Come walk with me

Come walk with me among the stones and trees, away from the distractions and we will reflect on what truly matters. . . .

Monday, May 25, 2015


Memorial Day. Salute. Raise the flag. Lower your head. Utter a prayer.

Saturday, May 23, 2015


It is time to renew my passport. I have been watching travel shows on public television. Today, they visited Cologne and I longed to see more details, to see something familiar, to spy the priest who had stood with me through mass. More than anything, I long to return.

I long to see new places. Scotland. Wales. Ireland. The Isle of Man. The Manx Museum. Hadrian's Wall. I long to ride trains again. The Ice. The narrow rail up the the mountain to Lucerne. I long to get on a boat, to see the view from the midst of Lake Zurich once more. But I'd like to tour the Rhine.

I want night to fall on an outdoor cafe with little white lights and foreign languages at the next tables, clinking wine glasses and easy laughter.

Tuesday, May 19, 2015

What's Wrong

She does not make eye contact in the grocery store; perhaps she did not notice me. That's probably it; she did not see me. Behind her, with her grandson on his shoulders, is her boyfriend, the man who left her naked and beaten on her front porch. He is powerfully built, tall, broad-shouldered, rather handsome.

He is very good with her grandson, she had told our support group, and her grandson adores him. Yes, I had to admit, her grandson looked happy on this man's shoulders.

My stomach churned with anger and disgust. "You are what is wrong," I wanted to scream at her. "You are the reason the cops and judges don't pay attention! You! You! What's wrong with you???"

I say nothing.

I know what is wrong with her. I know, because I know. I know how desperate she is to be loved and desired, how undeserving she feels, how, if she only tries hard enough to please this man, he will love her. He will love her.

This is what's wrong.

Thursday, May 14, 2015


Caspar David Friedrich, The North Sea in the Moonlight

I have been thinking of Oostende, on the North Sea.

Even though it was July, it was chilly and rainy. We walked through the mist to the hotel. The old world lobby suited me; the dark, heavy wood, the high ceilings, the huge, yellowed posters of old ships.

We walked down to a quaint restaurant. It was yellow, and the windows were steamed over. The people at the table next to us were from Italy. I ordered fish and the chef brought it to me himself. We walked along the dock where houseboats were tied up, squeezed next to each other as tightly as socks in a drawer. We could see the lights inside, the wine glasses, the small televisions.

It was a lovely evening.

The next morning, I walked out alone. Tourists came over, and speaking French, asked me for directions. Mostly, people assumed I was French when I was alone.

I had no idea that I loved the North Sea until that first night in Oostende. It awakened something I had never known, or had forgotten before I was born. It seemed a great mystery, swirling energy, rich, boundless, timeless.

I long to return tonight.

Friday, May 8, 2015

Hymn for Today

We are a garden, walled around, 
chosen and made, peculiar ground, 
A little spot, enclosed by grace, 
out of this world's wide wilderness.

 --Isaac Watts