POET | PLAYWRIGHT | TEACHING ARTIST
A quiet morning. So quiet E. startled himself saying good morning to someone jogging by in the opposite direction. Another kilometer along the trail, an owl swooped in from the trees and flew in front of us and into the dark. Just the sound of our shoes on the gravel. Until we get back to…
[edit: Writing a daily public diary has its drawbacks. Typos, of course. But also other editorial problems. When I titled this post I thought I would mention listening to Krista Tippet’s interview with Katherine May for the On Being Podcast. As it turned out, my train of thought took another direction. “Winter’s Crucible” is Katherine…
It is an odd project – to sit down in this little room every day and write. No matter what. What comes, comes. Like dipping a bucket into a well and hoping you pull up a little container filled with clarity. Reflection. That’s a shit metaphor. Sorry. Some days nothing comes on its own. Some…
Some injuries don’t show up on MRIs. Those deep wounds that sever psychological/emotional muscles – like torn tendons. And the only thing to do is leave it alone. Give it time. Get on with life, but move with more caution for a while. Sometimes I think working so closely with teenagers creates a kind of…
This morning things seemed to edge into a familiar groove. E. is home again, and Leonard stuck his cold nose in my face just before the clock went off. Dog bladders make the most urgent alarm clocks. I let Leonard out to pee, E. and I pull on wool clothes and running shoes and head…