No Going Back

Photo credit here.

The theme for the Writer’s Workshop was “Late.” This was the prompt which created what follows:

 

“You get a pair of glasses in the mail that lets you see the flow of time all around you.  When you look, you can see things that are ahead of time or behind time or things that are running smoothly.  It’s not quite what you expected though.  What do you see?”

 

At first there were drops, landing mid-air on nothing visible – then streaking horizontally as if a ground was rising up to meet them.

 

One landed with a PLOP several feet behind me and the “streak” became torrential, barreling toward me. I panicked, feeling my breath quicken with a strong sense to turn and run. But other drops had me solidly in a circle – their surface tension keeping me from movement.

 

I turned back and a wave was forming, threatening to both take me out at my knees and engulf me in oxygen-deprived movement, so I turned my back and waited. . .

 

But I was floating, unbeknownst to me, all of these drops had me buoyant – moving, but still – always in an in-between of torrent behind and trickle before.

 

The torrents had movement, pushing me in one direction or another. Then I realized they were pushing certain previously unseen barriers down – helping me see different places in my future – creating glimpses of what might be.

 

If I chose to step towards one apparition or another, the torrent came along, eliminating from view any other option previously revealed.

 

My presence shifted the topography – all else going flat with each movement. Shifting my gaze behind, the drops became a wall – no going back.

 

Writer’s Workshop, March 16, 2025

Coffee

Photo Credit here.

My first experience with espresso, where I ordered it and paid for it, happened during a trip to Europe as I returned home from my year in Ukraine. My friend and I visited Rome and were leaving to head to Pisa before making a quick trip back up to Paris to meet another friend. I don’t remember if I wanted to try espresso because it seemed an Italian drink to experience or if I thought I might need the caffeine. Still, I went to an open-air café, bellied up to the bar and ordered an espresso. I received the small cup with the goods and sipped. . .I wanted to spit it out. It was awful! I had no idea why anyone actually liked the stuff.

About two years later, as I worked with graduate students at Vanderbilt, I made another attempt. Fido was the hip coffee shop in Hillsboro Village and some of the grad students visited it religiously. I ventured out one evening and got the Pink Poodle – an outrageously large (and fluffy pink) latte with plenty of sugar. I had finally found a way to drink espresso, though I still preferred Mr. Pibb to a latte any day. 

 

My coffee tastes and explorations changed little as I moved to do my own graduate degree in New Jersey, though I joined friends at local shops here and there. When I moved to Berkeley to work with college students again, my appreciation of fresh foods and expertly roasted coffee grew. With Peet’s and the influence of Alice Waters, I continue to associate lattes (especially served in a large bowl) with a truth-telling, unifying and inspiring time of my life. 

 

After marriage, I started trying all sorts of diets – more to find the perfect collection of foods which would strength and nourish J and me, not to try and lose weight or sculpt my body in some way. In Kentucky, we fell under the influence of the Whole 30, and by that time, coffee was a staple of the morning and sometimes the afternoon (but with lots of cream). Dairy is forbidden on the Whole 30, so I started drinking coffee black. I immediately returned to half and half when we ended our reintroduction phase. I will still occasionally drink coffee black, but really, coffee continues to be a conduit for lush, frothy warm half and half.

 

Now, approximately 25 years after that first espresso in Rome, I have a growing intolerance of caffeine - another gift of “the change.” If I have nothing to do, I drink coffee and lattes with abandon, but I notice. I notice I do not feel at ease come bed time. I can still sleep, but I don’t sleep well. I’m a little more cranky and irritable. I don’t have patience for much foolery. 

 

So I’ve started limiting my coffee intake when I am working. I allow myself a (large) cup for 3 out of 7 days, usually the weekends, but the other days are caffeine free. I find myself tired by bedtime. I sleep incredibly, and I wake up with energy. My mind clears and my mood remains steady (or at least steadier) as I work through the day. I’m a kinder, gentler human.

 

If I have really been hitting the coffee on my time off, I have headaches and brain fog for the first couple of days, but J and I drink 75% decaffeinated coffee now, so the withdrawal is minimal. If you try this route, I suggest getting decaf prepared by the Swiss water method – the beans still taste excellent and no chemical agents, like ethyl acetate or methylene chloride, touch the beans.

 

I have other female friends who have experienced this change in caffeine tolerance with menopause. I’ll have to see if anyone has figured out why tolerance decreases, but given how little is researched with menopause, or with women-specific issues generally, I’m guessing no one has cared to investigate. Still, I’m glad a simple fix can improve my sleep, mood and outlook. 

 

But I still love a good cup of coffee, especially shared with J and friends over breakfast. 

After all these years, it’s grown on me. 

3/30/26

Deep in the Dirt

Photo credit here.

 

Deep in the dirt,
We ripped growth
knotted with time
And the striving, which
makes each of us.
 
