Of Tiny Wool Sweaters and Great Big Oranges

Sometimes things can feel so frustrating, like the whole world is one giant yet somehow too-small scratchy wool sweater that is being pulled over our heads and bunched up at our elbows for no good reason but to irritate and restrict. When all you want is to be free and clear of these petty belittlements and confining insults. Enough!

Sometimes when I feel like that, I just want to tune out and read or watch something distracting. I might go here or I might go there, but more often than not I’m reading through the Style section of the New York Times when I feel that way. And even that can bring great distress. Often condescending! Too expensive! Twee! It is all too much.

So I was just a bit skeptical when I saw tonight that they had something up about the elections and feeling calm. Puh-leeze. But then I clicked on this wonderment of zen and bedeviling chill. Do you love it as much as I do? Did you do all the breaths? How about that sweet dog? The oranges? It is a dreamboat, set sail upon the high seas of great ease and I couldn’t be happier about it…. Enjoy! xoxo

Pamela’s Malaise

Abroad A9Married domestic by day, dashing secret agent by night, Pamela has done and seen it all. But the years have taken their toll and it is finally time to hand the work over to young blood. In this exclusive exit interview, Pamela describes her closest calls, her greatest exploits, and the trip to Paris that nearly did her in.


Fitzgerald Struts in Purple Hair

fitz purpleIt’s spring in New York and I’m in a flap of a mood having found a stack of papers and books in Columbia’s Butler Library with titles like “The Notebooks of F. Scott Fitzgerald” and “Conversations with F. Scott Fitzgerald”. The best of the writings deal with Fitzgerald before Zelda and, in the deep of the season, I like hearing from the man himself about how he held together through transition, time, and matters of the heart. Fitzgerald knew something about pain.
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Poetry: The Inchworm’s Marathon

29389301_10155177235596960_1475582911288705024_nSo many poems have been falling out of the sky lately and landing on my head/page/lap/grocery list/tire repair receipt– everywhere. I love this gift of life and learning, the hard work that goes into it, but also the inevitability. The roll of it. Honoring this means stopping to get against a solid service to get the line down, and it also means granting permission to do so rather than denigrating my talent with bullshit like “Oh, that’s stupid” or “Who even reads poems anyway?” or “I can’t do this.”

Answers: “No it’s not.” “Everyone, whether they realize it or not.” “Yes you can.” Good, glad that’s clear now.
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