There, hanging weightless in the void, I saw it: our pale blue world under its papery blanket of light.
From the Archive | An essay for you this Friday morning, first published in 2020 in Tupelo Quarterly
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🎤 Fri June 21, 1 PM CT, Celebratory Live Solstice Salon w/open mic (founding)
📝 Thursday, June 27, 5:30-8:30 PM/ CT Live Class on Zoom: The Feeling of What Happens: Advanced Techniques for Writing That Stirs Emotion
It started with stars.
Did you know that the word corona means something suggesting a crown, such as the outermost part of the atmosphere of a star? My granddaughter comes from the stars. That’s what she tells me, because that’s what I tell her. Stardust floats through us, scientists say, tethering us to the universe and rebuilding our human bodies over and over again during our lifetimes.
At two years old, my granddaughter’s body was small and sturdy, taut round belly over wobbly legs, careful hands with ten gentle fingers shining out toward everything, including me, where I stood six feet away, leaning forward on the porch step toward the edge of a trembling empty space between us. “Hold me,…