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An Equation

An equation. Perhaps the equation?

“Well, it’s all about balance,” she says, using a favorite buzzword to describe how she manages to do it all, and with such ease.

It sounds so easy. The spouse, kids, pets, house, career, hobbies, etc., all wrapped up in a neat and tidy little package and

gingerly . balanced . like . a . wavering . smile. ←

It’s also touché. And cliché. And maybe a little bit BS? Because balance-as-buzzword fails to acknowledge that the effort necessary to achieve a state-of-balance requires…

A Remembered Tale of Camping on the Colorado/Utah Border

We pulled into camp just as the final sliver of sun disappeared behind the buttes. Mom cranked the wheel to the left, braked, shifted to reverse and, looking over her shoulder backed the truck between the other vehicles. “Let me tell your dad about what happened today, OK?” she said, eyeing me intently as I unbuckled my seatbelt. I pulled my greasy hair into a ponytail and smoothed out the crumpled green and blue plaid hat that had been lying in my lap, setting it back on my head. …

The Life of a Little House

— Laura Ingalls Wilder

A little house in a shaded neighborhood, nestled in a planned suburb for the workers of George Westinghouse’s modern marvel of a company, part of an experimental utopian ideal in which executives, head engineers, and machinists live side by side, their children attend the same schools, dads invite one another to front porch gatherings and backyard barbecues, and mothers host church basement bake sales.

A little house next to other little houses, some bigger houses, and a few grand houses in the eastern hills above the city and rivers…

This is your perspective.

Your singular view. The area between where you stand and the object of your attention. A matter of distance — of time and space. The closer you stand, the details become more pronounced, though the sum of parts escapes your frame of vision. The further away, the details meld, but the bigger picture now comes into focus.

We all lose perspective at one point or another. …

Once Upon a Christmas Eve

Memories— the abstracted elements of sight, sound, taste, feel, and touch, fused together and rounded, like polished stones on a river bank, grains of soft sand underfoot. Memory is impromptu and fortuitous, catalogued and retrievable, buoyant and intangible.

Outside the snow is…

A Paradox

Bristlecone Pine. © Ansel Adams

The stillness envelops the hills and valleys like a soft mist. Lulled by the waking, sitting, pacing, and sleeping, each foggy day melts into the one ahead and falls in line with the ones behind.

The homes, their day-lit moments once spent in silent and watchful anticipation, now adopt new rhythms — heartbeats pulsing from the activity of newfound hours. Families, neighborhoods, workplaces, towns, cities… separate yet connected by an invisible and electrified network. A chorus of voices and a patchwork of faces, traveling on waves, shielded by screens, walls, windows, porches, and fences.

A captive[ated] audience.

Action in [in]action.

The Boom and Bust Landscape of Eastern Wyoming

The advent of barbed wire divided the open range, inspiring sentimental country songs lamenting the lost “golden age” of Western expansion. The dry, rolling grassland was roped and restrained by spools of wire and posts — compartmentalized, contained…

Illustration by Garth Williams

An Hour of Patience

— George Fox, Founder of the Society of Friends

I attended Quaker Meeting in West Falmouth, MA, for the first time on Sunday. This new attention to the religious life came about when I discovered that on my maternal grandmother’s side, my first “American” ancestors, were born over 390 years ago, right here in Barnstable County, MA. Barnstable County has the oldest continually running Quaker meeting in the country — and a relatively small portion of my DNA possesses the genetics of the people who helped found it! What a…

in between dreams

— Jane Goodall

“Come with me,” he said, as he swan-dove into the water. As his feet disappeared, the back of the pickup where we’d been sitting turned into a small wooden boat, rocking on a calm sea. I replied “I can’t”, but, after my usual hesitance, I…

Jennica Deely

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