Tag: Reflection
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The Catcher’s Mitt.
Hi there, Dear Reader. I’m sitting at our kitchen island, listening to the familiar hum of the dishwasher. It’s nighttime. I have Aquaphor on my knuckles. I’m sipping an IPA while learning to speak Vietnamese. Our house smells comfortingly like garlic. And my face—the supple, smiling cheeks that were so often mistaken for a teenager’s—feels…
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Winter’s Kiss.
A Love Letter. . . . The older I get, the more I love winter. The ice. The quiet. The frigid air that pricks the skin. I find comfort in the discomfort. The wind that whips across my face only amplifies the warmth of a whistling tea kettle. The stubborn teeth of my jacket’s zipper…
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Dear Reader, I Hope Your Life is a Mess.
Hear me out; I’m not a dick. . . . Happy 2024 to you and yours, friend. If I had to sum up my epiphany of this past year, it would be a familiar, yet important one: This is our brief time to shine.* I know I’ve said it many times before, (more or less…
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The Library.
An Ode to an Ancient Concept . . . I’m ashamed to tell you that when I went to my local library six months ago, it was the first time in many, many moons. In fact, the card I had on file had been deleted, due to years of inactivity. I’m also ashamed to tell…
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RV Stops #5 & #6: The Road Back Home.
Farewell, Sweet Maine. We hope to see you soon. . . . And so, after a fun-yet-rainy stay in Maine, it was time to go home. Southeast PA, here we come. . . . Littleton, New Hampshire If you know me and my husband at all, you know quite well that we’re craft beer freaks.…
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Ch-ch-ch-changes.
An attitude adjustment. . . . Hi there. It’s SnapDragon. Remember me? January has almost passed us by, and I feel especially unfulfilled as an artist. I feel . . . heavy, even though I’ve lost all the baby weight. I feel . . . an odd mix of mindfulness and dissatisfaction at all that…
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On The Dark.
SnapDragon originally posted this on Wise & Shine, formerly known as Pointless Overthinking. . . . I’m afraid of the dark. Like, for real. And it’s not because I think there are trolls in the basement, or Civil War ghosts in the attic. (But—ahem—now that I’ve revived that thought, I might crawl into bed even earlier tonight.)…
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My Hands.
My hands are quite small. They have been through a lot in their 35 years. Pleasure and pain. Work. Life. They’ve learned musical instruments. They’ve pretty much perfected the art of chalkboard writing. They’ve sliced bananas and watermelons galore. They’ve boasted ridiculous acrylic nails; antique diamonds; tender callouses from part-time jobs. They’ve slapped the steering…
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Shh.
Just Another Day in Paradise, Yo. . . . Hi. How are you, Dear Reader? How do you feel today: body, mind, and soul? Pause. Think. Answer honestly. Me? I’m doing just fine, thanks. I’m currently sitting on our RV love seat, clicking past the miles somewhere between Ohio and Indiana. Sweet Baby Snap is…
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Wait Awhile.
A Weirdo, Cerebral Reflection from Yours Truly. . . . Wouldn’t it be something if our every thought could be documented? Like, our dreams could be stored away in The Vault of Complete Memories, which I visualize as a rather Soviet-looking building, filled with hundreds of books and videotapes. Every dream, pondering, or musing filed…