writing from home

 

July 1 • 2026

I'm writing from home 

where I spend most days with 

dog

desk

dirt in the garden.

I'm writing from home

distractions everywhere

apple cores for the squirrels, on the falling down fence, 

drifting back into Monica's lavender bush. 

I used twine, I love twine, to mend it.

Four planks tethered like row boats at a dock.

I'm writing from home, 

tea cup, third cup

cool air, dark sky

it might be 95 degrees in Vermont this week.

I'm writing from home 

sitting on conversation with J who said she chooses to live in Disney World, or is it land? I nearly choked on her insistence I don't have privilege. I live in other dimensions, she said, This place, thumb and index together is one small piece. This world, this life. It's all a game. Follow up texts, odd explanations. 

My wanting to shake her sequestered self.

I'm writing from home 

and grief over Venezuelans buried under concrete and dust. They found an 18 day old baby, Juan David, and later his mother, alive, thirty-two hours under rubble. I stayed alive for my son. Milagros! Recently deported immigrants sent back to Caracas died in the quake. 

We're under rubble here, whipping flags on cars, babies in prisons, algae pools.

I'm writing from home 

where I swirl around, sweeping kitchen floor, sleeping dog fur, green maple leaves, the news of the day,  distractions and delicious cool air, and what stories will I share with my college students. This is a simple class, four weeks ~ a summer camp of stories and poems + where did you live when you were twelve?

I'm writing from home

legs resting on my desk, ankles crossed, 

no birds, listing fence,

my tea lukewarm

my thumb grows numb holding the pen

my heart, less achy with this scribbling on paper,

in a simple composition book.

xo b

even if it seems impossible

 

June 5 • 2026

I put this in my wallet months ago. 

Each time I open it, this is what I see. 

trust. relax. breathe. everything is fine. really.

It helps. My shoulders drop. I exhale. 

• • • • • • • • • • • •

Every day is an avalanche of grifting, gaslighting, blatantly criminal, cruel behavior from our rogue government. This week, a row of white men in the Oval Office were chatting it up about coal, while the wannebe dictator slept in his swivel chair, head lolling to the side. They're standing right behind him! Meanwhile, Marco Rubio testifying in front of yet another committee, was shown a video of his sleeping boss. He adamantly refused to admit Trump was asleep. 

One of many WTF's 😳!

How do the gaslighters and liars look at themselves in the mirror? 

How do they look their kids in the eye? 

People are still refusing, doubling down even, that Jan. 6th was a pretty normal day. Nothing to see here, while a mob stormed the capitol, Nazi + Confederate flags, Trump flags, were used to beat police officers. Some of the mob were police officers. That was five years ago. So why does it feel like yesterday?  

Is anyone else feeling the exhaustion of staying up? 

Some days, I'm doggy paddling. A sad dog. The challenge is to not get stuck paddling but to remember that all this is fluid, constantly changing, impermanent. 

Some days, like yesterday, I went to the Y, jumped around in a cardio dance class, sang a rollicking Happy Birthday to our teacher, Ilene, and left feeling high, endorphins firing.

I'm deeply aware of my privilege as I write this in the quiet of my peaceful home, plants and birds outside the open window. A whisper of breeze.  I won't be swept up, locked up, taken from my family for months, possibly deported to a country that is not mine, because of my Spanish accent, immigration status, skin color ___________. 

Every day is an avalanche of fuckery. 

This morning I told myself, it's okay, be a sad dog, but not every day.

Keep swimming, paddling, jumping around. 

Speak up, call, write, protest, rage, fight the fascists.

Write yourself a note today.

What reminder does your spirit need?

trust. 

relax. 

breathe. 

everything is fine. 

really.

even if it seems impossible.

XO b 🐝

even the chairs feel alive

 

Sunday • April 19 • 2026

Daisy sleeping in the sun

blueberry skies

green mulberry tree, wide leaves

lemon trees + pots of succulents

birds + songs

bare feet on cool bricks

even the chairs feel alive. speak then.

• • • • • • • • • •

notice the peace here, woman.

notice how light hits the sunken brick by the rocking chair

notice the sounds of your husband in the kitchen

through the open door and scent of lemon

spoon drawer opens, shuts

stir the coffee, sugar, milk

hum of plane, bird chatter

lemons say, 

hang in

relax

you'll be picked 

or drop to the ground some day,

but not today.

namaste, lovelies.

xo B

still back there

 

February 27 • 2026

On the table are tulips, a gift from Jennifer, the cashier at Trader Joe's. 

Through the kitchen window, birds at the feeder.

finch 

wren. 

sometimes the woodpecker.

Fat squirrel watching from the tilted wooden fence. 

Beyond that Olivia and Makayla with their Dad, starting their morning walk to school, past the sage and cacti and pillowy lavender bushes in front of Anne's house.

Looking east, there's snow and mountains and Minnesota. There's Renee Good. Dead body slumped in the front seat of her car, shot by a rabid ICE thug. 

It was a Wednesday morning. She'd just dropped her six year old son at school.

She said, "It's okay, Dude. I'm not mad at you."

Renee was smiling.

He shot her in the face.

He said, "Fucking bitch." 

She was executed in broad daylight.

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •

I'm still back there.