Mom’s bear claw quilt.

My tongue is soft against the back of my teeth, and my jaw holds none of the tightness that I sometimes tug out when I write.

There is no angst, no anger, no deep sadness from which to pull words today.

Just balm and garden radishes poking their almost-shamrock heads from the ground.

Just a puppy on a sheepskin bed behind me, sighing.

A blue bird on the powerline out front and a purple finch on the feeder out back.

The call of the woodpecker across the creek valley.

Today, my shoulders sit solid, down, and air brushes the sides of my neck that are usually wind-blocked by my tension.

My chest blooms wide open, orange, the promise of the poppies on the hill.


I do not know what to write, I speak to myself as I sit at my messy desk on this almost 80-degree day in April. I do not have any fervor, by which I mean frustration.

It is easier to write from the obvious fiery places.  They are brighter, closer to the surface, lava cracking forth from the lush green hill.

To write contentment, happiness even, requires digging to the molten river beneath.  I am just learning to dig.


An email from the man I love, unhinted at, unsolicited, gifted entire.

A reminder from Mom that marks her tracks as quilted bear prints on the wall before me.

A note from a friend whose writing breaks my heart – “I want to pack our bags and head east on an adventure.” after she reads my book.

The skittering call of a bird I do not yet know.

The promise of my farmyard, not yet mown, scenting the air with new.

An image – a slave woman in white skirts – a story she needs to tell.  A fiction. My consideration.

All good. All holy. All gift.

What fiery good things spark in your life today?