Feral Mom, Feral Writer

After all the kids are out and the only sound competing with their snoring comes via the open window, solace overtakes me: rings of thrummin...

I was at a bridal shower when it happened. Mainly thrilled after eight years of either being pregnant or nursing to be headed for “something...

In April, I had one of those dreams without a single image, just a voice over: “You can either Be Here, or Be Here More Deeply...” which rem...

I’m in some church parking lot off Highway 12, yanking away the plastic water bottle my son has been crinkling in his sister’s ear for the l...

I packed the chili, cornbread, and warm chocolate chip cookies my son had baked for great grandpa into the car. I loaded the three kids and ...

When I was seventeen, a postcard came in the mail (must have been early fall) of El Beso , by Rodin. I fell in love with the sound of the sc...

I’m still learning how to use rejection to drive my work to its best incarnation. I came across a few remarks that made laugh and stop takin...