I make it sound oh so beautifully romantic but in all honesty, running is hard for me and I think it always will be, but within that physical struggle, there is something else there that brings me closer to the earth, closer to me.
Johnny Cash once sang, “I wear the black for the poor and the beaten down, / Livin’ in the hopeless, hungry side of town…” I love Johnny Cash, but that’s not why I wear black. I don’t wear black because I’m depressed either. Or to look thin. Or to look mysterious.
What unique quality does IKEA possess that separates it from the rest of the big box stores? Why is it women love the place, but guys would rather stay home and do the laundry…
I woke up the other day to Frank Sinatra singing “Learning The Blues” on my iPod alarm. In the wrinkle between sleep and waking I remembered the day he died. I got up and wrote it down.
It wasn’t all fairytales and magic and happy endings. Here were real people, grownups, using their imaginations to come up with some really horrible stuff. And this was okay. Their books were getting published. I had to try it.
What the hell does Che Guevara, the infamous Cuban revolutionary, have to do with Buddhism? I’m guess it’s probably never been on the radar for most of you, and I’m also imagining that the very mention of the name sparks powerful reactions for some of you.
People are hopping mad that the International Olympic Committee (IOC) wants the Aussies to take down the boxing kangaroo flag at their athletes’ village.
For a wee Canadian lass, I felt a bit like a kid at an 18th century wedding on Robbie Burns Day. A true fish out of water. Nessy out of her Loch, as it were.
With apologies to Fight Club author Chuck Palahniuk, the first rule of having type II diabetes is that you don’t talk about having type II diabetes. Ever. I learned this the hard way five years ago when I was first diagnosed. Any type II diabetic who’s being honest with you will say that getting diagnosed […]
This knee-jerk shame about writing, an activity I hid like masturbation, kept me away from practicing the thing I loved for many years. It was too intimate. When I wrote, it felt like I was touching everything all at once, rolling in mud, needlessly gorging myself.