There is something so graceful about snails. Every slow-motion turn of the head is like a perfectly, effortlessly choreographed danced. Intricate texture of their translucent skin. Careful swirl of shell, each one different, each one shy and full. But I have such a fascination for earthworms.

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Daily ramblings of an aspiring writer. I realized that I can write better on paper. Maybe it seems more intimate or something, but I feel that it is much easier and natural. So back to writing on paper. I feel that there is no rush when I write on paper. When I write on my computer I feel like it is a race against time. Writing in a notebook is just fun and familiar.

It would be a lie. Image of an Image by Christine Renney. Love and best wishes from friends, family, from wives, girlfriends, from doting parents. There were telephone numbers for massage parlours and escort agencies.

Perfectly symmetrical cuts on my back. Two thin slits lay even. Cat eyes sliced clean then peeled open just enough to extract my appendix. A soft mass of tissue, no longer of use. The weight of gold nestled beneath my spine. Fragile but whole all the same. The Boy and the Boat.

How easy it is for us to trip up. A respected Christian friend tells me we can tell the quality of our walk with God by the extent to which we suffer for it. My face watches her lips move, as she tries perhaps to explain, but all my attention shifts inward, searching for something that might be labelled suffering for my faith. Because of my earlier ideas about God this felt right, even if it was disappointing. Even if it seemed to reopen the wound of anxiety.

Christmas Song, Poetry Mash-up, Gleefully Snow-Bound. The home where Snow-Bound takes place is today preserved and open to the public as the John Greenleaf Whittier Homestead. Again, I am returning to an older post from Christmas past today, with a few editing adjustments. I still love this song, and I want to go snuggle now with Brian while we read this poem.