Memoirous

Finally two days off, in a row. Forty-eight hours to get caught up with Zoom calls, writing, laundry, grocery shopping, maybe a TV program, find something in the shed, rehang the picture that keeps falling down, perhaps go for a run, pick up the handicraft I put down and haven’t picked back up for a month. I checked in with my daughter after breakfast—we live across the back deck from each other. As soon as I slid open the glass door into her kitchen she handed me the baby. Can you hold Remy while I drive Jack to nursery school? Sure. Later, again, can you hold him while I put in a load of laundry. Okay. He has a Bumbo, an activity saucer, and a rocking sling back chair that also plays lullabies, but, hey, he’s cute in his little T-shirt that says I’m New Here. Or the one that says Hello World! Or his Dismantle the Patriarchy onesie. I can’t help but hold him. If I’m home all day long I get pinged to come over for this or that. Sometimes it’s did you eat dinner, do you want to eat

The Kingdom, the Power, and the Glory: American Evangelicals in an Age of Extremism Tim Alberta Harper, 2023 Tim Alberta is a native son of Michigan and adept observer of the Evangelical and post-Evangelical world as the son of a born again pastor who built up a successful church down the road from me in Brighton. We’re all floundering right now in a netherland between polarities, in a nation more divided than ever. Some assert on the verge of a civil war, Into this dire fractured battlefield stepped Tim Alberta.   After his father died, the author decided to assess the health of Evangelical Christianity from a number of perspectives, knowing that not everyone would agree on even what it means to be an Evangelical Christian. What he found was that the Church was in trouble, I began reading this book in the aftermath of a decision by Chicago’s City Zoning Committee to deny CCO (Cornerstone Community Outreach, the homeless shelter I used to work at) a Special Use Permit to extend a

I like occasionally reading reviews by NPR music correspondent Ann Powers, who recently wrote about Beautiful Things. Google it, it’s viral, y’all. My take on the lyrics and delivery are uniquely my own. And, though, it could be interpreted as male toxicity when he belts out I NEED YOU TO STAY I came away with a different feeling. I find it to be a song about faith and security within a faltering relationship. Some of this comes from my current insecurities with God, the Church, and my own faith journey. Powers mentions that Benson Boone is a Mormon, which introduces its own complexities to the modern relationship. I need to add here that I’m not on Tik Tok or keep up on all things viral. Lately I’ve been too busy to even write the occasional short story, But, last Friday I took a break and caught up on stuff having nothing to do with my writing or backwoods existence. I didn’t know anything about the artist or that he’d been on American Idol. I had never seen his videos. Etc.

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 I stop and pause on the back deck to study the night sky above me, where a kind of theater takes place: Dancing stars, piercing the veil A succession of clouds, entering and exiting Moons, fat or skinny, no shows, everything in between From the pit—a crescendo of crickets, a train horn section, the percussive bark of a neighbor dog Every night a different show, a version of the same Before stepping back inside I do a dance On the dimly-lit stage

After three months I see you again, old friend, hanging around. I get you off the hook and we go out together, for drinks, dinner, a walk to the store in twilight’s new warmth. You’ve always been steady, by my side in rain or shine; you’ve got my back. As the season’s turn and our love for each other wans and waxes, I hope I never lose you.  

I think I’ve shared here at the blog that 2023 was a very successful year as far as publication of various pieces: both micro, blended, and the short story. Thus, I began 2024 knowing I needed to produce. I felt so much pressure that it stymied me. It seemed I only had time for the blog entries. I was keeping up with three posts a week—just. But ongoing submissions and writing down new ideas was taking a hit. Not to mention actually beginning a project that would take multiple sittings. I get very anxious leaving things undone. For one month I’ve had loose ends as I’ve strived to complete one short story. In the past month I’ve had exactly 3 days off—and even then off is relative. One was unexpected as I showed up to work early voting at the municipal center and they said they didn’t need me, and the other two days I still helped with child care as I took Jack to the library and playdate with my friend Sepi. I have even been cutting down the amount of time for exercise, runs

