She was a beautiful soul.
Tag: travel Page 2 of 3
As the rock cliff is undercut by erosion, overhanging rocks break off. No one can predict when the next break will occur, so view the cliffs from a safe distance.
When I left the Star-Herald in June 2019, I knew there was a chance I would never be able to write professionally again. I had to do it in order to save my physical and mental health. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly. Writing is the one thing in life I have always had confidence in. Despite the fact that my life may have been falling apart in other ways throughout the years, I could always take solace in my writing regardless of genre.
The honesty of empty places
a thought
a smile
books, hiking, breathing
happiness in solitude
enjoyment in alone
sit and watch
humans
animals
smiles from creatures
who do not understand
the joy of isolated socialization
Every six months or so, Paul and I sat down at my computer to pick a new set of music to play in my car. My 2000 Hyundai Accent had a tape player and I purchased an adapter so my CD player could be used. It was easier to burn a CD full of music than a cassette tape. On July 21, 2008, we only owned one car and Paul decided he wanted to pick the music.
Otto Frank, businessman and father of Anne Frank. Amsterdam, 1960. Arnold Newman/Courtesy of Howard Greenberg Gallery.
As our group made their way toward the bookcase, there was quiet chatter. I was among a small group of people visiting the Anne Frank House just before noon.
The sun was shining on us as we climbed the 268 steps toward the Tian Tan (Altar of Heaven) Big Buddha on Lantau Island, Hong Kong. Paul and I are among the first tourists to climb the stairs in the irenic quiet of morning.
Somewhere over the Rocky Mountains. I was on a plane. I didn’t have a map or a compass.
The airport in Denver was quiet except for the sound of a ticking clock. Once I concentrated on the sound, I realized it was not a clock at all. It was the sound of the moving walkway near our gate and it was not “ticking” as consistent at a moving second hand.
A pricker bush at Winding Hills Park in Montgomery, New York.
When I left New York at 18 in 1988, I was off to college, but I was also searching for a place to fit in.
As I walk in the lush greenness, the familiarity of Middletown, it is not my home. It’s the place where I grew up, the town that shaped who I am today, but it’s not a place where I fit in.
Something happened to my family in the years that I’ve been gone. They’re more conservative. More entrenched in what they are doing. More easily shaped by the words spewed forth on the television or by their friends and neighbors.
They’ve got the car, the house, the kids, the white picket fence, the stability. But none of that was anything I ever pursued. And yet, there’s that non-spoken condemnation and the looks because I chose a different path.
My first trip abroad was in the Spring of 1985. My high school French class took a trip each year and I knew I wanted to go. I remember the cost was $1,073 for the ten-day trip. Every penny I earned delivering newspaper went toward that trip.
My French teacher, Mrs. Mazzone, drilled it into our heads we would be ambassadors for America. Our behavior would reflect what people would think of Americans. Careful admonishments were made about how we should act in public and private during the trip and we learned about cultural differences we should expect.