The elephant danced
on rooftops
While the dog
lapped the pool,
laid in the dirt
 
Dug out all those rocks
making up the world
Or at least our section,
Thrown to hold the earth 
in place, just this once. 
 
Buried treasures.
All around us
waiting for discovery
Whispering of past lives forgotten
Deep in the dirt.

3/28/26

Subversive Acts

Photo credit here.

The House of Coffee had their Grand Opening today beginning at 3pm. J and I arrived fashionably late but just in time for the party. A crowd stood outside the coffee shop. Gold and black balloon arches framed a small hut where hibiscus tea and mint lemonade awaited tasting. Gold and black bags emblazoned with The House of Coffee and their logo held party favors: A pen, a keychain, a coaster and a small coffee cup – all carrying the name and emblem of the shop. In addition, a small note with “thank you for celebrating with us” and a tea bag sized sample of coffee rounded out the gift’s contents. 

 

Men in – you guessed it – gold and black danced around in a circle as an older gentleman kept time to the music with a drum. The leader of the dancing men carried a staff similar to a drum major and began throwing it to other men in the crowd, inviting them to join the dance. About half of the men came out to dance and half did not. All of the would-be recruits were dressed in suits and ties – a terribly hot choice on a sunny, 80-degree day. 

 

Bayt Al Qahwah (The House of Coffee) is a Yemeni coffee house which officially opened its doors with music and dance, food and drink, smiles and welcoming.

 

J commented as we left, given the political climate of the country these days, he was glad the event went off so smoothly. I shared his relief. So many things could have happened to infuse the event with fear or hate. Instead, people smiled, laughed, danced, ate great food, imbibed fruity concoctions as well as caffeinated beverages and celebrated a new type of coffee shop in our area. 

 

I am glad to celebrate the opening of a Yemeni coffeehouse. I am grateful for the diversity of this world. I pray every act of celebration will break down the walls which separate us.

3/27/26

Gardening

Photo credit here.

 For a moment today, I felt unscheduled, free to sit in the sun or lounge in the shade. I had no “to-do” list, no task pressing me for attention. My cortisol levels dropped precipitously, my mind blank and only open to the present moment.

 

Earlier in the day, we parked a little over a mile from the local botanical gardens, then walked and jogged over to the Japanese garden to catch what was left of the cherry blossoms. On the walk back, we stopped for coffee, meandered across a creek, kept searching for Jack in the Pulpit along every leaf covered hillside. Nothing was pushed or pressing. The temperature in dappled shade fell just shy of perfect, the humidity obviously on Spring Break with everyone else.

 

Currently, J is house and pet sitting, so after our excursion I joined him for the midday release of the pup. The back yard of the house contains a pool, Adirondack chairs, loungers, a cast iron dining set and several large umbrellas. I opened an umbrella up after dipping my feet in the pool, shading my upper body while exposing my legs and feet to the sun. In the quiet warmth of their back yard, all other tasks melted away. 

 

We drove back home for lunch, and my brain cranked back up with the lists: the Work list, the House list, the Yard list, the Trip list, etc. The gift of gardening lies in its absolute insistence – if a garden happens at all, the seeds must be started in the spring or the bulbs must be planted in the fall or the pruning must happen after (or before) the plant flowers. The garden has to have water, appropriate soil, sunlight, spacing. Weeds cannot get the upper hand; mulching will help every plant’s and person’s nerves. 

 

So despite other lists, the Yard list took priority and I spent the afternoon planting seeds for giant sunflowers, Rose of Sharon, basil, cilantro (hope it’s not too late!), tomatoes, carrots, zucchini, okra, and eggplant. I dreamed of where the seedlings may go in the yard and how to create space for them. I took out plants from the basement, so they can begin their spring transformations. I weeded around returning azaleas, hosta, black-eyed susans and crepe myrtle. I doted over returning day lilies, swamp irises and star-gazers. I wondered how best to reign in pushy canna lilies in one part of my yard and how best to spur their growth in another. I hoped the peony at the corner of the porch would bloom this year.

 

By four o’clock, I began to clean up the remaining tools and ended by cleaning up myself. Now, after dinner, I’m sitting on the porch with my vigilant Maltese enjoying the transition from bird song to crickets in the slow decent of the spring sun. 

 

I’m grateful for these days which slip from task to taskless, which whisper promises of bright yellow heads heavy with seeds or the sweet burst of a perfectly ripe tomato, while reminding me to care for what is most important right now. I pray that I am and trust in grace and mercy for the rest. 

 

3/26/26

Trouble

 

Photo credit here.

Writing Workshop prompt from 8/2022: “Did you ever get in trouble at school? What happened?”

 

Ms. Tew was my first elementary school teacher. I don’t remember how many children were in my class, but she chose to set-up her classroom tables in a large square. The space in the middle of the tables seemed enormous to my 6-year-old self. 

