What the Living Do

Yes, this is what the living do. We laugh. We cry. We rush from one appointment to the next. Sometimes we pause and do yoga or say a quick prayer, “Dear God. Help.” We toss god out like an empty Starbucks cup. We put on tepid smiles in a season devoted to cheer and giving, then we stuff our hands into swollen pockets.

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Paris, Je t'aime! Now and Always

I tear up each time someone mentions Paris or I see the colors of the French flag displayed on a Seattle high-rise or a neighbor’s front porch. I want to pay my own tribute and feel that I don’t know how. I open my journal from a month ago and realize I didn’t feel like I knew how to pay tribute to the City of Light even before the recent tragedy.

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Writing (for me) is like breathing. What's your breath?

Writing, for me, is like breathing. I need to write. I want to write. And some days the words (like breath) won’t come.

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