I wake up to a still darkened sky, illuminated by the moon as clouds shift through and around her.
The alarm doesn’t need to wake me. Instead, the sound of the surf and a tiny click click click alerts me to the fact that I want to be awake now.
Time to tend to my garden. Continue reading
J..W. Waterhouse. / 1900
It happened at the dark of morning, when the sky turned from black to pewter to soft tangerine.
She rose from the surf, waterlogged, the seaweed and starfish whispering her name.
Sassas. Sassas.
Sassas ignored their entreaties to return.
Once a sea creature, she’d long ago left that life, not of her own choosing at first, but now Sassas was comfortable on two feet connected to two tall long legs. Continue reading
In honor of my mom’s 94th birthday on February 28, I’m dedicating this post to her,
I am here again, traveling along the same flat road, watching the tall green maples and oaks turn to scrubby, smaller bush and pine. What is it about my primordial need to return to the ocean – the Atlantic Ocean – every year?
As I breathe in the hot humid New Jersey air, a mixture of dirt, gas, grass, asphalt and salt water, I wonder if it’s just a childhood memory that needs to be rewritten and retold yearly. After all, as a child . . .
“Why is he traveling so closely behind you? How fast are you going?” my mother interrupts my slow, careful thoughts. Continue reading
In honor of my mom’s 94th birthday on February 28, I’m dedicating this post to her,
I am here again, traveling along the same flat road, watching the tall green maples and oaks turn to scrubby, smaller bush and pine. What is it about my primordial need to return to the ocean – the Atlantic Ocean – every year?
As I breathe in the hot humid New Jersey air, a mixture of dirt, gas, grass, asphalt and salt water, I wonder if it’s just a childhood memory that needs to be rewritten and retold yearly. After all, as a child . . .
“Why is he traveling so closely behind you? How fast are you going?” my mother interrupts my slow, careful thoughts. Continue reading
Deep, restful, I want to swim in it, but why?
Just staring at it soothes me, calms me into looking back. Where did I come from? Where am I going? Continue reading
roughwighting 