 

Our classroom abutted a second-grade classroom which had a reading loft. I yearned to be in the class with the loft the next year and pined for the adventures a loft might bring. Even in first-grade, rumors spread about teachers and their relative kindness, coolness or harshness. The teacher with the loft was known to be cool and kind, which seemed to me a perfect combination. 

 

Our first-grade classroom, much like the arrangement, was square: No mood lighting, no loft – just bulletin boards and chalkboards with harsh fluorescent above. A rectangular floor-to-ceiling window provided the only natural light, but the window faced South.

 

Sometime during the first couple of months of the school year, Ms. Tew received word she had a phone call to take in the principal’s office. She pointed toward the worksheets before us telling us to work on our letters, and she sternly warned us about making too much noise. She also told us to stay in our seats. She would be gone briefly, and we needed to behave ourselves during her short time away.

 

I do not know the nature of the phone call, but seconds and minutes turned into what felt like hours to a classroom of aesthetically starved first graders. I’m sure it started with small conversations between neighbors on the square. A little later, the hyperactive boy sprang up to bother a friend seated across from him. Paper began to be wadded up and thrown. The girls screeched as the boys began pulling hair. Small, and then large, arguments broke out. The decibels grew louder and louder. 

 

At least once, maybe twice, another teacher passed by the room and encouraged us to shush and get back in our seats. But as soon as she left (and they were all she’s), mayhem commenced. Herding cats comes to mind. 

 

My predilection is for rule-following. Given the regular chaos of my home, rules became a safe-haven providing security and defense if needed. While my classmates got out of their chairs, drew scribbles on the chalkboard, poured Elmer’s glue on the tables – I sat trying to focus on my alphabet, keeping my head down and trying to stay out of trouble.

 

When Ms. Tew finally came back, her normally calm demeanor morphed into wild-eyed rage. She yelled while making statements about what she had told us to do, how we were disrupting the entire wing of the school, how we only needed to be still and quiet for a little while. I imagine the floor was covered with pencils and markers, poorly cut construction paper, glue bottles and paper jets with the nose-gear bent sideways. Chairs must have been in array, maybe the tables were knocked askew – but in our defense, she was gone a LONG time, especially for freshly minted first graders. 

 

She had us straighten the room up and return to the square while she found her wooden paddle. She stood the students on each side of the square up in unison, then went down the row whacking our rear ends with the board. “Thwok, thwok, thwok” 

 

I wanted to protest, to tell her I had not participated in any of it. I didn’t want to get paddled. I feared the pain, being lumped in with all the rule-breakers and what if my mom found out! I might get a whooping again for being disruptive. I think I started crying – maybe we all did. All the exuberance of childhood shenanigans squelched thwok by horrible thwok. Replaced by alligator tears and smeared “A’s, B’s and C’s” on our pages. 

 

An event like that did not happen again in all of elementary school (or beyond). I don’t know if Ms. Tew received a reprimand with other teachers forbidden to act similarly. Maybe the rumor mill did its job and scared all of us straight. Who would think the teacher would paddle ALL of us? Truth is stranger than fiction sometimes.

 

Still, the event is my lasting memory of first grade and my lasting memory of Ms. Tew.

 

Written 3/25/26

Hometown

Photo credit here.

I never expected to be back in my hometown. When I left it “for good” in my late twenties, I imagined being somewhere close – a neighboring state – but not in the state. I needed the breathing room and the only way I found it was by physical distance. 

 

My grandmother did not understand why I “always left.” Granted, she never asked me to stay, never said she missed me or wanted me close. Maybe she assumed those things were a given. Considering her words now, I wonder if she felt rejected – more of a I was leaving her. At the time, I thought of my travels as exploration and finding myself. Now, I recognize I also needed to leave to make sense of all I experienced. 

 

Growing up in the South, the connection to and expectation of family felt ubiquitous. Granny expected mother to care for her and her needs. Dad expected mother to take care of the household duties (cooking, cleaning, caring for the children). Mom expected her daughters to also clean, cook and listen to her worries and concerns about her projections on other people. The boys took care of yard work and helped dad with various projects around the house.

 

As a family, we had an image to project and uphold, generally, but it’s the South, so a sterling image was most important at church. My sister and I wore dresses or pants to church, absolutely NO denim. My brothers wore slacks, a collared shirt and a tie. Mom expected us to sing in the choir, attend all services and generally behave. She wanted everyone to think our family was “perfect” or at least “doing very well.” 

 

She told me during my college orientation she never said a word to anyone about my brother’s drug addiction, run-ins with the law, suspensions, anger outbursts, etc., until that weekend. She met with the mother of an old elementary school friend of mine who happened to be at the same orientation weekend. Somehow, my friend’s mom provided mother the space to talk and mom told all. What amazed me, even then, was mom’s reticence to show any sign of “unordained” weakness to anyone. If the imperfection came upon her, she might share it with church people; but if the imperfection may have been associated with or caused by her, no one was going to know it. 

