Wight Muse by Mike Allegra.
Our name is Pamela Wight, but only she is a middle-aged woman.
She isn’t always middle-aged, and she isn’t always a woman.
At this point though, her Earth self is unable to comprehend the truth. But once, long ago and yet still now (on the time spectrum that surrounds us, even though most refuse to see it), she and I are one on an enchanted island of being. Continue reading
I flew to California this summer and survived the flight by reading a big thick book: Small Great Things by Jodi Picoult. The book caught me, like the way we get a hitch to our voice when something hits us profoundly.
I thought I knew and understood about race. About how unfair racism is. About how I’m not racist, because I don’t see the color of someone’s skin.
For instance, I was talking to “my” Starbucks barista today about a man who had entered the café at 6 the previous morning singing a Broadway tune in a much too elevated mood for most humans at that time of day. Continue reading
The first time I recognized the power of love, I was 4 years old.
The revelation began in the morning, when my mom sent me off to the backyard to play in the sandbox, as she often did.
I hated the sandbox. Continue reading
Because of me, my granddaughter almost loses a couple of fingers.
We’re driving down a typical New England country road, bracketed with August-green swaying trees. Hawks swing on the tops of those trees, squawking loudly.
To our right is an almost-hidden river where kayakers slowly swing their oars. To our left is dense wood filled with squirrels and woodchucks and chirping sparrows.
“Madre, watch out!” Sophie yells. I ram my foot on the brake. Continue reading
roughwighting 