Writing is a solitary pursuit--the imagination guiding the hand moving the pen. I'm pretty old-school, valuing the work of good editors and the revisions process before letting my words go public. But life is short, right? And sometimes, just sometimes, we need to spout off.

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A writer, mother, teacher, friend, I love books, blizzards and beaches, music from Hildegard von Bingen to the Beatles to Bonnie Raitt to The Brood; I love medieval churches, red wine, creme caramel, and roasted beets, and walking the woods and coastlines of home. 

Thursday, March 11, 2010

Thin ice

Sirens last night. A fire truck and ambulance screaming up the road, drowning the early evening's quiet.
Kids. Three of them on skates on rotten ice. What were they thinking? Open water edges, floating ducks. Spring having sprung.
Firemen with a ladder lugged through the woods. Kids clinging to a rock. All safe--thankfully.
But it begs the question: how crazy is that?
The pond this morning groaning its melt: whale songs? a woman compared it to. The booming, echoing, loosening, cracking. Fractures.
The fractured hearts if one of those kids had been harmed. Lost.
Saved from their urge to do the supremely stupid.
But what is it that leads people to think they can skate on a spring pond anxious to swallow its surface?

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