Alma Deane

Retired editor and head of book publishing at the National Wildlife Federation, died November 13, 2015 in Alexandria, VA. She taught one-room country schools in Kansas from age 16 to 19, then worked her way through Kansas State University and earned a degree in journalism.

Mrs. MacConomy came to Washington in 1944 as a reporter covering the Senate for Congressional Intelligence. Later she held public relations posts with the American National Red Cross, American Forest Products Industries, and the Campfire Girls.

As a free lance writer following her marriage to Edward N. MacConomy in 1957, she launched the Merry Go Round, a weekly children's calendar of events, now known as the Capital Carousel, for The Washington Post in 1966 and published a children's book, Odd Jobs in Lumbering, in 1967.

In 1970 she helped the National Wildlife Federation create the Conservation Summit, a popular nature vacation for families.

As a young woman, she was an active member of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington, setting aside her professional career for four years to be housekeeper for the manse for Dr. Peter and Catherine Marshall during the latter's long illness. As well as research assistant to Catherine Marshall for her books Catherine Marshall's Story Bible and the novel Christy. Since 1979 she has been a member of Grace Episcopal Church in Alexandria where she served on the vestry and as chairperson of Outreach and Ordination Committees.

She was predeceased by her husband. She is survived by their son, Scott and his wife Kelly of Alexandria; granddaughter, Kiera Thompson of Boston, MA; and a grandson, Cameron of Los Angeles, CA.

The family will receive friends on Sunday, November 29, from 5 to 8 p.m., at Everly Wheatley Funeral Home, 1500 W. Braddock Rd., Alexandria, VA 22302. A service will be held on Monday, November 30, at Grace Episcopal Church, 3601 Russell Rd., Alexandria, VA. Interment will immediately follow at Ivy Hill Cemetery. Online tributes can be made at www.everlywheatley.com . Donations may be made in honor of Alma Deane to the Campagna Center in Alexandria, VA.

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/washingtonpost/obituary.aspx?pid=176612529#sthash.p6FYk4be.dpuf

Mom, Edward & Alma Deane MacConomy

Cousin Edward was a legend in our family. He told this story about a goat that got people rolling on the floor. He was a very smart man who worked at the Library of Congress in Washington D.C. and I was fortunate enough to have spent some time with him when I was younger. I loved Cousin Edward as we all did on the MacDonald side of the family.  

However, I was fascinated with Alma Deane, his wife. Alma Deane was a writer. More importantly to me, she was a reporter. In 1944. In Washington, covering the Senate for Congressional Intelligence. I thought that was so cool. She retired as editor and head of book publishing for the National Wildlife Federation. She had also taught school in a one-room school house, worked her way through Kansas State University, held PR posts at the Red Cross among other places, she was a research assistant for Dr. Peter and Catherine Marshall, and she wrote me letters. 

I loved that last part more than anything.

She loved that I was a writer too. That I had a degree in journalism like her. And I remember, when I was just out of grad school and my parents gave me a plane ticket for Christmas to Washington D.C. to visit friends how excited I was to go to her residence, to have lunch with her in the fancy dining room, and to talk writing. 

Thinking back now, Alma Deane was definitely one of my first role models. I didn't know about her writing when I was young but I did know about the stories of her different jobs. How she and Edward lived what I assumed was a glamorous life in the big city of Washington. (I've since realized big cities are not terribly glamorous by rule.) She worked at the Washington Post and created columns that still run today. I mean really, how cool is that? 

Today I will not mourn Alma Deane, who is being remembered at her funeral service by her friends and family. Instead I will remember, and celebrate, her 96 amazing years on this earth. Her writing, her editing, her work, her family, and her love. And I will revel in the fact that as a member of our family, we got to be witness to a tiny bit of all of that. She was the beginning of what so many of us do now. What so many of us want to do now. Make the world a bit better. Write the world a bit better. #awomanwrotethat

Alma Deane & I when I visited her in D.C.

Retired editor and head of book publishing at the National Wildlife Federation, died November 13, 2015 in Alexandria, VA. She taught one-room country schools in Kansas from age 16 to 19, then worked her way through Kansas State University and earned a degree in journalism.

Mrs. MacConomy came to Washington in 1944 as a

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/washingtonpost/obituary.aspx?pid=176612529#sthash.p6FYk4be.dpuf

Retired editor and head of book publishing at the National Wildlife Federation, died November 13, 2015 in Alexandria, VA. She taught one-room country schools in Kansas from age 16 to 19, then worked her way through Kansas State University and earned a degree in journalism.

