soul October

October 8, 2017 in Church Matters, Country Matters, Snapshot, Spirit Matters

I once dated a man whose mother I loved. I loved the man, too, but our relationship came to an end simply because not all romances are meant to last eternal. When it did, I wrote this woman a letter expressing regret that I would not become her daughter. She wrote me back something I never forgot. “The woods are my church,” she said. “When I walk in them, I say prayers for all my babies, and this includes you.” As I’ve walked through the woods of the Outer Cape this last month, I’ve often thought of her kind words. Love doesn’t end; it just changes form. Nature teaches us this every day.

From the Department of Extremely Shallow, Let-Them-Eat-Cake, Barely-Tolerable-Before-Rome-Was-Burning Blog Posts

August 22, 2017 in Age Matters, Snapshot, Style Matters, TV Matters

I can tell my grand love affair with this natural brown-grey hair color is over, oooover, we-need-a-new-word-for-over* because yesterday at the beach I caught myself squeezing lemon after lemon on my hair to “lighten it just the tiniest bit.” Bring in the big-gun chemical blonde STAT, please; I’m over looking like the earnest, granola-baking, leftist bumpersticker-sporting Cambridge mothers of my 1970s childhood. (Hey, I warned you re: shallow.)

*yep, to make matters worse, I am quoting Sex and the City Season 3 here.

Lady of the House

August 5, 2017 in Book Matters, Cat Lady Matters, Sabboytical, Snapshot, Spirit Matters, Style Matters

People ask me what I do when I get up so early (between 5 and 5:30 most days). They assume I am doing something earnest—meditating or writing or channeling my spirit guides. The truth is sometimes I do those things, but rarely before my coffee. Mostly in the wee hours I luxuriate in secret time, found time—a quiet unpunctuated by beeps and whistles and honks. The barely blue hours are when I feel the glamour of solitude most keenly: flowers cut like I like them, bulletin boards scrawled with my big ideas, feet and permakitten propped on the table, fingers painted an unlikely yellow, coffee cup resting without a coaster, and absolutely no media or people blaring. (My house growing up was quite loud.) I may be 46, but inside me a 6-year-old is crowing with great glee and satisfaction: IT’S MY HOUSE AND I CAN DO WHAT I WANT.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy