Fifty-four years ago, my father-in-law set out to walk 220 miles from Memphis, Tennessee to Jackson, Mississippi. Even though the Voting Rights Act of 1965 had passed less than a year earlier, a stronghold of fear still gripped African American voters, especially in the South.
Just after 7:30 this morning my younger son and I trekked out to the driveway in our slippers and pajamas, a box of sidewalk paint, a roll of masking paint, and my cup of coffee our only companions.
I threw the best spiral of my life yesterday afternoon.
A couple of Saturdays ago, my oldest son and I trekked into the heart of San Francisco for a visit to one of the most iconic Episcopal churches, Grace Cathedral.
Last month, I gathered with a group of women communicators for a five-day retreat in northern Idaho. We’d been together over Zoom calls for several months by that point, but found ourselves itchy for a little face-to-face interaction.
When it comes to mistakes, I tend to think I have a pretty healthy attitude on the subject. It’s okay, we all make mistakes, I tell my seven-year-old son when he accidentally falls off his pint-sized skateboard and skins his knee.
Lately, I feel like I’ve been living in a land of maybes.Perhaps replying with a “maybe” when someone invites you over for a glass of wine or extends your child an invitation to their son or daughter’s birthday party isn’t a big deal to you – but for me, it’s like twenty five years of history gets unearthed every time I utter the response.
I’m oftentimes asked why I wrote The Color of Life, and if I’m honest with you, the first thing I’ll say is that I never […]
The scene generally looks the same: after my older son and I pick up his brother at preschool, I have a choice to make. Do I take the shorter route, the one that winds down MacArthur and through the center of town, complete with stoplights and traffic and grit galore? Or do I take the back roads that take a few minutes longer but guarantees a glimpse of the magical view?