Mrs. MacConomy came to Washington in 1944 as a reporter covering the Senate for Congressional Intelligence. Later she held public relations posts with the American National Red Cross, American Forest Products Industries, and the Campfire Girls.

As a free lance writer following her marriage to Edward N. MacConomy in 1957, she launched the Merry Go Round, a weekly children's calendar of events, now known as the Capital Carousel, for The Washington Post in 1966 and published a children's book, Odd Jobs in Lumbering, in 1967.

In 1970 she helped the National Wildlife Federation create the Conservation Summit, a popular nature vacation for families.

As a young woman, she was an active member of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington, setting aside her professional career for four years to be housekeeper for the manse for Dr. Peter and Catherine Marshall during the latter's long illness. As well as research assistant to Catherine Marshall for her books Catherine Marshall's Story Bible and the novel Christy. Since 1979 she has been a member of Grace Episcopal Church in Alexandria where she served on the vestry and as chairperson of Outreach and Ordination Committees.

She was predeceased by her husband. She is survived by their son, Scott and his wife Kelly of Alexandria; granddaughter, Kiera Thompson of Boston, MA; and a grandson, Cameron of Los Angeles, CA.

The family will receive friends on Sunday, November 29, from 5 to 8 p.m., at Everly Wheatley Funeral Home, 1500 W. Braddock Rd., Alexandria, VA 22302. A service will be held on Monday, November 30, at Grace Episcopal Church, 3601 Russell Rd., Alexandria, VA. Interment will immediately follow at Ivy Hill Cemetery. Online tributes can be made at www.everlywheatley.com . Donations may be made in honor of Alma Deane to the Campagna Center in Alexandria, VA.

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/washingtonpost/obituary.aspx?pid=176612529#sthash.p6FYk4be.dpuf

Retired editor and head of book publishing at the National Wildlife Federation, died November 13, 2015 in Alexandria, VA. She taught one-room country schools in Kansas from age 16 to 19, then worked her way through Kansas State University and earned a degree in journalism.

Mrs. MacConomy came to Washington in 1944 as a reporter covering the Senate for Congressional Intelligence. Later she held public relations posts with the American National Red Cross, American Forest Products Industries, and the Campfire Girls.

As a free lance writer following her marriage to Edward N. MacConomy in 1957, she launched the Merry Go Round, a weekly children's calendar of events, now known as the Capital Carousel, for The Washington Post in 1966 and published a children's book, Odd Jobs in Lumbering, in 1967.

In 1970 she helped the National Wildlife Federation create the Conservation Summit, a popular nature vacation for families.

As a young woman, she was an active member of the New York Avenue Presbyterian Church in Washington, setting aside her professional career for four years to be housekeeper for the manse for Dr. Peter and Catherine Marshall during the latter's long illness. As well as research assistant to Catherine Marshall for her books Catherine Marshall's Story Bible and the novel Christy. Since 1979 she has been a member of Grace Episcopal Church in Alexandria where she served on the vestry and as chairperson of Outreach and Ordination Committees.

She was predeceased by her husband. She is survived by their son, Scott and his wife Kelly of Alexandria; granddaughter, Kiera Thompson of Boston, MA; and a grandson, Cameron of Los Angeles, CA.

The family will receive friends on Sunday, November 29, from 5 to 8 p.m., at Everly Wheatley Funeral Home, 1500 W. Braddock Rd., Alexandria, VA 22302. A service will be held on Monday, November 30, at Grace Episcopal Church, 3601 Russell Rd., Alexandria, VA. Interment will immediately follow at Ivy Hill Cemetery. Online tributes can be made at www.everlywheatley.com . Donations may be made in honor of Alma Deane to the Campagna Center in Alexandria, VA.

- See more at: http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/washingtonpost/obituary.aspx?pid=176612529#sthash.p6FYk4be.dpuf

Thanksgiving love

Thanksgiving is about food. Everyone knows that. We spend weeks talking about menus and side dishes and who will host and what we'll do with the leftovers. Because there has to be leftovers. It's a part of how we celebrate community and family and show our gratitude for all that we have.

But it's about so much more I've come to realize.

Sunday we had our annual church Thanksgiving dinner. We filled the gymnasium and ate and ate. We shared tables with people we'd just met that day and people we've known for years. We talked and laughed and took pictures and ate. We gave thanks. We shared our love.

