Just a little disclaimer: I have been writing all month, just not able to finish edit and publish until this week, so that is why I am publ...

Wind takes pity on my battered soul and torn up legs, moves through the backyard, first caressing the chimes, then moving the mosquitos to t...

He hides himself in the folds of my yoga pants and whimpers. There are people, Mama. People.  He doesn't say it, but I know what he ...

The shop smells of Japanese incense. There are chakra crystals and handblocked fabric bags made in Tibet by a women's collective. Ther...

My friend  Jess  wrote these lines over three years ago: I’ve spent a year re-telling the same sad story. It’s so short too. How many ways...

The yoga was amazing in its ordinariness. I didn't cry. I didn't fall on the floor in a puddle, or talk about Lucia incessantly, or ...

I don't think you understand how much you can hate your body until a child dies inside of it. I thought I understood self-loathing and c...

Having a two year old is exhausting and wonderful. It is sad to admit that I have almost no recollection of Beatrice's two. I was four m...

I haven't had a drink in eighteen months. Last night, someone reminded me that I had eighteen months sober. It is funny to be reminded...

There is no flower bush worth a grudge. Still, away for a week, I could easily call up the memory of my anger. As I pulled up to our house, ...