Light snow here in Ohio, and the weather report was mixed with grim coronavirus forecasts.
The holidays remind me that I don’t have the type of family that appears in commercials and television specials.
Domestic rituals of all kinds will be critical during this long winter.
Sometimes I blame modern-day aesthetics for my difficulties. The optics seem wrong for devotion.
Tonight I am grateful because I have a safe place to sleep, food to eat, and the freedom to make my own decisions.
I miss the dopamine loop, the carrot and the stick, and the rhythm of stepping outside for five minutes after each page or paragraph.
I tuned into the voice looping over the P.A. system, struck by how it sounded simultaneously rational and insane.
There was a time when people believed the stomach’s gurgles and rumbles belonged to the voices of the dead.
We stopped at a rest area where a man stood on the grass, grinning at the moon.
I read about a temple where an image is treated as the living incarnation of an infant god.
I often hear people say they feel as if reality is slipping away. But perhaps reality is becoming more evident.
I found a rare picture of my mom young and smiling, caught beneath the overheated gloss of a 1970s photo.
