“A catholic taste,” she said

and I nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, for I was not, nor have ever been, Catholic. How then, I wondered, was my reading taste catholic? The word, at the time, meant Mary and popes, not expansive, far-reaching, inclusive. Now I give my old teacher’s words new meaning: yes, catholic in reading, inContinue reading ““A catholic taste,” she said”

Birthday Song (Apologies to Sylvia Plath)

Today would have been the 95th birthday of my maternal grandfather who passed away nearly nine years ago: a man who influenced me and my writing more than one poem can express. Still, I couldn’t let the day pass without acknowledging it in some way, especially while I’m in the midst of writing about myContinue reading “Birthday Song (Apologies to Sylvia Plath)”

You can’t read in traffic

Stuck in horrendous traffic on the way to work yesterday, I began to reflect on the irony that, as someone who spends most of my life talking about reading and writing, I have remarkably little time to read or write. This is what those thoughts generated.

New Season

Fig Season? The garden holds promises, and I visit them daily: minuscule at first,                    fluffy, unsure,     like hesitant children, awaiting the world. This is not quite their season: the Rabbi knew as much, yet visited expectant nonetheless. And, as frost and dew recede, there they are, peeping and proffering garden-bound joy. Too early toContinue reading “New Season”