I’ve been on a hiatus from writing, because after much contemplation, I sold a home in the city center of Porto, Portugal, to move to a historical fishing village about a 30-minute train ride away. The town, Vila do Conde, situated on the Atlantic Coast, offers a favorable taste and sense of the day-to-day Portuguese life, and, to us expats, a lifestyle far from the Americanization we grew up with. Continue reading
Portugal’s cuisine isn’t the familiarity of French, Spanish, or Italian. However, historical Brazilian and African delicacies blend into Portugal’s mediterranean cuisine, making the country a memorable contender. Aromatic variations of Piri Piri spicy peppers, Cinnamon (Canela), Bay Leaves (Louro), Sea Salt (Sal), and Smoked Paprika (Colorau) into delectable combinations are a foodie’s dream. Here are some of the specialties I’ve enjoyed:
James Baldwin, Zora Neale Hurston, Alice Walker, Ralph Ellison, Richard Wright, Toni Morrison, and Alice Walker: What do they all have in common? They are all African-American writers who have published books considered American classics. And they are also authors whose novels are banned (or will be) by school boards and libraries across the United States.
A new day clouded in dirty words.
Virginia Beach School Board Member wants books about race by Toni Morrison and Other Black Authors Banned from the School District and Public Libraries. Continue reading
Finding a reason to be different is a personal decision. The recipe’s ingredients are: why, how, and when. I took time off because the same ol’ same ol’ brought too much predictability.
Inner perspective examines fears, ideas, and choices. The real prize is accepting what’s revealed and discarding the parts that are roadblocks to moving forward. A huge life-changer is stepping forward beyond familiarity. Continue reading
It’s almost the end of January 2021, and barely stepping into another year comes an urgency to accomplish and resolve. This always ponders the questions: how, why, when, and where.
No matter the terms of Covid-19, winter slows us down. The days are short, the nights are long, and the cold colors dreams out of reach. Continue reading
For many, bringing a sense of clarity is a daily struggle even before COVID-19. Now digesting and swallowing the bitter pill laced with self-quarantine, self-isolation, shelter in place: a table reservation is with one’s self—these new buzz words have replaced the more acceptable (and sadly accepted) terms of living: SOLITUDE, ISOLATION, AND LONELINESS. 
Writers, all too well, are used to living in a quagmire of cubical existence. We call it creativity. How fortunate writers are: we know the rules. Continue reading
Last week while looking though my window at the endless rain, my brain raced with ideas for my next 3 stories. I think the stillness of the room allowed thoughts to drift away from the saturation of recent NEWS HEADLINES. To be fair, I can’t blame the toxicity of what is trending into viewership obsession. I did need a break from marketing my present book, The Last Merry Go Round. It’s not that I don’t love the story—I do, and still feel I did the right thing by writing a not-your-normal-candy-romance-about marriage. The reviews so far indicate I was on to something. Continue reading
A major task in my city is freeway driving. Trying to get from Point A to Point B is an impossible issue. Traffic is a snail’s ride on a parking lot, causing significant irritations, especially when time isn’t on your side. Recently, when I was in a holding pattern, within a ¼ of a mile from my exit—a thought came to me watching all those solo drivers. ‘How many were alone, had family, or had friends.’ Continue reading
A tree is in my house. A tree in my house is unadorned with lights, ornaments, or presents. I’ve been studying its shape and its nakedness.
Over this past week, its image has become a focal point for my morning meditation. The tree’s calmness and the stillness of its branches, resonates inside me, a reflection of this year. Continue reading
I’m always reflective in the last two months of the year. I’ve always been this way for as long as I can remember. The changing of the seasons from fall to winter brings thoughts of the end of a year, and more often, how fast time has passed.
Time, as I age, becomes no more of a number, or a nail waiting in the wings ready to seal my coffin. In my mind, I’m still the wide-eyed, huge-smile child, the one whose picture is on my dresser—she’s in long, pig-tail braids and fashionable cat-eye glasses. She reaches through the frame and hugs me when I need it. She is my past, present, and future. Her voice is mine. Continue reading