Friday, August 8

Friday Tapas

Tidbits of words and moments from the past week replay behind the lids of my shuttered eyes:


Hiking through the woods this morning, we could see our breath. It's August. What is this gift revealing itself as vapor and tingling skin?


Voting for the first time in Tennessee.

Falling asleep so happy, like a child without a care in the world, my hand tucked under my chin.


Someone who minored in English said to me, "That Emmy Lou Dickerson, she's my favorite poet."


Celebrating the power of words punctuated with grace.

"I am a human being, so nothing that is human is alien to me." Terentius


Baking bread for those who will spend hours or days at Penuel Ridge. That warm, yeasty aroma permeating every inch of this house.


A dialogue between a mother and daughter.

"I don't know," Magda says. "Seems like that's just how it is with you and me. We're like islands on the moon." "There's no water on the moon," says Annemarie. "That's what I mean. A person could walk from one to the other if they just decided to do it."

Homeland and Other Stories, Barbara Kingsolver

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