Essays

For years to come, I will lie in bed and ask myself in the dark: How did I know? How can I trust myself to know again, if ever again I am called to know?

The typewriter is a musical instrument, a work of art — oh, and a simple tool for changing the world.

Twenty-five years ago, I went to Cambodia to learn about myself. I witnessed grace and resilience. I experienced heartbreak and I caused heartbreak.

It is impossible for me to read Twain without remembering that his life began and ended with the appearance of Halley’s Comet in 1835 and 1910. He predicted his demise that year and hoped to ride the comet across the heavens.

I must have refreshed her profile page a hundred times, hoping nobody snagged her. Finally, we drove over to the shelter where we watched an employee unlock the front doors. I waited a respectful two minutes before barging inside, asking if we could meet Penny.

I was sifting through the bins at the pay-by-weight Goodwill when I happened upon a cob of corn. Yes, you heard me right. Between the broken Barbie campers and the punctured tennis racquets and the stuffed animals begging to be loved again, there lay a cob of corn.