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Dropping our bags, we free our feet from shoe prisons and survey the room. Beige walls, tan carpet, white sheets. Nice, nice, we say, patting the beds and looking for open outlets to charge our devices.  We espy a small balcony through the slats of the window blinds and hope for a glimpse of the final rays of the day.

We swing open the back door, then fall

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Face in rock wall

Rivers pour off me as if I’m in the shower, but my own pores fuel this particular deluge. My lungs strain to wring oxygen from murky air thick with sweat and smoke. My eyes squint to discern the faintest outline of my many companions. My folded limbs ache, constrained

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Not-So-Happy Hour

Today a well-meaning friend delivered news so heinous that I would have taken to my bed, had I not already been lying there, avoiding the day. The Alternet headline blasted:

Popular Beer and Wine Brands Contaminated
with Monsanto’s Weedkiller, Tests Reveal
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New Rules

Scurrying down the sidewalk, my yoga mat bag bonk, bonk, bonks me in the hip as I trot. I’m late for yoga class as usual, and I groan when I see an ad for a local shop loitering in the gutter. “Sorry, I can’t pick you up,” I wheeze to the moldering litter. “I’ve GOT to make yoga class today, I’m under strict orders,” I explain.

Passing over litter in the street pains me as much as

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Start With Hello. . .

Hugging my children a little more tightly today . . . again, today. The news of the latest school shooting brings hot tears and well-worn, knee-jerk reactions. But my heart urges me to resist the temptation to jump into the angry fray. Not that I’m not angry. I’m shaking

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  © Cheryl Leutjen