In the months following my mom’s passing last year, I barely noticed that autumn had set in. Self proclaimed as fall’s biggest fan, I uncharacteristically felt zero desire to dig out my fall decor or

I have two teens. Beautiful and talented and intelligent and hilarious, the best in all the land. But teenagers nonetheless, in all their teenage glory. Sigh. They loathe correction. Of course. Bristle at the mere

Forty calls for celebration, doesn’t it, friends? Of course. Four whole decades lived out practically demands it. And so my husband, who really needs no reason at all to plan a party, got to scheming.

Writers block is a curious thing. It can last for a few hours, several days, weeks and weeks, or even years. No writer ever wakes up with the guarantee of having something to say. Sometimes,

Gosh, it’s noisy y’all. Pollutants are found from all sides, some come sneakily and some come in swinging, but they all clog up our hearts and minds and ears. They clog our PEACE. Pandemonium is