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how we stop our own story [or how about we build a swing instead?]
In improv class, we don’t get to use the words “don’t” or “no” and rarely get to ask questions when we are playing games. This is because it stops the story from moving forward. This has, of course, got me thinking about how I stop my own story. I see how many times I’ve let…
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miracles
My daughter, Gigi, and I read poetry to one another in the morning at breakfast. She read this one to me last week. Today, as we lay snuggled at Seward Park in Seattle, basking in the sunlight and watching it glisten on the water, I was reminded of this poem and the miracle of life…
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(and some flirting)
reading her my poetry about a man with a swagger ‘neath red flame chandeliers (and comparing notes) circular narratives about life and gypsies and making sense of men (and ourselves) a text to her lover in a moment of mischief fueled with red wine (and some flirting) “I think she’s trying to get me drunk,”…
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right here, right now
The girls and I were hanging out at the Seattle Center yesterday after school. It was a cold, autumn day and enormous gusts of wind had been blowing maple, birch and oak leaves all over the ground. The entire day seemed infused with a kind of magic that seemed carried on the wind. As Gigi…
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morning haiku in a new home
fierce wind dances with wetness warm coffee on tongue, a jet pushes through the sky
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11
on my way to him a harbinger wind whipped ferociously the clouds shedding their tears. we spoke of poison and offerings of medicine losses and redemption poems and tears. tonight, my room is drenched in moonlight and I wrap the fabric of our time together around me like a cloak I want to wear more…
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