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The Ferry To Ilha de Tavira & The Salt Flats
There is a ferry to Ilha de Tavira, said Marianne. A ferry? The word elicited an immediate response in me—a curiosity, an invitation and a childlike thrill. Whether a short commute across the Boston harbor, a night sailing from Marseille to Corsica, or a wind-swept passage to reach the Hebrides from the Scottish Highlands, ferries transport bodies and hearts. The traveler leaves the firm ground to give themselves into the care of the captain of a vessel and surrender their fate to the water. We find these stories in mythology, fairytales, literature and modern-day travel blogs – they endure. Marianne had given me directions to the ferry in Tavira and…
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San Francisco, Summer 1978 ~ à Jérémie
I was holding your small hand in mine as we crossed the magnificent Golden Gate Bridge, our dog Chloé at your father’s side walking beside us. We heard about the Dalai Lama Peace March coming to town, and the meeting place was the Sausalito waterfront, where we lived. It was both a solemn and festive occasion, and we showed up in our most colorful and finest hippie attire: long flowing hair and bandanas – de rigueur for everyone – tattered jeans and embroidered Guatemalan shirts, layered petticoats and fringes and for me, ankle bracelets that jingled with every step I took. My flower-child years were the only ones when I…
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Breaking the spell
My body has a voice andtoday it’s asking me to goin the lake for a winter swim. Today, my body says – no more excuses, girl –I want to feel cold and wetand move through the water with ease. No resistance, no hesitation.Large strokes, long movements.Like a fish, head under waterand eyes open. Today is the day I break the spellan old fisherman put on mewhen my mother, my brothers, and Ispent a winter on the Mediterranean shore. I was three years old and already knewthat I belonged to the water’s edge,constantly pulled towards the waves,whatever the weather. That morning, we were ready for massand while my mother was distracted,I…
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Shapeshifting
Each morning, I stretch my limbs and allow the soft animal in me to pull and push. This way, that way, a limb, then another, in a familiar routine. In turn, every single particle of my inner creature calls attention to itself. The mild animal in me is no longer soft. It has awakened into agility and readiness to shape shift. Now stretched into a bow and arrow, determined and practised, it aims for the orgre’s underbelly. With precision, it busts the lies and exposes the moral injury we are enduring at the whims of drunks gorged on greed and power. And thus, while shattering this waking nightmare, we reclaim…
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Everything is awaiting your impending arrival
Everything is awaiting your impending arrival. Fresh linen on the bed, an extra blanket for warmth, the window opened to the sea breeze, lovely blooms from the garden collected in a blue vase, the table is laid, and your favorite sourdough bread freshly baked. Your place of many returns by the sea is ready to shelter you for a while. The window frames the wide mouth of the Connecticut River, with the morning sun spilling onto the writing desk just below, and the lamp you will turn on as the light fades on the water at the end of the day. You had called your friend a few days back,…
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Of Grace and Fortitude
As the evening light fades on the Highlands, they gather around the table and say grace.A single candle on the table,heads bowed,hands folded at the heart,the family sits togetherfor their meal of turnip soup and barley bread.The elder begins the prayer of thanks for sturdy walls against the northern winds,for sheep safely gathered,for warm food on the tableand for the pit fire heating the cottage’s single room. Today, the landlord came to collect his due.He rode with his bailiff and two sturdy ponies, as always in late summer.He had been demanding and arrogant,noticing another mouth to feed when the child cried for his mother's milk.But he left satisfied with four…
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The saddle, the master and the mare
Written on January 20, 2025 while ignoring the world for the day.
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Under the sycamores
“I have dedicated my book to you and to our summer.”
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“Pity you left it unsaid”
So why hadn't Mother crowned an heir?
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Under the sycamores
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Snow on Lake Boon
Today, I am alone on a self-directed writer's retreat.
