A few weeks ago, we spent a weekend away in Maryland, and I walked with Tyler’s Aunt. We talked about the miles Little O’s stroller must log. We talked about my elusive writing ‘career’. She asked if I had read Anne Morrow Lindbergh’s Gift From the Sea. I hadn’t. And so, she loaned me a small book, so love-worn, it had been broken in two. The pages smelled of must and old furniture and, like many old books, its pages hadn’t faded, but instead deepened, to a rich, sandy brown.
Today a bunch of us in blog land are celebrating the incredible Lenny Lee who turns the big 1-5. To Lenny, my birthday ‘twin’, (yes, I am honored to share my own birthday with him) I hope this year is as special as you are. I send you a bright, happy, orange-pumpkin-spooked-out-cow birthday wish. I’m so lucky to call you a friend.
These days, I sit uncomfortably with the blank page, shifting in my hard-backed seat, taking the laptop to the bed, balancing it on my knees. I sigh. I let my gaze wander, toward the clock, the window and the light of the streetlamp, broken into orange-streaked pieces by the bamboo shades. I delete more than I write. This is possible. To erase the words before letting them find their way. There are books in piles on my nightstand, on the floor, stacked in the too-stuffed book