Letter to Dragon: Drum ... drum drum ... drum drum

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Letter to Dragon: Drum ... drum drum ... drum drum

Dearest Dragon,

What a shining day it was! Making a hand drum with Mark Ressl of The Giving Trees in Rosendale has to be possibly one of the most true experiences of my 49 years on this planet. True as in killing chickens, eating a porcupine, giving birth, my God immersion experience, and sitting with Baba’s body after he passed - that level of true.

Really, Mom, you are saying this about a drum making workshop?

Yup, my dearest, I am.

Life comes from death. Which, in turn, makes more life. It is one big circle. It is all the same thing - just different forms.

The life of a drum comes from the death of an animal. Our life comes from the death of vegetables and animals that feed us. One day, in turn, our lives will nourish worms and plants. This is truth.

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Letter to the Dragon: Cultural Mirror Training

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Letter to the Dragon: Cultural Mirror Training

“Why don’t you wear your sister’s pink rain jacket until we get you a new one.”

“Mom! Nooo! I will bring my other too small one to school.”

Sigh. Is this because it is pink? Or because your sister has cooties?

“Okay.”

No reason to delve. He has to figure out this himself. Just be grateful for all of those years you were dressing him in whatever gave you pleasure.

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Letter to my Children: School Night Pleasure Reading Mea Culpa

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Letter to my Children: School Night Pleasure Reading Mea Culpa

Dearest Beloveds,

This is a mea culpa for our current nighttime routine - where I tell you to stop reading pleasure books and Turn off the light! Tomorrow morning is an early day! I am serious! No, you cannot have 5 more minutes! etc etc

The reason your mother is apologizing is because I get it. I totally understand the draw/need/desire/ache to turn the page/to see what happens/to visit longer in the fog of an alternative world. I get it, children.

I get it - which is why I apologize. Mea culpa AND I am going to keep talking about whether it is good choice to stay up late reading pleasure books on a school night (nope, not a good choice). Classic Both/And.

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Letter to my Children: How to Introduce Yourself

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Letter to my Children: How to Introduce Yourself

My beloved children,

As you know, I grew up in Washington DC. Our nation’s capital, an epicenter of Global North power, and the accompanied jostling endemic to such power. There was a ubiquitous question in the cocktail party circuit. A refrain peeling out from many perfunctory conversations over square cheese bites.

“So, what do you do?”

You are really asking where I can be categorized in the ladder of capitalism. I see you.

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Letter to My Children: Come To The TABLE!

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Letter to My Children: Come To The TABLE!

Dearest Beloveds,

Spring springs, oncology visits abate, and your mother dives a new community. I have become a member of Coming To The TABLE (CTTT).* I have barely begun to scratch the surface of this amazing organization and am already fluttering with excitement and potentialities, not least of which is volunteering all of us to assist with the Freedom Walk 2026.

250 years after 1776, activists will walk the 750 mile trek of the Underground Railroad, “following 19th century routes to freedom.” They are starting in 19 days. Beginning in Maryland, they are tracing the routes traveled by Harriet Tubman and so many other frightened, courageous, inspiring souls - through New Jersey, New York, and into Canada.

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Letter to my Children: Get Ready Man and What the Heck?!

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Letter to my Children: Get Ready Man and What the Heck?!

During the last snowday, teetering on the roof of the wood shelter, Bean was stricken with indecision. “Should I jump?”

From the ground Dragon called up to Bean, , “Get ready! Get read-y!!”

“Dragon, stop!”

“The worllld is coming to an end!”

We all started laughing.

Thank you Thurber.

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Letter to my Children: Single Use Plastic ... Bespoke Clothing

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Letter to my Children: Single Use Plastic ... Bespoke Clothing

Recently, you two played very quiet indoor soccer. On the other end of the building your mother had this internal conversation.

Corinna, raise your hand. You will be mad at yourself if you ignore this nudge to speak.

I am going to ask this question in front of all of these fellow soccer parents - out myself as a crunchy hippy environmentalist - even though I know the answer is capitalism and no, there is no wiggle room.

Yup. Be the Lorax.

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Letter to my Children: Love vs Ignorance

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Letter to my Children: Love vs Ignorance

Dear Beloveds,

One morning on our drive to school I took a break from exclaiming over the rose fingered snow covered mountains. “Okay kids, I want to share something with you that really resonated with your Momma. I was listening to Josh from The Emerald* interviewing a professor, Dr. Omid Safi. The professor said that in his religion, the opposite of love is not hate. The opposite of love is indifference. I think this is so so soooo true and I wanted to talk about it.”

Quiet in the car.

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Letter to My Children: X Days

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Letter to My Children: X Days

“Momma, why do you have big Xs in your book?” Looking up from her morning granola, Bean’s gesticulated with her spoon toward my open calendar book.

“Ah ha, those are my favorite days. Those are the days where I am not allowed to schedule anything.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if I want time and space to focus and work on my own projects it is really difficult for me to do that if the day is carved into appointments all day long. It is really easy for your mother to fill my day with doings if I didn’t write big Xs in my book.” I flipped back to a week before school started. “See how this week, every day is filled with doings? Party, doctor appointment, friend call, another doctor appointment…”

“But why a big X?”

“That way, I have to think twice before putting something in that day because I know I am sacrificing a day of Corinna creativity… it better be worth it!”

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Letter to my Children: Day Drinking, The Overstory, Self Judgement

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Letter to my Children: Day Drinking, The Overstory, Self Judgement

My dearest beloveds,

I have gone back and forth about this missive several times. It is a poem (see below*) and now a whole lot more.

To summarize, on the last full day of our magical vacation I felt so confronted by the situation I self-medicated with two White Russians, an Aperol Spritz, and a Mojito. Not surprisingly, I passed out on the beach after lunch.

What situation? I hear you both ask. You sailed everyday, ate passionfruit and mango, gazed at the ocean while doing yoga, and swung on a trapeze for the first time in your life.

Yes, that is all true, it was truly divine.

AND every morning BIPOC bodies of former European colonies collected cigarette butts, empty champagne glasses, errant volleyballs, straightened beach chairs, and prepared food for 98% White European bodies.

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