Veteran journalist Barbara Falconer Newhall riffs on life as she knows it.
I wish I had known Patricia Monaghan. She died a year and a half ago after a rich life as a poet, author, Goddess scholar, and pioneer and mentor in the contemporary women’s spirituality movement. She was an academic, yes, but also a hands-on kind of woman, as concerned with the temperature of her root cellar as the depth of her research. And that research is deep . . . Read more.
I’m worried about the strawberry. It’s too late for the tomato. Its innards were transformed into colorless, flavorless – but easily shippable – pulp decades ago. Which is why I’m concerned about the strawberry. Is it going the way of the tomato? Read more.
You know your kids have turned into grown-ups when they listen to your advice. I don’t mean take your advice. I mean listen – gently and kindly – as you talk away . . . Read more.
I want to write about tulips today. I don’t want to write about sex. The trouble is, for me, writing about tulips means writing about sex: something about their juicy curves brings erotic metaphors to my particular mind. I had thought that once my mother — and father — were no longer alive and reading over my shoulder, I’d be able to write my heart out, but . . . Read more.
The fifth-century Saint Jerome kept a human skull on his desk to remind him of his mortality – memento mori. But if you’re like me and you like to take walks in the woods, you don’t need a skull taking up space on your desk to remind you that sooner or later everything dies, including you. That’s because the woods are full of dead stuff. Read more.
Art. Bouquets. More art. More bouquets. My idea of a good time. I spent the day yesterday at the annual Bouquets to Art show at the de Young Fine Arts Museum in San Francisco’s Golden Gate Park — joined by two friends who enjoy flowers and art as much as I do. Read more.