Early March, unbelievable. We were sitting outside after a run in shorts enjoying the weather before I quickly changed to ride my bike to work. I didn’t need a coat, but took one just in case after work I’d need one. Thus, I forgot to take my safety vest. I left for work at 11 a.m. wearing a flannel over my work t-shirt and also wearing sunglasses. It truly felt like spring. No overpants. No boots. Is this even right? I wondered. Never fear—today when I woke up it felt heavy inside my Tiny House. Especially dark outside the windows. I opened my French doors just as the first drops were beginning to fall from the sky. At the same moment my daughter and grandson were watching from their sliding glass door. An audience for a cacophonic symphony.           The back and forth rhythm of spring.  

I’ve learned a new word: vernal ponds. Here in Michigan in the spring I ride my bike past snow-laden fields that slowly give themselves over to marshes. In the woods the trees are submerged into run-off pools. From Wikipedia: Vernal pools, also called vernal ponds or ephemeral pools, are seasonal pools of water that provide habitat for distinctive plants and animals. They are considered to be a distinctive type of wetland usually devoid of fish, and thus allow the safe development of natal amphibian and insect species unable to withstand competition or predation by fish. Certain tropical fish lineages (such as killifishes) have however adapted to this habitat specifically. This description almost makes them sound magical—ephemeral, but they are temporary and are slowly, even now, fading. Everyday there is more field than pond. And, on the really nice days I can hear the boisterous bull frogs, the chirpy peepers, and all the other members of the vernal pond orchestra camouflaged in the

My job at the bike shop involves an array of hours. Some days are 9 – 5, some 11 – 7, some, lie today, 10 – 6. In deep dark winter after the time change, when leaving after close, I’ll have to turn on all lights and my blinking helmet while riding home. As we get close to spring equinox I’m having to less and less. The sun currently is setting around 6:30. Seven pm close it definitely is dark, but 6 and 5 I can now ride home in light—sometimes taking a detour through the woods and onto a board plank bridge that straddles a marsh. I am more likely to stop at Aldis before coming home for few items as it also isn’t so cold as to freeze my TP before arriving in my driveway. The whole idea of growing light at both ends of the day is lending me a better attitude. Two days ago it was 18 degrees as I rode to work wearing my lobster gloves reserved for the coldest days. I was not ready to head back to those after a day before of 70 degree temperatures. But, it is spring. Or at least we’re get

I was just sitting by my computer putting off writing when a neighbor cat showed up outside my French doors. He (who knows!) has a black coat and beautiful chartreuse eyes. He played around on the back deck and then spied, probably a squirrel, stood stock still then went off. I came outside and looked for him. In Oregon there was a neighbor cat (there were many in fact) that used to prowl around. My roommate called him Frank (maybe he called all of the outside cats Frank). We kept our doors open as we rarely used the heat and there was no AC, One time Frank just walked in. Because of my daughter’s cats, I am not inviting this cat indoors or habituating it by petting it or trying to pick up. (We just got done with running to the vet for anxiety-ridden Cato). Anyway, while out on the deck I heard a flapping of wings, much like the sound my underarms make when I run. I looked up and saw a black crow overhead with a twig or pieces of grass in its beak. I thought if I were Mary Oliver a

Check out Pure of Heart online at Fa thom. Fathom has an ambitious mission: Our goal is to approach everything we publish with an eye for intellect, wonder, and story and a conviction that our beliefs have consequences for ourselves, our communities, and the world. Our hope is that in the wonder of God’s presence, we can help one another cultivate an embodied faith that furthers the kingdom of heaven on earth. Somehow there was a mix-up and they accepted one of my pieces and I discovered they’d actually put it up without having ok’d. Usually there is a bit back and forth if a submission is accepted for publication. For instance, this particular piece had already found a home when I made the discovery. I had Furtive take it down. But— I sent them Pure of Heart as it also represented the themes they advanced. Thankfully it was accepted and now is out. From the story: One night on the “L” train, the car she was sitting in emptied out. A man got on at Clark & Division. She