I grew up with music. It was as much my nourishment as the toasted peanut butter sandwiches and gallons of milk my brother and I would consume daily, much to the annoyance of my mother who was forever asking, “Who finished the milk and didn’t tell me?” Leaving a lone two-ounce sip in the jug
Rarely do I have an opportunity for purposeless activity. If I’m running, I’m training. If I’m driving, I’m going to work, grocery shopping, or to some sort of appointment. If I’m reading, I’m studying. If I’m at the computer, I’m working or writing. Even my free time is filled with purpose. Our lives have become
Over the years, I’ve made friends with many writers through social media. I wouldn’t recognize more than a handful of them if I passed them on the street, yet I feel that over time, I’ve come to know them personally through recurring themes evident in their books, social media, and blog posts. These identifiers are
I was fortunate . . . for a while, but now, I guess you could say I’m of an age where I’ve begun to go to more funerals. Beyond losing one much-loved cousin—barely out of her twenties—to breast cancer, I hadn’t really lost anyone close to me. But soon, death, a snowball, became an avalanche.
It takes a lot for me to yell at someone. My family might disagree, since they think I yell all the time. “Who left this mess?” “Pick up your underwear!” “Is anyone planning to walk the dog before she goes on the floor?” What they think is yelling, however, is actually nagging, and as the