It was an unorthodox ceremony to be sure, peculiar and solemn as the girl I was then. I loved New Orleans the way you love a person: passionately, even obsessively. I wanted to gather New Orleans into my arms and kiss her.
A conspiracy exists and it goes like this: Parties are Fun! I keep falling for it. And then I go to a party
Some people go to their graves angry, unhappy, and utterly closed off to all possible goodness in their lives.
Dark nights happen to some and not others, and only God knows why. St. John of the Cross called it a holy experience. Tell that to my priest, I wanted to say. Tell it to my husband, who still mourns the “nice Christian girl” he thought he married.
Meditation is one of those things that has always been for other people. Patchouli-toothpaste white people with rustic-but-pricey cedar furniture and mandala wall hangings. People who “study” Japanese cooking. People with gurus and lots of time on their hands.
Whatever the reason, I’ve turned into one of those adults who were incomprehensible to me as a child: one who’s ambivalent about Christmas.
Yesterday my husband and I planted a tree. It seemed like a hopeful thing to do in these uncertain and…