I read essays with a cup of tea in one hand and a cream scone in the other. Ask me to write an essay, however, and my inner perfectionist (aka Ms. Prickleberry) balks, crosses her arms, and refuses to move words from my head to the page. I coax, plead, beg. She won’t budge until… Read more »
I can’t encircle the trunk with my arms or see the top. Douglas Fir trees are like that. 500-year old giants, they stretch straight to the sky, snag clouds, and create their own weather. The bark smells of cinnamon and moisture, and if I am not careful, it will leave a scratch or two on… Read more »
An important question, for a column devoted to the essay. Also, it seems, a rhetorical question, as easily answered as what makes tea, tea. I love both tea and essays. One nourishes my body, the other my soul. I consume both, savoring flavors and words without much thought. Tea was the robust, brown liquid I… Read more »
