Tuesday, February 18, 2020


I made some really great chocolate chip cookies before our retreat to Taos.  I wrapped all of them in foil, knowing that there is nothing like mountain hunger.  My brilliant T saw the cookies in the foil and immediately placed one or two cookies on a piece of foil and laid it on the Jotul stove that warms the big room.  Between snowshoeing and reading and debating the merits of pulling the goalie, it was the delight of those cookies getting slightly melty and recovering their just-baked status that punctuated the weekend.

Time is becoming more poignant as I feel its threads pulling at me.  How can it be that our baby is eighteen now?  I embarked on my first novel when he was three months old.  The only career I've had, I've had as a mother.  My writing life existed before them, but not publicly.  Somehow, these two endeavors--the two most important projects of my life--are endlessly interwoven.

When in doubt, find a way to slow time down.  Go to the mountains.  Observe the tightly wound, brilliant red buds hidden by the winter snow.  Watch the trickle of water coming, still coming.  Listen to your favorite song that didn't exist before it did.  Notice the way your breath feels in your body.  Imagine how impossible all of it seems until it happens.  Eat a warm cookie.