Other Writing

Whenever my husband wants to get me a present, he buys me books about death. Actually, they are books about dying—the why and way, aftermath and rituals—around mortality because no one alive is in a position to write about being dead.

In eighth grade, my son Max joined his school’s wrestling team. I was wary. Max, a cellist, and I, a former flute teacher, shared a common language. I didn’t know the vocabulary for ceremonial combat. At my first meet, I eavesdropped on the more experienced mothers. “Do something interesting,” one called out. What could that be? Isn’t it fascinating enough waiting for the snap that announces a shoulder or neck has been twisted too far? Read the piece in The Girlfriend

Like any good mama, I waited eagerly for my children’s first words — “zibba” (zebra) for one daughter, “I do” for the other, and “dump truck” for my son. Once the words started piling up, though, I realized that my children expected me to talk to them. READ THE FULL ESSAY

Opera News, Original Piece, “Coda: Music and Solace” Huffington Post, Original Piece, “Choosing What to See” Rare Bird Lit, Podcast with WH Book Fair  ZYZZYVA, Original Piece, "Reading Music"

Touching our souls means wrestling with what makes us uncomfortable. My wrestling mat is a blank page and a pencil. I write about illness, depression and death, and about what can happen to a child despite a parent’s best efforts to protect him or her. As a teacher, I help draw life stories from homeless mothers, at-risk teens, and those who have experienced physical and mental illness. READ THE FULL PIECE ON WBUR

It’s Friday afternoon and I am on my way to Brooklyn where, every other week, I will meet social worker and Prison Writes founder Jessica Hall. Together, we facilitate a group consisting of young women in a gender based support program for women who have been criminal justice involved. Traveling with me are my insecurities. Is what I am doing, trying to draw stories from women who face so many challenges making any difference in their lives? It is not just the legal system, it is the educational system, the healthcare system, the housing system, as well as family systems. READ THE FULL PIECE ON PRISONWRITES.ORG

My father is dying and no one is trying to save him. “You don’t even give IV fluids?” I ask the hospice nurse. “No, he’s on his own journey now.” But a person can’t travel without water, I think. I try to be reassured by the nurse’s words even as I see my father grasp for the liquid-soaked sponge lollipop we place against his parched lips. The thimble of water remains pooled in his mouth. Alzheimer’s disease doesn’t just make minds weak; bodies, too, forget how to function. READ THE WHOLE PICE ON NARRATIVE.LY

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From Grown and Flow 

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