And then when Angela and I and some friends headed home from the dinner, we stopped just outside the gates of the church. There was Raquel who is a member of our family, a member who sleeps on the sidewalk out front. Someone had brought her dinner but she wanted coffee. With cream. I handed off my leftovers and ran back into the church. I grabbed a piece of apple pie and headed back out.

And as I watched Raquel take that first sip of coffee, she told me she hadn't had any yet that day, I saw pure joy wash across her face. The same joy I've seen on my grandmother's and my mother's faces a thousand times. The simple joy of a sip of hot coffee.

Then I made sure she liked apple pie, helped her get all situated, and headed to the parking lot. Along the way I ran into another member of our family, a man who yelled out my name with such friendliness and love that I immediately felt embarrassed I couldn't remember his name. But I remembered his eyes, his face, his love of black jackets and black socks, and I stopped to chat. I watched as he ate a turkey dinner from tin foil from a church down the street. He was so enjoying his food. We chatted. I promised to keep my eyes peeled for a black suit jacket for him and we parted with holiday wishes.

And then I hopped into the car where Angela was waiting. I looked at her and as spontaneously as Raquel had smiled when she sipped her coffee, I burst into tears.

I had had a wonderful day full of worship and decorating the church for Christmas and laughs with friends and time to share stories and lives and I ate a big meal with pie and it had been just about as perfect as a Sunday in November can be. But there I sat sobbing. Big ugly sobs that were completely unexpected.

We do so much as a church. As a people. I have friends who give so much of their time and their paychecks and their energy and their prayers. We do so much. And yet...

Two of these people I know, have known for eight years, stood outside on the street, eating their Thanksgiving meal. And this time I didn't feel guilt. I didn't feel guilt for eating inside, or enjoying the meal and not leftovers. I didn't feel that I had to bring everyone inside the gates. What I felt Sunday was pure sadness. Sadness over so much. Sadness over what I cannot help. Sadness over these two people in particular. That life has brought them to this point.

But if you live in only sadness the love gets lost. I know this. And I know there is light in this dark world. Because later on a friend sent me this message:

One of the Tuesday guests that joined us for Thanksgiving dinner was walking out to the parking lot afterward. He was so excited and talking to his friend. One of the last things I heard him say was "Yeah, I think Sarah was really excited we were there!"

I read that message and immediately grinned. I laughed out loud. I couldn't stop from smiling all night. The message was referring to Marlon, and we had several conversations Sunday. He joined us for worship, he joined us for dinner. He was beyond thrilled to see me it seemed. He couldn't quit raving about the best meal he'd just had there in the gymnasium with us. And Tuesday, when I saw him at Lunch, he bragged about how special it was that the pastor of the whole church, our new Pastor Blair, had sat and eaten with him and his friends.

It's true, I was really excited Marlon was there with us Sunday, and truth be told, I was really excited to see my two friends outside the gates Sunday night too. To stop and have a moment with them, however brief, to connect. Because in that connection there is love. No matter if it's with someone we've just met like Timothy who we decorated the church with and then ate with or if it's Jen and her lovely Marilee who we also ate with who I've known since before Marilee was born. It's the connection, no matter how brief, that's important. Sometimes we see it, sometimes we feel it, sometimes we are it.

Tuesday Angela and I worked Homeless Lunch and Angela passed out over 100 oranges as Thanksgiving treats. She had so many connections and I love that. Yesterday we worked a short shift at the Los Angeles Regional Food Bank with about a hundred other people and sorted donations. We didn't really make any connections, or so I thought at first. But then at the end of our shift, they told us what we had accomplished in three hours:

• 21,000 pounds of non-perishable food sorted
• 17,500 pounds of bread sorted
• 13,500 pounds of perishable food sorted
• 1,850 meals boxed and ready to go out within the week
• A total of 40,000 people who would be less hungry as a direct result of our efforts

Let me say it again, if you live in only sadness the love gets lost. I choose to not live in the sadness of Sunday. Instead, I live in the love of Sunday. The love of Tuesday. The love of yesterday. I choose to live in the love of today. To make connections. To remind myself that being blessed is not just a hashtag (though #blessed is amazing!) but a constant state for me and so many others. I cannot be sad. I can only love. I can only be love and share love and receive love.

Thanksgiving is about love. It's about food. And in so many ways food is love. It's about beginning this season, this year, this new year, this life again, with so much love. 

