Sacré Coeur & Wound Man (First published in The Cincinnati Review, Issue 15.1, 2017) A painting of the Virgin hangs at the foot of my bed. She wears her sacré coeur like a brooch, fastened with a sword through her chest. Mary’s sacred heart is crowned with flowers, just as gravestones are. I wish I…
Category: Thankfulness
Still Lifes in our Artists’ Loft
My treasures aren’t worth anything but mean the world to me. The paper-cut oak leaves were collected on a stroll up to the Basilica of San Miniato al Monte last year. I love cutting shapes into dried leaves – so ephemeral, they promise to rip and turn to mulch on the studio floor. I love…
The Democracy of Night
I just came across some old poems of mine in FRIGG and I’m astounded again by the journal’s wispy, dreamy aesthetic. It’s not often that poets have a visual sensibility, which is odd, seeing as metaphors and imagery are our stock and trade. I thought I’d share a couple of these old (revised) poems…
Tumbling Down the Rabbit Hole…
Tonight I was looking for an essay of mine that was published in Cutbank last year, and all these hits came up… I’m so pleased to find so many quotes of my work that have been posted and reposted on Tumblr and various blogs, etc. All night I’ve tumbled into the Tumblrsphere. For instance, a…
A Geography of the Heavens
The working title for my current memoir – a meditation on my exile and love affair – was A Natural History of the Sky – the sky being a running motif throughout the narrative for many reasons (natural history, art history, magical realism, dreams, astrology, etc). With chapter titles ranging from “Miranda Pirouetting on a Zephyr”…
Letting the World Rush in…
I’ve been asked by the founder of the Internations Women’s Empowerment Seminars in Florence to deliver a talk about my solo pilgrimage from Canterbury to the Vatican. I’m so honored, and a bit bashful – to be honest, I didn’t think I’d make it two days along the trail, let alone finish the pilgrimage. This…
We Two, How Long we Were Fool’d
Whitman always says it best. Whatever it is, he says it best. My dad and I just spoke about Whitman, and coincidentally, the next day, I got my copy of Leaves of Grass out of storage and I found a poem that I don’t remember reading, though I must have read it a dozen times….
My First Pilgrimage Was a Scavenger Hunt
My girls made the “please do not remove” note for me years ago when I was suffering from depression and couldn’t get out of bed. It’s one of my most treasured belongings, even though it’s just a ripped piece of paper. It was one of many that lined the streets – secret messages taped to the walls,…
Goldilocks on Pilgrimage
Securing a bed each night on my pilgrimage is an ordeal and a blessing. For a faithless pilgrim such as myself, leaving my bed to fate or luck or chance or serendipity or street smarts or the kindness of strangers is a strange show of faith.
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