“Breath is the percussion of language…” The tall, willowy yoga instructor said this to the class in a lilt that hinted at her formal actor’s training and enviable diaphragmatic control. At my age, with quadriceps straining to sustain my squatted “goddess” pose, I was just happy to control my bladder. The morning class was the […]Read More
All the seconds run together now, and clocks don’t seem to matter much. Maybe they never did in a place where time and work and rest were measured more by when the rooster crowed and the sun set . . . when the rain came or didn’t and the first frost threatened.Read More
The man made a beeline for me.
I, and a few authors, had just finished leading a discussion about the importance of the voices of “midlife” writers.
This particular writer, who had been in the audience, almost seem dazed–eyes glassy, lips parted as if what he needed to verbalize hadn’t fully formed yet and was resting between them.
This is a rare morning of solitude. Sitting in the gray light, I feel the damp air sift through the screen door behind me as the smell of rain lays itself across the skin of my bare neck and right shoulder.
I’m listening.Read More
by Amanda Cleary Eastep Hola, me llamo… I filled in my name big and purple on the adhesive name tag and stuck it on my shirt, the one with the bold graphic of a Japanese animation character I figured the kids would like. Anime always serves as a good conversation starter when I lead writing […]Read More
by Amanda Cleary Eastep We stepped up to our ankles in the cold water, careful to keep our footing on the gray and brown mosaic of smooth stones beneath our pale feet. This simple act was a pinnacle moment–leaving our shoes on the gritty sand of the “bonny, bonny bank” and walking together into Loch […]Read More
By Amanda Cleary Eastep I dragged the line on the Google map from the A1 highway to a road along the coast of the UK that looked like a long piece of birthday crepe paper that had been crumpled up and (uselessly) stretched out again. According to Google calculations, taking that squiggly route instead of […]Read More
I struggle with the “that’s it” part. I want to race myself and win. I want to master the incline like I have the writer thighs of Ernest Hemingway.Read More
I felt shook up. A little like I imagined author Kwame Alexander felt after the car accident that rolled him and his family over and over on the road one day, sending boxes of his father’s beloved books for the city book fair strewn across the road like litter…Read More
At our house church gathering on Good Friday, our spirited group quieted as the evening’s message was shared and our pastor said, his voice snagging on the sharp edge of truth, “You can’t believe…and not be changed.”Read More