Awe is that emotion we all have but don’t know how to talk about.
In a private moment, the first glimpse of the sun rising over a mountain peak can lift us out of ourselves, rendering us speechless in a timeless moment of transcendence.
If we turned to a companion and attempted to describe the moment, without a poetic turn of mind, the best we could come up with might be, “Wow.”
That particular sunrise, a daily occurrence, yet one that gave such a unique experience, remains difficult to articulate.
But reportage is not the purpose of awe. It is…
It was like any other day of the Trump administration. I don’t recall the specific date, except it occurred during the quarantine.
I remember that detail distinctly because when the bile in my throat finally subsided enough for me to tear through my apartment in search of some craft supplies (I couldn’t leave my apartment to purchase some pretty construction paper and sparkles), the only material I could find for my window sign was the refrigerated wrapper for the meats and dairy products that came with my Imperfect Foods delivery. …
Is Medium throwing all editors out with the bathwater? Or is it just me?
I haven’t been invited to edit many Medium publications, but a few have s honored me with that privilege. This means I can publish my own pieces without waiting for review by the owner of said publication, and in some cases, not all, I get to edit submissions by writers.
In all cases, I’m notified when a writer submits an article to a publication on which I’m listed as an editor.
None of these publications are Medium’s own creations, and none of them pay me a…
In the hierarchy of great literature, crime novels rate slightly above washing machine manuals but below the throwaway inserts that come with over-the-counter cold medicine.
For snobbery in action, you can’t go wrong with a group of New York Review of Books readers dissing the latest police procedural to hit the USA bestseller list.
Exceptions, of course, for Walter Mosley, who rose to fame after Bill Clinton exited Air Force One with a copy of an Easy Rawlins’ mystery tucked under his arm. But then…Walter Mosley.
I write recipes.
Julia Childs changed the way we look at food.
An homage to the Irish famine.
I have a busy work schedule today and no plans to gadabout. Nobody will see whether or not I’m wearin’ the green.
So why did I put my orange running shoes back in the closet this morning? Even though they are the most comfortable on my aging bunions?
It’s certainly not because they clash on the color wheel.
My heritage came to mind several days ago when Soliel Ho, food editor for the San Francisco Chronicle, wrote a piece worrying about whether she was Asian enough for some of her reviews of the restaurants…
If the alarm clock doesn’t interrupt the big finish.
Some people say they don’t dream. Others claim they don’t see color when they nod off.
I’ve dreamed in vivid color and 3-D surround sound for as long as I can remember.
The first dream I recall had me standing in the charred remains of a building when I was four or five. The terror of the fire woke me, and I barged into my parents’ bedroom, begging to be let into their bed.
Another day, I can remember bounding into the kitchen early in the morning, regaling my mother with…
A friend of mine is going through a profound loss, one I have not had to face, at least not yet and hopefully not ever.
She lost her child recently and struggles with a future in which she can see only grief and darkness.
She doesn’t ask for help, only reports from the field, a place I pray I never have to visit, the ground without my daughter.
It is a parent’s worst nightmare, losing the child we love more than life itself.
One of the many cliches about that particular loss is that it violates the order of things…
Golf used to bore me more than ironing. And I hate ironing more than I hate long division. I could go on and on with examples of the degree to which I loathe boredom, but came the day I saw the beauty in golf.
It took marrying a golfer. Though we were totally unsuited for each other, he introduced me to a game that, for a brief period in my life, became my passion.
During a getaway at a resort with a golf course, my temporary husband put a putter in my hand, and I understood why commentators always whispered…
My daughter received her first kitten for Christmas at age 5 years old. Love at first sight, she named him Sam, a black beauty who was weaned too soon. Our beloved black cockapoo Sebastian would roll onto his side so Sam could grab a mouthful of hair and “nurse.” I couldn’t figure out who was more neurotic, the kitten for thinking the dog was his mother or the dog for thinking he was female.
During her fifth grade year, I took my daughter on a trip to New York to visit our family. If you knew my sister, you’d understand…