Paris is my soul

All my life I've been obsessed with Paris. With France. With all things French. I don't know when it started but I do know that I took four years of high school French when certainly any other language would have been more beneficial to my livelihood. (I filled out an application to work at the CIA after grad school and when it asked for languages spoken I really really wished I could put down Farsi instead.) During my senior year of high school it was announced that there would be a Monet exhibit at the Art Institute of Chicago. I begged my parents to take me. And they did. (Side note: I am drinking my tea from London out of a mug from that very art exhibit this morning as I type. It has made it through five moves in twenty years!)

It was during those high school French classes when I would sit and imagine what it would be like to walk the streets of Paris. But the funny thing is, I never really thought I'd get there. Just like I never really believed I'd live anywhere but near my hometown in Michigan. Back then I didn't even know it was really possible to do such things. But I'd soon learn...

My bedroom at my parents' house got a framed poster from the Money exhibit. My first apartment got a giant framed poster of the Eiffel Tower being built. My house now has actual photos hanging on the walls that I took in France. It also have actual paintings I bought along the Seine on my last day in the city. My workspace is covered in photos and mag
nets from my time there. Paris is in my soul.

When Angela and I planned our European adventure, we made sure Paris was our destination. London was lovely, but it was a weekend away from our real destination. Ten nights just blocks from Notre Dame. Two weeks roaming the streets, learning the metro stops, hearing the music that is the language, eating the pastries like we were locals. What I thought would be terrifying -- stepping out onto the street of a country where I barely spoke the language and living there for two weeks was really just the opposite. I never felt scared or lost or alone. Paris was more than I could have ever imagined.

The people were friendly. The city welcoming. The adventure perfect. We were hesitant to return home, though I did welcome the thought of my own bed. But I still wake up thinking wouldn't it be nice if I could stumble down the circular staircase to the basement and have a giant mug of cafe au lait, some cheese, some salami, some yogurt, and a fresh croissant like we did every morning there? I still close my eyes and can feel the grass under my hands as we sit and wait, for hours on end, watching people and soaking in the culture, waiting for the sun to go down and la Tour Eiffel to light up?

I learned about the attacks last night first on Twitter. That's where I get so much of my news nowadays, it's almost surreal. There between the jokes and the complaints and the commentary on Hollywood I saw that there had been a shooting. And then a bombing. I didn't turn on the TV, almost afraid of what I would see. Paris. Shredded.

The stories of humanity coming out of the city last night and this morning help. There are so many good people in the world. So many kind hearts and loving souls. And they will for sure overshadow any hatred or violence the few can manage. And yet? It's heartbreaking. When we finally did turn on the television last night I watched through tears
. Knowing that so many lives had been shattered and that so many would now have to pick up the pieces and try to carry on.

Paris is in my soul. I know the city. I know the streets. I know which way the Louvre is from the Eiffel Tower. I know which train to take back to Notre Dame. I think about the girl who worked in the restaurant we ate in several nights and pray she's okay. I pray we are all okay.

Because we are not. We are not okay. We are shaken and we are scared and we are hurt and we are angry. We are at war. Every day, all day, over so much and so little. Our hearts ache, our souls cry, our brains overload.

There's not much I can do. There's not much any of us can do. That realization is hard. That realization is maddening. And yet? There is. We can call the people we love and stay on the phone just a little bit longer. We can give hugs and sit on the sofa and just be. We can go out and do good. Be good. We can shine, even if it's hard at first or seems fruitless. If we shine, the world shines. And the world will shine again. It has to.

The first annual Los Angeles Autoimmune Walk

Yesterday Angela and I arrived at the Culver City Park around 7am. The sun was bright, the air was crisp, and the park was already full of smiling volunteers, balloons, and signs of an amazing day to come.

Why? Well, because yesterday was the Inaugural Los Angeles Autoimmune Walk. You all know this is something near and dear to my heart, not only because of how autoimmune diseases affect members of my family, dear friends, and myself but because I think scientists are superheroes who need all of the funding we can get them so they can help us to live long, healthy lives. And by helping out with events like the autoimmune walk, I can help these superheroes.

It looks like the walk, and a poker night held last Sunday, contributed about $80,000 to the fight against autoimmune diseases. It's no where near what people raise annually for cancer research or diabetes research or so many other amazing causes BUT...it's completely astounding that this much money was raised in just a few short months because my friend Barbara Ramm decided to do something. Instead of focusing solely on her disease, which frankly, she has every right and expectation to do, and take care of herself, she enlisted her family and her friends to put together this event. There are only two other walks that have happened to support autoimmune research, and two others scheduled for early next year, and Barbara thought, well why can't we do that? So she did. And it was pretty great.

