NOMENCLATURE noun A set or system of names or terms, as those used in a particular science or art, by an individual or community, etc. The names or terms comprising a set or system.I love words. Reading them. Speaking them. Words tether me to this world; conversation is how I connect. I’ve written words for other people to speak . I’ve edited words others have written. A highlight of my tenure as a “Parent Tot” teacher was using the word “nomenclature” in an email to my “students,” those just stepping onto the rollercoaster that is parenthood. Nomenclature. Listen to the lilting beauty of that big, juicy word. Now, think about the elegance of its precision. A specific system. Specificity.… READ MORE
Author: Amy Sommer
Flow. Flow is my idea of heaven. When my mind and body cooperate to create a whole. A whole thought, movement … anything that is complete, that is heaven. When my thoughts flow — not in fragments as is their habit – but formed in whole – albeit imperfect— cloth before they reach my mouth. Or my hand, which in my heaven, cooperates so that I can record these whole thoughts as quickly as they… flow. Such heavenly bliss is rare in this stage of my life. Everything seems fragmented. My jobs – there are three, all “part time.” My affections – all three children are in transition and the dog woke me up at 5 AM today. Nothing flows… READ MORE
I am not a demonstrative person by nature. And yet… I want to French Kiss strangers, lick handrails and discard my mask. I am done with hand sanitizer, socially distant outside dining and doing my own nails. I hate COVID-19. I weep in frustration about this pandemic-imposed reality. I weep when this killer plague’s statistics are made real by the news stories about those whose lives this scourge cut short. I scream in impotent rage. But I put on my mask before I exit the car. Deal with the fog on my spectacles.` Sanitize my hands, the steering wheel – everything I touch. I will not be the conduit for this cootie. I will not take up an ICU bed.… READ MORE
Today my fingers cooperate if only there were more thoughts for my digits to dig down into. “Three thoughts, one mouth,” I say to buy a few seconds, to organize the bursting box cars into a forward moving train. Full stop. I am at a railroad crossing. Waiting for others to pass. Waiting. I scroll past notions and fragments, hunting a phrase worth polishing. I am here. Where are you? Who will help polish this rough carbon matter to a diamond? I am here for today’s loss of fingers, of words, of ideas to shape them. And I will show up tomorrow and the day after that. And one day I will be present to win.
“Do you ever cry?” asked the blue-suited banker as our formal lunch segued from spreadsheets to stories. “I had a very dark weekend when I was first diagnosed.” Reflexively, I share the story of the weekend after my Thursday diagnosis almost five years ago. In truth, I barely cried then – the reality of the diagnosis left me more numb than weepy. “Do you ever cry?” The question spins in my head. Occasionally, my tears flow. When I see yet another skill diminish my eyes well up with thoughts of what used to be. I type quickly, but not at the near warp speed of a court stenographer that was my habit before my left hand trembled. I rage at… READ MORE