I come to this empty page on Sunday night not knowing what I’ll say – or who I am writing for.  It’s one of my most constant and familiar places, this page.  A place I land weekly now, and where I have made my way through years of grief and hope.  Wherever my haphazard life had led, I always found something to say right here.

The hooks that you hang a story on are really so small.  A trip to the farmers market.  The uneven success of the garden. How I found the mock orange, neglected and forgotten, behind the old Taco Bell.

Just sitting in the garden with Ann or on the porch with Sherri – something so important happens.  I hear all about life – real, normal life, belonging somewhere and to someone. As we sit, the birds sing the very same song of place and pairing.  I’m like a sponge, absorbing a moment when we are outside our struggles, and our lives are just as we say they are when we tell our friend how our week has been.