It was a crazy, long day but God smiled on us and gave us the perfect California day. Sun shining, not too warm, perfect t-shirt and shorts weather. And He sent us so many great volunteers. And when people started showing up to register who just found out and wanted to help? That was pretty cool. Almost as cool as the couple of little kids who brought big envelopes stuffed with cash collections. I was so surprised to find out how many children fight autoimmune disease. And how many want to change that. They were there, decked out in handmade t-shirts and angel wings and with huge smiles and ready to go. That alone made the whole day worth it.

We raised hundreds in a silent auction and raffle. We gave away donated cookies and pasta. We thanks Chipolte who fed hungry volunteers for free. We watched as little kids whacked pinatas and as big kids played awesome music. We smiled as celebrities walked the purple carpet and as families surrounded each other in this fight for life. It was a day of so much busyness and so much happiness that all of the little snafus and first-year growing pains washed away quickly. Faces were painted, big and little, miles were walked, and stories were told. And at the end? We did a whole lot of good for a whole lot of people. Hugs and kisses ended the night and promises to work together again soon. Why? Because this huge amount of money is just a tiny drop in the bucket.

During the event, we wrote names of diseases and people we walk for on links and then joined them on a chain (my links included my Aunt Gloria, my friend Abby and myself). A chain that was carried during the walk and a chain that will be joined together with other links from other events bearing the names of other people and diseases. A chain that will eventually be taken to Washington D.C. and wrapped around the capitol in a human chain to tell Congress just how important this research is for so many of us. And I'm guessing, from the amount of people I talked to yesterday, and I talk to all the time, so many of you.

Thank you to those who prayed for, donated to, volunteered at, and walked during our event yesterday and the one last week. Thank you for caring enough about me, about the people I love, to make this fight not one I must take on alone but one you take on with me. Together, we can make a difference.

Barbara & I with signs from the walk's path

I may not be watching ESPN but I am working just the same...

To Whom It May Concern:

I am a writer. I promise. I am writing. I promise. It may not look like it but I've been writing every day for my whole life. Professionally it's been a bit less but suffice it to say I've been writing for a very long time. Even if it doesn't look that way.

This morning I got up, tied my laces, and put on a slick long-sleeved Nike shirt before 7am. I promised myself I'd walk and walk I'd do. For several miles, along the quiet streets of the neighborhood of Angela's school, the neighborhood I want to live in some day, I put one foot in front of the other and moved forward. And coming out of the white earbuds strapped on? An interview with Aaron Sorkin about his latest movie Steve Jobs. (Really, more than the promise to myself it was Sorkin that got me out of bed. Oh, yes.)

And at one point in the interview the interviewer asked him if he writes 10 pages a day or has a set number or some sort of regular process. And his answer made me laugh out loud somewhere near Wilshire Boulevard. He said to the untrained eye his writing process looks an awful lot like a man watching ESPN. And I thought, so so true. That's me. Except to the untrained eye my process may look like exercise, cooking, laundry, answering email, going to CVS daily, taking out the trash, and plucking at stray eyebrows in the closeup mirror I never should have purchased.

A few weeks ago I wrote an eight page outline for my new pilot. This was completed after several months of research, character development, countless hours on Wikipedia, and so many more hours sitting at my desk staring straight ahead at the white wall. Stephen King once said he had to move his desk into a closet so he wouldn't stare out the window. I have a window but it faces the garage wall so I guess it's sort of the same thing.

So much of writing is thinking. Like SO MUCH. Like there's no substitute for getting in the shower and thinking up a good idea and having to get out and run dripping to the desk to scratch an idea onto a soggy post-it note. There's no substitute for driving and thinking and realizing you need to stop the car so you can find your phone and send yourself an email. So many emails with ten word sentences that eventually become a story. And then a script. And maybe some day a movie. Or a TV show.

I've been standing here at my desk (yes, still standing, the new desk is great, until my feet get tired and then I find the chair because lets face it sometimes thinking is a sitting job) for an hour this morning. I have the new document for my pilot script pulled up in the software program. I wrote out the title page. I wrote out the first line of action. And now? Nothing.

