Photo credit: Alicia Tatone, published on

A wormhole opened up in my living room. From the glowing light, a slender well manicured hand reached across time. I pulled back frightened. The arm darted back. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the wormhole snapped closed.

A piece of translucent vellum fluttered to the floor. I picked it up.

The penmanship was exquisite.

For you, a preview of Kavanaugh’s closing statement in tomorrow’s hearings.

“As you are well aware, I hold precedent in high regard and believe we should look to precedent to guide our process. In this case, I would like to call attention to the precedent established in the 1981 confirmation hearings for Justice Thomas. It is the expectation of this nominee that Republican Senators will demean the accuser and my sexual misconduct will have no bearing on my confirmation. I look forward to serving on Supreme Court and advancing restrictions on woman’s healthcare although precedent prohibits me for admitting a previously stated comments.” – Kavanaugh

My heart sank. The vellum glowed. The letters reformed.

“Keep resisting. Humanity wins in the end.”


Months of stressful multitasking has left my mind and body depleted. It took extraordinary planning to carve out a few precious hours. Could a short break have a notable effect on my spirit?

After a parent teacher meeting, I take the slow way home, a road that winds through woods and fields.  I let my heart lead me, took the some time off from work, took my last look at emails and social media, and disabled most phone alerts.

Why did I have so many alerts set for things that don’t matter? Isn’t there enough urgency in the world without manufacturing more?

After creating some distance from the demands of my life, I head to the ocean, armed with everything I needed: good coffee, sunglasses, a pad of paper and a pen.

I set out on more winding roads. April foliage looks bare but the start of life is all around. You can smell it in the air.

As I turned a corner, the ocean came into the view. The waves were slate with a soft baby blue skimming the surface. A mist rose blurring the boundary between liquid and gas, softening the rocky edge of a pine topped island. Oh to live on a spot of land surrounded  by the beating ocean.

Each turn of my wheel, I feel more and more giddy. I called to myself to keep this real. Is it possible that the ocean means this much to me?

Perhaps it can. Perhaps the code of the waters are embedded in my DNA.


On the edge of the beach, I notice a gray haired woman with a white cane. If I lose my sight, I will still come to the ocean. When I open the car door, a rush of cold sea air greets me. I take a deep breath and taste kelp. The woman’s face turns to the sound of my car door closing. I walk up and greet her. Her face radiates with the love of the ocean. She cannot see that mine does as well. I talk about the sounds, and smells and cold air. I want to share my joy in with her in the ways she knows the shore.

I sit on the sand and close my eyes and the sound of the waves become more complex. The sun is warm on my face. The air cold.

Yes. Even without sight I would love this place.

I open my eyes. The churning of the sea makes me feel stable. Blues and greens mixing with white. The rhythm matches my breath. I catch a glimpse of larger waves through the rocks. I want to get closer. I take my shoes off and walk along the beach.

I climb the steps that take me to the tops of the headlands and walk high above the sea. I am reminded of Mendocino though the scale of the Atlantic cliffs are much smaller.

I see a sign and wonder is this a trail marker or a warning.

The sounds of the waves deepen. I walk to the end of the point and sit cautiously on the edge.

I can feel my hour winding down. Slowly, like one rises from a massage, I prepare to rejoin the busy world.

I walk along the path listening to the birds signing in the barren branches.

In the car, I turn back only the most essential alerts.

And I answer my own question. A well planned hour can have a notable effect on my spirit.

via Daily Prompt: Notable

They looked for angels

They looked for glistening silver wings. They looked for radiance. They listened for voices so beautiful their throats would clench.

They overlooked their frowning neighbor who volunteered in the homeless shelter on the weekends.

They looked for the guardians that would give them their heart’s desire. They looked for signs that their lives were charmed. They listened for a wisdom greater than their own.

They overlooked the kind and gentle support they offered to the tantrumming child that gave his mother a few moments to compose .

They looked for majestic and brilliant beings and overlooked the angels in the mirrors.


This morning thinking of what life would be like if we all explored the angelic within ourselves and others.

Inspired by the daily prompt : explore

<a href=””>Explore</a&gt;


Everyone has a doppelgänger right?

But what if you kept seeing your face over and over again through history. What if every time you travelled you would catch your face peering back in surprise through curtains, on the other side of shop windows.

Surface resemblances have nothing to do with genetics you tell yourself. But how could my features be replicated so often in so many places.

