See Me Beautiful

It’s Easter Sunday. I feel like letting my mind drift back in time to all the Easter Sundays of my life. It’s funny because the first thoughts that come up are all about pretty new dresses, starched little bonnets, white gloves, shiny white tights and even shinier white shoes—a little girl’s favorite thing—new clothes. My mind could have gone to memories about lent, fasting, doing the rosary on our knees in front of the couch, fish on Fridays, long masses . . . .

But what I remember most is feeling pretty.

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On Blueberries and Fathers, a timed writing

I remember the low-bush look on the forest floor and me kneeling or crouching, sitting where the berries dance heavy all around and I can pick sitting down, my fingers bluing with time like my grandma’s hair. I remember the feeling of berries rolling from their ripe, loose hold on the low bush and dropping into my hand and the tiniest sound of berries dropping into the bucket.

The forest makes sounds. It buzzes, sometimes too near

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Are You a Weaver?

The New Age doesn’t hold much appeal for me. It seems like much of what is being explored there is simply the old age wearing new garments. Philosophy, prophecy, spiritual teachings have been around as long as humans have been using their frontal lobes. I’m also rather stunned by how much of the new age is about selling you a bill of goods.

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