Notes on Becoming Free
Begin at the shoreline before language arrives—where the lake breathes in long glacial syllablesagainst the stones,and the stones remember pressure, not opinion.Go there early,before the gulls begin quarreling over the day,before the first boat cuts the water open.Stand still long enoughto hear the reeds clicking together in the shallows. Do not hurry to name what…
When Water Remembers
Late June has a way of softening everything here in the Finger Lakes. The edges blur. The air thickens. Even the hills seem to lean a little closer to the earth, as if they, too, are listening for something beneath the surface. This year, the rain has been steady—not theatrical, not full of thunderous pronouncements,…
Walking Each Other Home
There are days when grace does not sweep in with fanfare. It arrives instead wearing garden gloves, carrying a trowel, or driving the country roads as the afternoon unspools at its own unhurried pace. It comes quietly, almost on tiptoe, through the ordinary rituals that anchor a life: deadheading the peonies before their petals scatter,…
In My Words 