I am not insane.

Other people have noticed. I’ve been chased down down the street hearing another’s name. When caught I turn my face to meet their eyes, expecting the pursuer to realize they do not know me.

Instead of excuse me, they continue to babble about things I know nothing about.

I have even shown my passport to strangers to convince them I am not their friend playing a prank or avoiding them.

Their expressions are always a mix of astonishment and confusion.

I am not a clone.

I have parents, friends and a childhood memories. I look like my parents and grandparents but not EXACTLY like them (in case you are trying to help me piece this mystery together). As far as I can tell, my doppelgängers have rich and verifiable histories. They did not just show up on this earth fully formed organ factories. We are all alike.

Statisticians say the likelihood of one random non related genetic twin pair is infinitesimal that it nearly a zero probability. Of course, you do not have to be genetically identical to bear a striking resemblance to another.

I am not an Android.

Scientists and inventors could create hundreds of models of a single human and program memories. Maybe this is all an illusion? But this theory falls flat. I bleed. And besides, I am terrible with technology. And in case you would think that perhaps I am the original and my doppelgängers are copies, I must tell you that is not likely. I have no attributes that would make me worthy of such mimicry.


A quick vignette inspired by today’s daily prompt, identical.

<a href=””>Identical</a&gt;

Perhaps it will become the start of something longer.

Her hands

Always lumpy.

Long slender fingers with unsightly large joints.

Flexible. Too flexible. Tips curved up slightly.

Always chewed and bitten. Cuticles, not nails.

Sometimes calloused.

Always dry.

Now with scars from gardening. From cooking. From art.

Now spotted from brilliant sun light while biking. While kayaking.

Now wrinkled from years passing. Quickly. Far too quickly.

Always gentle.


<a href=””>Grasp</a&gt;

What lefties want

1:34 pm

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I’m a lifelong Democrat who loves my country. I’m definitely a liberal. In all my years, I don’t believe that I have ever met someone who wants to take away all guns. They are out there I’m sure but most lefties like me want some common sense changes.

I want guns and accessories with some features regulated. Brand name and the look of the gun makes absolutely no difference to me. You are right, the hunting rifle with it’s wood finish looks traditional and yet does exactly the same thing.

Here’s what I want: Reduce the number of rounds before reloading. Reduce the number of shots a person can fire per minute. Eliminate gun show and private sale loopholes. Improve the background checks process. Ensure that violent behaviors such as domestic violence are reported. Provide a mechanism for families to be able to address suicidal family members. Too many veterans are lost because trauma left them suicidal and they had access to a gun during their darkest hour.

I think some conservatives like yourself could collaborate with us lefties on a few common sense solutions.


The invisibility of all our privileges

Fifty three percent of white women voted for trump.

Fifty three percent.

White women are often blamed for electing trump.

I’ll admit it. I hate being grouped with the women who voted for trump. I hate people putting me in the same box.

Hate it.

But here’s the truth.

I get it.

I am a college educated middle class white woman. My privileges are many.

I am given more societal advantages than people of color, people without a degree, people living in poverty, immigrants, LGBTQ people.

Privilege surrounded me like the air I breath. I could not see it because it is the fabric of my existence. My struggles were relative to the people in my bubble and, in my psyche, I was far from privileged.

I was raised in an abusive home, bogged down by sexual assault, surrounded by people with more wealth. I had to work harder than my male peers in the STEM field and still faced harassment and discrimination. I fought hard against my own early gender based wage gap and closed it.

If I did not have my scholarship to college, my first sexual assault could have broken me. Instead, I escaped my hometown and I was able to keep my life moving forward.

When I made mistakes as a young white educated woman (and I did), people were always willing to give me a second chance.

Second chances are given to the privileged.

White women have the ability to thrive in white patriarchy, at least as long as we conform to the expectations.

Some of us can even be activists as long as we wear the hat of the charming idealist. The white male power system will still reward us. Our activism can be a hobby, even a passionate one, because we will always be protected by the envelope of privilege.

In my late 20s, I ventured out of my bubble and my privilege came into view.

I imagine some of the white women are aware of their privilege and intentionally seek to succeed within the constraints of white male patriarchy. For those dependency is a costume they wear to access the bigger payouts. For others, privilege is as invisible as the air we breath.

<a href=””>Fabric</a&gt;