I have seen this first series of scenes so many times in my head. Just this morning I had to rewind Sorkin's interview on my phone because I realized I'd been thinking about that first scene, the scene of the sailor rucking in the hot sun, carrying a pack, moving forward, just like me. I'm no solider but I can so clearly see this soldier's determination and struggle it's real to me.

Sometimes the words come so quickly it terrifies me. What if they're so fast they're no good? Or they're so fast no one else will understand? Maybe I shouldn't have played that Fifth Harmony song with the good beat on repeat while I wrote until it invaded my brain.

But sometimes they don't come so easily. It's not writers block, trust me, on a deadline I can get it done whether it's a term paper, a newspaper article or a draft of a script. But sometimes it's slow. Like the way you have to get to know someone. Because I'm getting to know these people I'm creating. I'm developing relationships in my brain. And that can be fast or slow or sometimes both.

So now I'm going to think about Sorkin's interview, think about what he does to get his fingers moving, and think about his advice on what makes a story interesting. And I think just as my feet were moving forward this morning, I'll make my main character's move a bit forward. At least a few steps, if that's all that happens today, then that's okay. Because when the time is perfect, it'll happen. Especially when deadlines loom...

Signed,

Me, the writer

It's everything

Last Wednesday morning I woke up at 3am with a pain unlike anything I'd ever experienced. It reached all the way across my torso and left me literally dripping in sweat. I couldn't lie down or stand or really do anything. After an hour I woke up Angela and off we went to the emergency room where the pain would subside two hours before I'd see a doctor. But they did a thorough workup, including checking for new blood clots, deemed it a gallbladder attack, and sent me home. No meds, no new instructions, just a new sense of what that feeling is and how I might experience it in the future.

That afternoon we picked our friend Eric up from the airport. He would stay with us for a week, visiting from Michigan. We'd spend the week/weekend enjoying his company, sightseeing, spending time together. Out of the normal routine, out of even my somewhat flexible routine. And then Angela had a tooth abscess and on Monday she'd have emergency dental surgery to pull said tooth. Trips to the surgeon, the pharmacy, the store for supplies, it has been a whirlwind. And here we are, over a week later, and I can't quite feel that the whirlwind has stopped yet. I still feel as if I am moving and the world is standing still or vice versa.

Even though we dropped Eric at the airport Tuesday, yesterday was not a normal day. There was an early morning trip to the surgeon for Ang's checkup, a trip to the acupuncturist that had already been rescheduled once, a trip to the new primary care doctor I've been assigned to (90 minutes each way) and a trip to find soup for lunch since even though our house contained the ingredients for soup, it contained no soup. We arrived home about 7pm last night and I made some mac and cheese and we both were in bed shortly after 9pm.

So today I woke up and decided it was time to get back in gear. I tackled the homemade soup first, and some cleaning along the way (a huge dust storm this weekend left my desk and much of the house covered in dirt) and as I was slowly realizing the fall bisque we made in cooking class and the next weekend at home was a lot more time consuming when it's just you alone making it, I smelled burning onions. Determined I could in fact make soup for my sister, I tried again, getting a new pan, chopping a new shallot and this time, paying close attention. Half an hour later I almost added unpeeled potato to the soup, caught myself, backed up and tried again.

I don't know what was wrong today. I can follow a recipe with the best of them. I've made this soup twice before. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized maybe I cannot be superwoman. Maybe today isn't the day I do the laundry, make homemade soup, run to the pharmacy, make a salad for lunch, write a pilot, think of a movie idea, and make it to my friends' staged reading tonight. Maybe today would be the day I ate a Subway sandwich alone in the strip mall while waiting for Angela's Vicodin. Maybe today would be the day I told myself to watch an episode of TV I'd been saving rather than write one. Maybe today would be the day I cut myself a little slack.

Those burned onions sat on the back burner the whole time I made my second attempted batch of soup. A soup which might be a bit spicy because I like the way the red pepper flakes look in it. A soup which will, despite it's lack of fancy Parmesan crisps today, taste pretty good tonight and tomorrow for lunch. And this afternoon as I scrubbed the pan with the burned onions I thought about how maybe those onions were just a reminder to slow down, to smell the flowers (or shallots) so to speak.

Sometimes life is so dull I fear for my sanity. Sometimes life is so busy I pray for nightfall and my pillow. And some days I remind myself that life is best tasted slowly, and quickly, and all at once. Life is butter foaming and onions softening and pears mixing with parsnips and everything all blended together. Life is good. Life is bad. And on the best days? It's everything.