Beth Kephart's Blog, page 345

The Gardens of Alcatraz, A Prisoner's Release

"The hillside provided a refuge from disturbances of the prison, the work a release, and it became an obsession. This one thing I would do well.... If we are all our own jailers, and prisoners of our traits, then I am grateful for my introduction to the spade and trowel, the seed and the spray can. They have given me a lasting interest in creativity."

Elliott Michener, Alcatraz prisoner and gardener, quoted in Gardens of Alcatraz.

Fog Curl and Cliff Erosion

San Francisco, ultimately, is weather and terrain. It's fog curl and cliff erosion, the stooped back of ascent and that moment (exhilarating, triumphant) when the hills turn in your favor and you are tall in a tall place; you have achieved your point of view. You have to think before you go here. You have to decide how strong you feel, how badly you want, how much you are willing...then you set off, you acquiesce to the whip and the rise and the fall.

It is cold for August. The fog has a mind

Red Sunflower, Long Friendship

It was sometime between our driving to Crissy Field and up to the underskirt of the bridge, sometime in the midst of climbing up to Gary crow's nest to watch the fog escalate on the horizon, sometime while cooking and then, again, while eating, that I remembered how it has been for Kate Moses and me—how our friendship began with a question: Will you write an essay for our anthology? It was a decade ago, I think, the glory days of Salon.com, where she worked as an editor with her husband, and e

Swinging High

We saw the sea lions in the glaze of sunset. We saw the Richard Avedon exhibit and the Japanese tea garden. I bought something for myself and something for my father and something for a friend and now we are off to see one of the most generous literary couples I know, Kate Moses (Wintering) and Gary Kamiya (one of the smartest journalist in the states). I have missed Kate dearly. She is now just 20 minutes away. I bought her a bouquet of red sunflowers. Red! And the man who sold them to m

Losing my Heart

Don't leave your heart in San Francisco, my friend e-mailed me, just as I was about to board the plane. I hear it happens.

But the thing is, I am forever leaving pieces of myself behind. Losing myself in the fog.

Time to Fly

Asking for the Truth

Every once in a while, you just want the truth. You need it. So that today, which began with a pre-dawn, sleep-deprived Zumba at the gym, advanced into corporate work, fell toward housework, slipped into a panic, and somehow spun toward a dance lesson, honesty was required.

"I feel as if I'm doing something wrong, and that no one will tell me what that is," I told Jean, during a quickstep lesson. "It's like everybody knows, except for me."

"Well," he answered, looking me straight in the eyes,

Those who remain: A Nothing but Ghosts review

I photographed this child just as the sun was breaking over the beach in Hilton Head. She was running away; I knew I'd not see her again.

Sometimes it happens like that—a person enters your mind space, and then they drift away. Sometimes we are lucky, and they stay. I met Melissa of The Betty and Boo's Chronicles electronically, as I have met many of you. We became virtual friends. Months ago, I gave a talk at a local library; she went out of her way to come, to be there in person. She stoo

Sisterhood: Happy Birthday, Priya

Once there were two sisters—elegant and kind, smart but also (we suspect, we have been told) prone to giggles. One was two years younger than the other. She wrote a poem a day, sometimes two. The older one wrote beautiful poetry, too, and read deeply and wisely, and journeyed far to American Idol concerts and reported back with photos. She made so many friends in the blog universe that only she knew how to keep count.

The older sister, Priya, cherishes her younger sister, cherishes the poems

Edith Wharton and Undercover: The Hearts that can Break

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I put the finishing touches on the Penn syllabus yesterday, then took my readings to that leafy campus to have them readied for Blackboard. I am teaching, as I have noted here, about vulnerability—about the ways in which we open ourselves and our words to the world. I am teaching heart and I am teaching craft, and Edith Wharton's words, here, inspire: As to experience, intellectual and moral, the creative imagination can make a little go a long way, provided it remains long