. . . reflecting on the practice of living
“Flowers scattering –
The water we thirst for
Far off, in the mist.”
― Kobayashi Issa
practice vb. to do an activity repeatedly to gain skill; to do something consistently, regularly n. the carrying out of what one believes or the work they do; the customary way of doing a thing
Welcome, friends, family, and perhaps a few passersby to my blogging adventure. It is a place where I will practice writing, and pay attention to the practice of living.
These pages will contain a mixture of reflections on current life, stories from my past, and stories from family history—some of them are excerpts from pieces that I had to cut from my memoir in progress. If you are interested in joining me, I’m happy to have your company.
New book from Kathleen Weaver Kurtz
Introductory text / where to purchase / more information.
Recent Posts
(Note: I wrote this seven years ago, shortly after the Memorial Day weekend when this event took place. We still lived in Manassas at that time. The new inhabitants of Rosa’s house were close family friends of hers, and by extension had become our friends as well.) Rosa and I were the only two people…
One of the people I think of on Mother’s Day is Rosa. For twenty-four of the years we lived in Manassas, she was my next-door neighbor. Our backgrounds were very different. She was of French Huguenot ancestry, grew up Methodist, and converted to the Catholicism of her husband. There were political issues on which we…
A good friend and member of my writing group, Saloma Furlong, has just posted a short interview with me on her website. She poses a number of questions about my writing process, how I look at it and how I experienced it. Check it out here, if you are interested. We are offering a drawing…
I’ve just recently talked with my Aunt Dot by phone. She is the remaining member of my mother’s family and is now past her mid-nineties and heading toward one hundred. My mind went back to something I wrote the year she turned ninety, when as many family members as possible gathered to celebrate with her.…
Many mornings I watched Aunt Esther dress. Her bedroom was across the hall from our upstairs living room. I’d go and sit on her bed waiting for her to come from the bathroom in her housecoat. Her dressing ritual was unvarying. She always began with her girdle, the literal foundation of her clothing. It held…
Those of you who have read The Blistering Morning Mist might remember the story about my mother’s paper dolls, the ones I didn’t want to be divided. They still exist, undivided, after almost 100 years. The other day I was searching for something in a storage box of her things and came across them. Glancing…
There is an image that comes to me when I am struggling, a way of picturing myself. I also used it with clients sometimes to help them picture how they were feeling about a task or a skill. Imagine a sturdy wooden beam stretching across a distance, a beam that is holding you up. It…
This is a season of the year crammed full of ritual—not just the churchy kind, although there is plenty of that, but many other customs and tradition that we perform faithfully and in the same way year after year. The little word the is often an indicator. We put up, not a tree, but the…
I posted this on my book webpage, hoping that it would trigger an announcement to you all that I’d posted something new, but it didn’t, so here is the good news, at least if you were thinking of giving The Blistering Morning Mist as a gift to all your friends! Just in time for holiday…
I’ve been thinking about this thing we call voice. It may seem hackneyed and overworked these days, but its presence or lack continues to be a dynamic in the lives of many of us. I know I’ve come a long way, but I am far from completely confident. I still tell myself that what I…