Back in May, Carine Fabius posted a blog on Fifty is the New.. called “Thoughts on Passion”, which was an excerpt from her book-in-progress on the subject. The book is still in progress. Here’s another excerpt.
Having sludged through the molten lava of passion and survived, I continue to wonder about the mysterious ways of this disease. It invades the psyches of singles, divorcés and women in long-term relationships, making them question the compromise of magnificent love and searing sex for the security, affection, friendship, sweet love and good sex that comes with the passage of time (men do this too, but that’s another book).
So, I decided to go on a journey of discovery about passion. To probe our yearning to make peace with its fading, while insisting it stay as if it was our birthright. To discover why we hold onto the notion that an illusion might somehow take root, sprout leaves, and become a solid tree that keeps on blooming.
To get to the bottom of all this nonsense, I thought I should go to the source! No, not that strange and mysterious Creative Force, which seems to have hard-wired us to seek the unattainable. I mean all those smart women out there, who keep dissolving into pliable liquid wax once the heat of passion comes a callin’. I figured if I asked enough of them the same questions, I, and by extension, we, might come to a place of knowledge and understanding about that big WHY? Read more
Photo by Ana June
For Prudence Baird, dusty eggs, puppy love, and baby crack make a wicked brew with the potential for world peace
When our Irish twins*, born a mere 22 months apart, reached toddlerhood, my husband reports that I got that misty-eyed look that says, “I’ll trade you a month of blow jobs for another baby.” Able to see the writing on the wall (much of it in red ink), my intrepid partner did what most sensible men would do—he rushed out and got himself a vasectomy.
Even so, I hoped and wished for another child. With my breastfeeding years fast receding to the realm of “remember when” and sentimental boo-hoo sessions alone in my room, having a third child became my holy grail, my Turkish delight, my must-see TV.
I refused to pass along cherished baby clothes. I squirreled away cutsie bibs and blankies. Intuitively, I knew that as long as my ovaries were pumping out eggs, there was a chance—even if it meant reattaching my husband’s pipes myself using an emery board and tweezers. Read more
Connie Stetson discovers a brave new world with adventure around every curve
As I write, it’s been a little over a week since Lee and I completed a month-long, nearly 300 mile journey through the sands of time. Literally. I am still rinsing the freaking sands of time out my gear.
My husband, with the Greenwood Expedition, party of 11, began a river trip at Lee’s Ferry near Glen Canyon Dam on Jan. 27th to raft the upper Grand Canyon. I left Fresno on Feb. 4th, flew to Flagstaff, took a shuttle bus to the South Rim, checked in at the Bright Angel Lodge, and at 8:30 am on Feb. 5th, I began my journey down, down, down, through snow and ice, mud and streams, more than ten miles, seven oceans, and millions of years of geologic time, (sorry, fundamentalists…that would be more than 6,000) — to meet them near Phantom Ranch on the mighty, muddy Colorado River. The next day, in a driving rainstorm, two walked out; and then we were ten, in four rafts, launching off into the rapids of the Grand Canyon.
How was it, you ask? It was exhausting, thrilling, challenging, beautiful, vexing, uncomfortable, cold, painful, quiet, noisy, scary, soothing, hard, transcendent, and nourishing. Read more
Its Saturday morning and the winter is coming to an end. Although here on the tundra we are wary of any irrational exuberance until May. The phone rang and I heard Heidi’s voice say, “Want to go for a walk?” I cannot think of anything I would rather do at this moment than join her and her beautiful sad-eyed dog Sara on a stroll around the Lake Como in the crystal sunshine.
My mum and dad would take a walk every Sunday afternoon. They talked quietly while my sister and I wandered along with them, playing make-believe games and seeing who could run the fastest. In the past few years I have become a walker again. There is singular joy in strolling along talking to my companions or, when I am alone, talking to myself. It seems as if walking frees the tongue and the mind. Difficult topics can be broached more easily; old hurts can be mended, secrets may be revealed, sadness might suddenly find release, and laughter often comes unexpectedly. Read more