 

I was too aware of my family’s shortcomings, but mainly the dangerous dynamic between my brother and my parents. He transgressed any and all rules or lines. My parents, desperate to save him, and save face, tried to smooth over the infractions or to ignore them as if they never happened. My brother took and took and took. My parents never stopped giving (even to this day). 

 

When I got old enough to suggest they allow my brother to suffer the consequences of his actions, my mother gave me the stink eye and then proceeded to tell me they had no other choice than to support him. By that time, however, I knew they had other choices. I realized they would choose him any day, but I was not so sure they would choose any of the rest of us. Ask them, or especially my mother as dad has never been a talker, she would deny this one hundred percent; but by their actions throughout our childhood, they chose him over us one hundred percent of the time.

Once I tasted freedom in college, and especially after my summer in Alaska, I could not return to the family dynamic. I saw different ways to be in the world, and I wanted a different path than the one expected of me by my specific Southern culture. Even so, the culture’s embrace remained and it took years to find release – or a kind of release. I’m old enough to know the difficulty and even impossibility of leaving a family dynamic – parts of it seem genetic – but the travel and distance changed me enough to provide more filters for viewing it and living in it. 

 

I am forever grateful for the opportunities to live in other places and to know people with a wide variety of life experiences who live in cultures different than my own. They provided perspective, opportunity, windows into a thousand ways to be in the world. They helped me discover my agency. 

 

And my agency (as well as my intuition) brought us back home. Home surprises me with its creativity and ability to reinvent itself. This is not the place I left two decades ago and I am not the person who left. I’m enjoying our reacquaintance. J and I are slowly bringing out a new side to the old home place. We have more friends here than we have anywhere else in our married life. My work has a balance I dreamed of back in Memphis. 

 

I never expected to be back in my hometown, but I’m glad we are. 

3/24/26

 

Emergency Room

 

Photo Credit here.

Having just spent 7 hours in the ER with my father (after a fall, which fortunately did not end up with broken bones or bleeds), I am "worn slap out" as my Granny used to say. 

No musings on the ER at the moment, but maybe it will arrive another night. 

Now, to bed.

3/23/26

Different

Photo credit here.

 

3/21/25

Resilience

 

They had taken the metro to the island in the middle of the Dnieper River. The war had not yet begun, the Orange Revolution had not yet shifted the political landscape. The catacombs remained intact, St. Michael’s gleamed golden in the sun, Lady Victory signaled an era which recently passed into history. This moment culminated a few weeks of planning between the English teachers and students which included gathering at the island to experience a cookout in the “usual” Ukrainian style. 

 

By this time the snow had given up and warming temperatures melted what remained. The teachers followed the university students on an unmarked path back into the woods. They found a clearing and a barbeque by magic, and soon, the students were unpacking their backpacks with the different snacks and food they brought. 

 

Potato salad, bread with dried fish, butter and dill; a dish called Shuba (layered fish, carrot, beet, mayonnaise) and Sala (or pig’s fat) came forward one by one. While the other dishes were cold, they heated the Sala a bit, then passed it around. They told stories of how Stalin, during World War II, starved the people of Ukraine. When they could no longer buy meat, Sala provided calories to keep them alive another day with hopes to see Stalin defeated. They were survivors. 

 

The English speakers sat silent – how does one respond to resilience of this magnitude in the face of vicious hate? 

 

With awe and respect. 

The picture was a Writer's Workshop prompt from February of 2023. I gave myself 15 minutes to write on the picture prompt and it took me to my time in Kyiv, Ukraine '98-'99. 3/20/26

The Process of Becoming

Photo credit here.

Little comes out wholly itself.
Even a seed must be formed bit
By painstakingly long bit and
Even then its journey continues.

 

Is it food? 

Does it feed off another?

May it wait for yet another type of seed

Which by combining 

becomes something new.

 

The hazelnut contains the universe – 

The work of millennia formed and 

Transformed into this tiny seed.

 

Give it soil, rain, sunlight – 

The nut transforms into something

Quite different – larger, broader

Containing multitudes of itself

For all of time (maybe).

 

All the tree releases from itself – 

Gases to fill the air, 

Nitrogen to feed the soil

 

As it dies it decomposes into hummus and fungi

Decomposes into 

Soil and spore and molecule.

 

The world below and the sky above

Filled again by what had been

One tiny seed, by what had been

Universe.

 

So what of my short life?

The lesson may be not so much

All my transformation

But mostly I am stardust as much

As I am flesh and

To stardust I will return.

 

The vanity of life

Its crowning glory:

The whisper of eternity

In each breath,

Each turning of a life.

 

Writer’s Workshop, 11/16/25