JoinedJuly 14, 2014
Articles15
Exactly 22 years ago, July 23, 1993 , was the first time I realized that my mom could die one day. Which meant that I could die too.
Nothing would change. It would stay cold forever. I would be lost forever. Nothing would change. Except for her, this flower, from green to pink, a glorious three day peak when unfolded, you could breath her in three inches away. Sweet. Even in the rain.
Sarah Tuttle-Singer tells a gut-wrenching story about the moments after her mother died, and the man she met briefly who transformed her experience.
Hell no, don't give me your umbrella, or your coat, not your trains that run on schedule or your buses that lurch and groan, not your cars neither and the rules of the road.
I've got me, and that's enough until I get there.
What's the point of prayer if we can't reach across the aisle to one another to create a sense of wholeness?
(Cue Itzhak Perlman playing something in a minor key.)
After the attacks in France, it might feel better to hide and close our eyes until it all goes away. But it won't go away until we open them and fight.
I tried, really I tried to pull away from you, Los Angeles… Just like at 15 when I would scream...
There's a wariness here in the central bus station after all we're living through - such dark times.
Some days, I'm like, "Stop the world! I want to get off!" I'd rather power down my iPhone, jump on my bike, and ride as far as I can to the other side of the horizon.
