Our Stories

It's rainy in Portland again, and a bit cold. Sometimes I feel quite tired. Do you?   Isn't this the time when things are mostly done that will get done and we are meant to take stock of what we have and slow way down so it will last?   I should count you, your health and warmth, as my bounty. You should count me.   We should take turns walking out in the wet, green world - then come back, nest down, eat cabbage, rest against each other.   Isn't that right?   I know we have b

I mostly didn't grow up Catholic, despite my mother having been a nun. We mostly didn't go to church, but we did sometimes.   There were things there, mysteries, I knew to be complete; to contain everything. If I could grasp them, that would be enough: the folding and unfolding of our bodies, the way we passed peace like a mouse or flower from palm to palm, the incense in its chained vessel - the priest throwing its smoke on us, some words - light from light, god from god , e

1. I tell you a dream that I would like help understanding:   I'm in a place that's crowded, maybe a train station or all the train stations I've ever seen in life including books & movies. It's messy. I think all the people are versions of me - fumbling around on benches and at different counters; we're carrying baggage, eating food with our fingers, trying to wrap presents. We're disheveled and sticky.   The main me is snippy - like, mean - but deep to that mortified I can'