I indulge in my first real day off in weeks. I relish the steady, sumptuous rain. I savor each bite of my stuffing and gravy. I read my novel, cozy in bed. Instead of my Thanksgiving hours-long walk, I nap to the sound of the rain. My quiet glee and gratitude are great.
[28 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
Yes, I goofed, so I am posting my last three on this last day of November!
Kat sends me home from the retreat with a jar of her divine vegan gravy. I make stuffing. Mushrooms, garlic, Asian pear, walnuts, my odd pancakes for the bread. For a moment I flash on being selfish, not sharing. I shake my head. I feel good tending to myself with care.
[27 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
Pink glow above the rim of my dark mountain, sparrows still calling in the late dusk. Cozy at home, I let the day be tender. Shame arises in the wake of the retreat. My sin of interrupting looms large. But this healing is newly balanced, too, by my awe and my delight.
[25 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
I sit cross-legged on my couch, the heater blasting, crickets singing through the open windows. My whole body thrums, like getting off a train after a long ride. Tonight it is the motion of our time together that resonates in me, and images of our metta rattle dance.
[24 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
The anthology with my short story, “Between My Ribs,” was released on November 1st. It felt like an auspicious date, part of the Halloween, pagan new year, día de los muertos set of days when the veil between the worlds is at its thinnest. A magic time, a good day for the book to be born. As I write, I see another layer. In my short story, the veil is thin, too. I grin, loving this connection I am drawing now. But I don’t know why I didn’t announce it, didn’t tell you all about it right away. I think maybe it’s a little bit because I am not one for tooting my own horn, as they say. It makes me self-conscious. And maybe, too, because there is a part of me who feels silly to be promoting the release of my first short story. But I bought extra copies, and one of my favorite people in our writing group at the library bought one. I got to inscribe it for her, and it was such a delight. My first signing. And I am bringing copies to the writing retreat, even if it may be a little goofy, even though it is not my first book but my first story. I am bringing them because I love the idea of them sitting there. It makes me almost teary with a kind of tender gratitude. And now, finally, here I am telling you about it, my dear readers. I wanted to tell you right away, but I didn’t. I hope you’ll forgive me.
American Fiction Volume 17:
The Best Unpublished Stories by New and Emerging Authors
When I let go of my trusty, old red Jetta, I didn’t expect it to last. But it did. It stuck. Cars and trucks produce nearly 1/5th of all U.S. emissions. In southern California it’s akin to treason to suggest this. But if you want to change the world, give up your car.
[18 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
The teacher reads Etty Hillesum’s work out loud. It is beautiful prose, steeped in wisdom and love. (Later she is killed at Auschwitz.) Etty holds the horror and the dying. She finds joy in the jasmine, white against the dark wall, lets her heart lift. She cradles both.
[16 of 30 in November, re-posted from today’s tweet @tryingmywings]
No Holds Barred 