When I pack a stuffed animal into a suitcase, there is a moment where my body tenses and I'm afraid it won't be able to breathe.
“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing, there is a field. I will meet you there.”
David asks if I need a coupon that came in the mail for "Children's Place" clothes. 
A hot & sunny New York day, food cooking on the stove, blankets loaded into the wagon, all in preparation for a picnic in upper Manhattan. Friends arrive, kids gather toys, beers out of the fridge and we're out the door. Walking to the park the sun disappears, black clouds hover, the distant sound of thunder. It's okay, I say, the clouds will pass. Spread out the blanket, the food is uncovered; I make plates for the kids while the beer is cracked open. In a moment the sun is gone, lightening strikes, thunder roars, the rain pours down and everyone flees. Come on Katie! David calls, drenched, serious and uncomfortable. I tell him to go on ahead. I am soaked to the skin, my face, my feet, my hair, and the rain won’t stop. 
I recently dug up this old photo of me and Aaron. It was taken by Aaron's mother, Cooper. I remember how proud she was of the picture, pleased with how it turned out. She had several blown up, including one for my parents. My mother also fell in love with it and titled it, "King & Queen of the Hippies." Mom thought we looked like a rock star couple and the photo hung in her apartment for years. 
“The idea of the Sinful Self… is not some hypothetical one, but one that directly affects people’s most private actions. It must be swept aside, and recognized clearly as having no NATURAL part to play, for it is an ANTI-natural concept, flying in the face of the good intent of each of nature’s individuals of whatever species…
Katie: "Shit."
I find it so sad that this person feels her spiritual truth is actually a shameful secret. Obviously she got the message that it’s wrong to feel closer to God in nature than in church. 
Every day she lands on the ledge outside my window. She rests, she faces me and she speaks. I coo to her, ask her how she's been, tell her she’s safe and welcome. I won’t name her because she isn’t mine, she's just crossing my path, as I am crossing hers.
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Last month, the following was published on a blog called "Time to Write."
I tip the scale very heavily on the side of heterosexual, but when I see the young Bridgette Bardot, I flip like a pancake.
Annie: "Mommy, can we walk to the park?"
One of the most beautiful and painful songs I've ever heard is "Vanlose Stairway" by Van Morrison. I can listen to it anywhere--on the train, on the roof or in my room, and it always takes me to the same place. It's a direct line to the aching in my heart, and connects me to such intense sadness and emotion that I am forced to kneel before the edge of the universe and beg for forgiveness.
Annie: "I'm insulted by that sign."
First, I'd like to comment on my demeanor in this photograph. It was taken in my classroom in the second grade. As many of you know, school didn't suit me much, and by the looks of it, it never did. But I’ll always remember the teacher sitting next to me. Her name was Nancy and regardless of the fact that I was a terrible student, I was her favorite kid. (Although she did confess to my mother that I was very sassy.) I often spent weekends with Nancy and her husband in their home in the suburbs of San Francisco. (I remember my mother telling me that she was unable to have kids of her own.) Many Fridays after school I’d say goodbye to my classmates, pick up my overnight bag, and hop in the car to spend the weekend with my beloved teacher. It was nice to be away from home, from the constant torment of my little brother and the irritation and disapproval of my big brother. It was also good to get away from a house that was often filled with actors who needed, as did I, my mother's attention. When I was with Nancy, her focus was on me and I felt privileged and special.
