The practice of practice
Write? Today? Impossible! I’m stuck. Under water. Inspiration eludes me. Am I to make something out of nothing? While I lament my creative poverty, a wiser voice comes to the rescue.
Write? Today? Impossible! I’m stuck. Under water. Inspiration eludes me. Am I to make something out of nothing? While I lament my creative poverty, a wiser voice comes to the rescue.
As a child, Memorial Day brings visits to the cemetery, its grassy green fields blanketed in silence, winding paths, and strange stone markers…
Many people recognize we live in times that shake our highest values and deepest sources of meaning to the core.
Soon after waking, I step onto my balcony and into a cheerful summer morning…my inner weather, however, serves up something quite different.
At two years of age, Henry moves his body with an economy suggestive more of wise elder than young poodle pup. Neither skip nor squirm betrays enthusiasm or interferes with the silent, zen-like bearing of his slender ten-pound frame.