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Bread

There is an especial quality of healing in the smell of baking bread. For me, it is not just any bread but the warm, yeasty smell of my mom’s homemade bread. It seems no matter what darkness enters into my life, the smell of her bread reminds me that somehow — however remote that how…

Bombadil House

When my eldest nephew was about 18 months old, we began to introduce him to the playhouse/treehouse my father — his grandpa — had built here. As I toddled along with Cubbie, his chubby hands gripping my fingers and his diapered butt keeping his steps to a waddle, I pointed to the playhouse on top…

I Can Enjoy This

“Compassion is not only relevant to those who are blameless victims, but also to those whose suffering stems from failures, personal weakness, or bad decisions. You know, the kind you and I make every day.” – Kristin Neff, Self-Compassion: Stop Beating Yourself Up and Leave Insecurity Behind I’m sitting on the Embarcadero, San Francisco, watching…

I Have Father’s Smile

I have my dad’s smile. It was a common refrain for me to hear growing up: “You look so much like your dad!” And it’s true. I have his eyes, his hair (all on my head, thank goodness; he can keep the beard), his bone structure and body type, and even his sinuses (ask both…