When I was eight years old I nearly slept through the 1994 Northridge earthquake. Nearly, not for the vigorous tumbling of the great earth, but instead for the violent shouting of my father, “Cassie! Cassie!” as his strong hands wrenched me from bed to join him and my small, frightened brother
Good God, I need a laugh. Lately the world seems less to orbit and more to spiral. Down, down, down we go! I am often surprised by this state of affairs. Perhaps I should take that as a win? Perhaps I’m not as cynical as I once supposed? It just…it
I like sunflowers. I like how they turn their bright faces, always, to the light. How they grow wild in the hills that surround my home. I like how they push their thick, fat stalks through the cracked earth, how they scale and weaken the fences meant to protect the
I keep much of myself hidden. Do you? I worry I am too much. I know I think too much. I think spirals of worry that blossom into questions. And there are always too many questions. Like, am I a good person? Am I doing the right thing? Have I
I feel summer on the horizon. It’s in the stale heat that blows through the foothills and settles each afternoon like an overworked dog in our parched valley. The succulents on my balcony, not so long ago fat with water and sending up blooms, have begun to shrivel back into
My neighbor’s flowers are blooming. They are my first awareness as I breathe in the morning. Heady citrus and lily of the valley and one of the oldest scents I know: iris. Not the sweet blue irises of Van Gogh’s fields, but great bearded irises whose petals bleed deep burgundy
I walk this earth always with a song in my heart. While the song may change, the music never ceases. Lately, when the world is silent, Stevie Wonder and his piano sing to me. “You are the sunshine of my life.” Why? Why this song? Why right now? I am
Today is the first day of Spring and the sky greeted me with gray. Sometimes you don’t get what you want. My first reaction is to complain. To lament the heavy boots when I was ready for sandals and sunshine on my freshly pedicured pink toes. To waste hours staring
It comes as a surprise to no one who knows me, but I was a deeply artistic, creative child. I took as quickly to color and paint and clay, beads and yarn and texture, as any child takes to its mother’s milk. These things nourished me, fed me. Bone deep.
I feel Spring creeping in, but maybe there’s time for one last winter beanie. I wanted to run head first into the warmth, the long days, to be like the bright, happy flowers that turn their round faces to the brilliance. But part of me wants to keep the rain.
Creativity is my birthright. A gift of blood. There is not a woman with whom I share the mother line that isn’t called to create. We are writers and bakers, crocheters and painters, gardeners of the earth and spirit alike. My grandmother, the savant. A woman truly gifted. When I
Today is my 7th anniversary. Not the sweet kind; not the kind commemorating union and achievement. The kind that marks hardship. That splits life in two. Into the blissfully ignorant Before. And the horrible After. The hard stop between a great scar down my vulnerable middle. A panic attack. A
Handcrafting a Life 