I’m trying to think of a body part that I like. We women are always told that we’re too critical of our bodies, and in theory, I agree. Each of us is formed the same, and yet so differently. We have the trunk, two legs, two arms, two hands with five fingers on each. Two feet and ten toes, and then, of course, there’s the head.
Aha! I just thought of the body part I like.
Continue reading
My day begins with tea.
A “Pam Latte” it’s been called at the cafes I’ve frequented. A CA friend (who owned a coffee/tea bar) named it “Tea Done Wight” and offered it on her bar menu.
That all changed when I moved from the Bay Area to New England. I had to re-introduce my tea of choice to the new establishment.
In the beginning, back in the fall right after I moved to this Boston suburb, I had to ask for the whole caboodle: Continue reading
I will never forget the time I made my mother-in-law (MIL) laugh.
She was a sweet, kind, quiet mother of seven children and grandmother of a growing brood. She smiled and cooed, she cooked and cared for all, but for the first years I knew her, she never laughed.
Until I stomped. Continue reading
Some times I can feel my bones straining under the weight of my thoughts. And that’s wrong, all wrong, so I strain more in the down dog position, where my arms and wrists and shoulders take on the weight of my trunk.
My trunk. What a word for my body, which is pack full of multi-grain toast this morning, as well as three cups of hot green tea that have not found a way to warm my too-cold fingers as I type about my bones.
My bones. I imagine my bones are light as a skeleton, while the rest of me – my muscles, my blood, my skin – is too heavy for what lies within.
But the heaviest weight is definitely my thoughts. Continue reading
This past week I was invited to talk to a Book Club of 15 women whom I’d never met in a town 30 minutes away.
The 10-year-old group, which discusses a new book monthly with dinner and drinks, focused this night on my romantic suspense: The Right Wrong Man.
A real author.
After I met the hostess of a large and lovely New England home and stood by the kitchen counter (where the appetizers, wine and soft drinks were served), I was introduced to all the club members. Each woman oohed and ahhed about meeting a “real author.”
I must admit, it was thrilling.
But my ego was diverted once in a while by a mysterious door located near the kitchen. Someone, or something, seemed to be kicking at the door from the inside, making a sad, lonesome, and frequent banging sound. Sometimes the eerie and alien-like noise emitting forth from the other side of the door gave me a chilling sense that the door might explode open at any time. Continue reading
roughwighting 