Author & Speaker, Love Earth Now.
The box is here. It’s an ordinary-looking carton, bearing a simple shipping label. No brand or logo suggest the the contents, but I know. I can hear the thumping inside. Because it contains the outpourings of my own heart.
Writing, for me, is much like childbirth. There’s a lot of groaning, cursing and some
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I wish I owned a jackhammer. Yes, I’d hate the noise and the fumes, and I surely lack the brute strength it would require. But it would come in oh-so-handy right now. After months of weather so parched my internal organs cracked, the first rain of any substance
I can hardly believe this latest child of my heart is about to be born. Like my first babe in utero, I’ve grown accustomed to sharing life with my developing offspring in a private world, known only to the two of us. As much I longed to hold my firstborn in the flesh—the long months of waiting seemed to go on forever—an unexpected sadness washed over me in the last couple of weeks before the due date. “Never again will
…Have I mentioned how much I despise gift cards? The mere sight of the rack full of them at the grocery store sends me into such a rage that I have to plan my route through the store to avoid them. All the resources that go into making that plastic card wasted after a single swipe—if it ever gets swiped at all—infuriates me as much as the effing phone book.
According to GiftRocket.com, NINE THOUSAND TONS of plastic go
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I’m sitting in my office with lovely old Atlas Cedar standing outside the window, in steadfast loyalty, my heart is full of gratitude. For the family with whom I share the Thanksgiving meal—all of this life. For the great bird and all the plants that gave of themselves
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