Both my sons are out of the house, mostly, so now the “art” of practice isn’t about finding time to write between the particulars of parenting. Now the art of practice is making sense of the unfolding of the writer-self I carried beside, beneath, above and below my parenting-mothering-self. This is an interesting unfolding; to carry the metaphor perhaps too far, I thought the unfolding would look like a beautiful blanket of time and I would just wallow in its soft warmth and write.

Bwahahahaha says the goddess. How about I gift you with an inability to see your way through to fixing your marriage because you think he’s unreasonable, and then, once you’ve settled into a new rhythm of amicable separation and relatively happy singledomness, put a new person on your path, who reveals to you the extremely uncomfortable truth that you were fifty-percent the unreasonable reason the marriage wasn’t fixable? Howzabout you let someone’s offhand comment (“the reason marriages fail is people don’t know how to compromise”) tie you up in knots rather than forgiving yourself for your flaws and failures? Howzabout your Dad dies and executing his estate takes up most of your days for the better part of a year and your writing grinds to a halt? Howzabout the universe doesn’t have any paying work for you (the goddess is nearly peeing her pants with laughter here: you opted to stay home to raise kids so obviously you’re unqualified to answer the phones, or file papers)? Howzabout your younger son needs major surgery and then there’s a pandemic?

Howzabout everyone’s heart is broken and everyone is suffering and art has no point and you’re gonna die soon anyway and obviously if you were serious about being a writer you would have a body of work already published, so why bother? Bwahahahaha!

Bwahahahaha indeed. It’s the best and perhaps only option. This week I’m laughing at my attachment to my run streak … on my meditation app. I’m laughing at how the mice are coopting my fabulous blown-in insulation to build their nests in my shed, leaving their little turds EVERYWHERE. I’m laughing at how my attempt at going green by line-drying my clothes results in clothes smelling like mildew, resulting in my re-washing those clothes in bleach and hot water, thereby canceling out the energy saved by line drying. I’m laughing at how my existential despair about climate change is offset by my blatant joy at basking in the sun in November. I’m laughing at the words that came out of my mouth when a pal asked why I wasn’t blogging:

“I’m afraid I might offend someone,” I said.

She looked at me quizzically. “So?”

BwahahaHA!, says the goddess: you’ve forgotten the most basic rule for practicing any creative act at any time. Show up. Do it anyway.

May it be so.

Despite forgetting how to bwahahaha, my story “A Mother’s Modulated Reckoning” appeared in the terrific new online publication, Leon Literary Review earlier this year. Onward!

May 5 2020

Today I spent fifteen minutes in my garden, plucking weeds from betwixt and between the tiny sprouts of lettuce and spinach. I hadn’t intended to weed but when I walked past my modest patch on the way to feed the birds, lo! Little lettuces and spinach poking up! Locked in earthy combat with weeds!

It was mid-March when I planted these seeds. Two varieties of lettuce: “Deer Tongue” and “Sweet Valentine.” The spinach is “Long Standing Bloomsdale.”

I’ve been racking my writerly brains for a Sweeping Metaphor about how the mid-March Lesley who planted the seeds connects to and embodies the early-May Lesley; how the history-making weeks between these manifests some great Insight or Truth.

I got nothin’. I can’t do better than observing that seeds hew to their innate seed-ness with quiet grace and aplomb. So I’m following their lead, trying my best to hew to what feels innate to me and to act with quiet grace and a soupçon of aplomb.

So far this includes

feeding the birds, and



journaling, and


A journal entry I nevereverever want someone else to read. Suzi Banks Baum introduced me to this technique.










meditating, and









painting teeny tiny watercolors every day.

This is enough for now.

May you, too, find a daily act … and manifest it with grace and aplomb.

Honey, red cabbage, apples, onion

Last night I sautéed onions to golden, then added two thinly sliced red cabbagesMy mom's red cabbage dish ... along with apples, salt, and honey. This was a speciality of my German-rooted mother, a woman who died twenty-two years ago. 

I’d softened the dark crystallized honey by putting its jar in a pan of boiling water. It slid into the cabbage-onions-apple mixture in a steamy swirl.

As I rubbed off the jar’s label in preparation for the recycle bin I saw it was originally from the Good Foods, Good People Co-op in Lexington, KY, my hometown until college.

I was in Lexington this past April, after my Dad died. The estate attorney told us that although the contents of the house were ours, the house itself was Dad’s wife’s. Even though her family were OK with us being there, we were technically trespassing. My brother and I sorted, packed and moved everything we could imagine wanting into a storage unit between Tuesday afternoon and Wednesday morning, stopping to sleep only briefly.

Of all the memorabilia, how ridiculous that I grabbed a nearly-empty jar of honey. And how grateful I am to have been ridiculous.

Let’s hear it for the muses that take care of us even when (especially when) we are stumbling through our days in a haze of shock and disbelief, bone-tired and muttering.

Let’s not overthink our gut-level choices: let’s allow them to sit, darken and crystallize into the sweet and savory comfort we didn’t know we needed.

May it be so for you as well.

If you would like to explore how memory can be shown in fiction, check out my post “Everything happens at once” at A Fiercely Kind Word.