Packet of Wildflower Seeds

I have had an outline of this topic for several weeks now. Even though I should probably grade some essays instead, today seems like a good day to tackle this post. I don't tend to post much about politics. There are several reasons for this. First of all, I don't add strangers to my social media. That means I know all of my "friends." I respect them and realize that they have unique life experiences that contribute to their beliefs. I am not trying to negate their family histories and backgrounds. Secondly, social media tends to exaggerate our differences. I suspect that in most cases, if I spoke with a person individually, we would agree more than we disagree. We have similar values, but we might promote those values in different ways. If I can't come across sincerely and respectfully through a certain medium, I don't want to use that platform to share my beliefs. Finally, I want people to like me. If I don't say anything controversial, no one can h...

I have been to New York City precisely once in my life. I was only there one day, so some people might claim I haven't REALLY been to NYC. Their arguments probably have some merit, but I loved that day spent in the city. My sister suggested the trip, and we explored New York together. At the time, she was in graduate school in Delaware. I was living just outside of Philadelphia so that I could attend optometry school. She drove up to collect me at my apartment before we headed to a train stop in New Jersey. From there, we took the train into the city. I believe my sister had previously been to New York, but we mostly navigated our journey together. We saw Times Square up close and the Statue of Liberty from afar. We peeked through the fence to see the progress at the World Trade Center site. We took a picture of Alexander Hamilton's grave (because I thought he was cool before the musical said he was cool). I tried margherita pizza for the first time, and it is now my favori...

When I first started dating my husband, I didn't know that his father had passed away when J was only eleven. My aunt lived next door to J's economics teacher at the time. The teacher made some comment to my aunt about J not having a father, and my aunt asked me about it. I didn't know the answer. It was early in our relationship, so I was too shy to ask J about his family. Instead, I asked one of his friends if J's father was alive. The friend thought he was. Therefore, I assumed the economics teacher was mistaken. A few weeks later, the paper wrote a story about J. He told me the story might mention that his father was deceased. He didn't offer me any more details, and I didn't ask him to elaborate. I was surprised, however, that his friend hadn't known that J's father was no longer alive. Why didn't J talk about it? I don't remember the exact timeline, but I believe several months passed before J finally told me how his father had died. Hi...

"I better hurry," Samantha told the thick air. Something was causing her to grow a bit nervous. She began to search quickly through drawers, desks, cupboards - all of which were bare. After a few hours, she began to get discouraged. The temperature seemed to be racing upward. Samantha grew uncomfortable even though she was used to brutal southern summers, even in the particularly difficult swampy regions. Samantha sat down in order to rest, but her breathing did not become any less labored. At that moment, lights flickered in the house. Samantha hadn't remembered turning any on. Looking up, she noticed that the electricity and other modern conveniences seemed rather out of place in a house that was definitely built before the 19th century. She began to wonder if the contemporary appliances were added merely for effect, and to test her theory, she approached the faucet to see if the water would actually run. She turned the faucet on, and water slowly began to drip into t...

Samantha sat reclining in her old desk chair, eyes closed, contemplating excuses she could give to get out of her next assignment. Nothing came to mind. With a sigh, she opened her eyes and allowed her glance to fall upon the dusty portrait that lay on her otherwise pristine desk. Two people sat placidly on the canvas, a man and a woman. No one knew who they were. The picture was discovered during the previous week in the antique museum down in New Orleans. The only clue to the identity of the couple was an address scrawled in pencil on the back. Some people from the museum had called the historical society in Atlanta because they had heard about its penchant for solving mysteries pertaining to antiques. Samantha worked for the society in Atlanta, but at that time, she wished she didn't. After a few seconds of hesitation, Samantha flipped the portrait over and read the address aloud to herself. Only one part captured her attention, and that was the city: New Orleans. It was Saman...

It seems like I blinked and summer was more than half-over. The season never feels quite the same as it did when I was a kid, when it was a respite from school and a time my family could travel together. We had many exciting vacations over the years, but I'm going to focus on my memories of one place in particular: Florida. My grandmother has a condo in Orlando, and we visited relatively frequently when I was young. As a result, I have a stronger emotional reaction to my memories of that place. My grandma's condo isn't very large, but it is comfortable, and I absolutely adored it. She has a large wicker chair that can rock and spin; my siblings and I loved it so much, we would fight over who got to sit in it. We ate our breakfast, which was usually Cheerios, out of coral pink plastic bowls at a glass table just off the kitchen area. We also played cards at that table, so we would joke about not peeking through the glass. I shared the guest bedroom with my sister. I have...

I have a brother-in-law who once posted an article about a woman revived after a lightning strike. Her recovery was considered a miracle since she was thought to be dead. After she was revived, she claimed that she had traveled through hell and could discern the sins that had led individuals there. She said the deepest level, full of the worst suffering and completely isolated from God, was reserved for those who had committed suicide. I'm sure my relative shared the story to encourage people to think more seriously about the fate of their souls and the consequences of their actions. While I wondered about the theological validity of the woman's claims (and even whether or not her "experience" was actually a side effect of the lightning strike), I kept thinking that my brother-in-law was willing to promote a story that proclaimed suicidal individuals are the worst type of people. Stigma, judgment, fear - many things prevent individuals with mental illness from rec...