The robins are here and it is still January. Their robust orange/red breasts are difficult to miss against the dry, hay colored ground. There is no snow and I watch them peck at the hard
They call to me from the store shelf, crammed together so it is difficult to determine where one plant ends and the next begins, making a purple and pink and green carpet, speckled with yellow.
That is what January feels like to me. Cozy. In my mind, January is full of gray days, cold temperatures, warm sweaters, and soft blankets. It’s my time to put away decorations and de-clutter, to
Coloring, drawing, gluing, cutting. These are everyday occurrences in our house. You can’t totally see it but there is a basket on the table with cups of markers, pencils, glue, and scissors and a big
Oh, my writing. How I’ve missed you, the act of sitting down and crafting sentences, putting specific words in order hoping to make something magical. It’s been three weeks and it feels like years. But
I want to go back, to when I knew, beyond any doubt, that reindeer flew through the sky by the light of a little red nose, to when the most important thing in my day
I do my best writing lying in bed at night, right before sleep. I know, I know, I should set a notebook beside the bed and when these great ideas enter my head, grab the