Saturday, October 22, 2016

Toa Baja



Casas abandoned when the university raised the rent.


We saved a chick from the cat pack that lives outside.
I found a thrift store in the mall.
Listening to bachata music coming in the windows from the neighbors on the other side of the fence--somewhere along the way I've become in some way Caribbean, raising a child who pronounces "diez" as "deay" and wants me to wear four-inch heels. This is home, but that hasn't been a singular noun for decades. Zacarias Ferreira's voice is out there in the night, a song that first floated over the rails of Callisto in the bay in Luperon. Somewhere along the way, not quite soon enough, I realized that everything's going to be OK.

Saturday, August 6, 2016




In the San Juan Bay Marina with our pussy-face Jesus. Low-maintenance, no matter how filthy, cramped, and crappy the boat is, the cat reveals secrets of enlightenment. Really. This last week, driving around San Juan, in circles--my GPS insists on speaking Spanish--tangling with the friendly faces of a strange bureaucracy, I finally felt like I’m not wasting time. We are last-minute here, the world was moving on in its lurching way with or without us, but somehow things shuffle themselves into place, a few moments before we reach for them. Usually. Classes start on Monday and I probably won’t get paid for two months--there’s some reason for it. There are lots of little mysteries here, including what the maintenance guy at the marina just said to me. But I know I’ll unravel them, for these mundane secrets thrill me.






In the San Juan Bay Marina with our pussy-face Jesus. Low-maintenance, no matter how filthy, cramped, and crappy the boat is, the cat reveals secrets of enlightenment. Really. This last week, driving around San Juan, in circles--my GPS insists on speaking Spanish--tangling with the friendly faces of a strange bureaucracy, I finally felt like I’m not wasting time. We are last-minute here, the world was moving on in its lurching way with or without us, but somehow things shuffle themselves into place, a few moments before we reach for them. Usually. Classes start on Monday and I probably won’t get paid for two months--there’s some reason for it. There are lots of little mysteries here, starting with what the maintenance guy at the marina just said to me. But I know I’ll unravel them, for these mundane secrets thrill me.



Starting a new life in Puerto Rico


Saturday, March 19, 2016


I’ve been meaning to write something about public space as domestic space over the past 8, even 10 years--about the way the limits of what we imagine as intimate have stretched, ballooned, really, as we’ve traveled the world, people with a small, shared shell. I don’t know why I’ve been meaning to write this, exactly, or what I want to say. I guess it's one of those things that’s nagged at me, that’s seemed to make my life different from that of lots of other people’s lives. As I sought "normality," sometimes without meaning or wanting to. Without realizing what it even meant. Part of what I'm talking about bathrooms. Semi-public showers, etc. And other intimacies like playing, or fighting. The paper-thin walls of my office come to mind, listening to my colleague talk trash, affirm her faith, sing along with the radio. 

Me rowing

Photo credit, my friend since 1988 and recent visitor Kathleen!

Tallulah at Coral World

Photo credit, my awesome former student Shayna.

Saturday, January 2, 2016

Happy holidays from St. Maarten!

October 22 seems like just yesterday! Lots has happened since--in my mind. My head is a crowded place. Now in between St. Maarten and Saint-Martin, in an anchorage that facilitates homeschooling and deep interpersonal work. Also drinking French wine every night. In a few days it'll be back to St. Thomas and a new semester, the hold full of illegal cheese.
Double rainbow over Simpson Bay
Sheep yogurt with Sicilian lemon jam, and hand-roasted espresso. Don't mean to brag.
Tallulah in a cloud of butterflies

Carousel ice cream (and they have a carousel out back)
Our role model