the rose of kiev

My almost-ex-husband is brilliant.   Not just smart or bright - brilliant.  I knew that when I met him, even though he was still struggling through his undergraduate degree.  Five years after we started dating, he got his mechanical engineering degree; two years later, he earned his master's degree in industrial engineering; and now he is, quite literally, a rocket scientist.  His brain is a wonder, and works so differently than my artistic grey matter. I've always deeply respected his work ethic and God-given intelligence that got him there (I still do).  For his bedtime reading he would bring an engineering or physics book to bed, and I'd fruitlessly try to read over his shoulder; what was unintelligible to me was clear information to him.  Absolutely incredible. Because of his proven brilliance, I usually trusted his opinion of all things.  The man has a steel-trap memory and incredible analytical recall; he is a walking encyclopedia.  Countless times I would

Back in August of 2016, I was standing in a garage with a tupperware container full of my paintings, watching a bespectacled woman carefully page through my work. I had been invited there to cut stained glass with a group of grandmother-age ladies, but I had brought my paintings in case the hostess' daughter (an artist in a local gallery collective) happened to visit.   I got lucky - she came by, and her mother insisted she look over what I brought.  And after two years of untrained play with watercolors, I bit my lower lip as she rifled through the container, expressionless.  She paused over two my pieces, murmuring compliments about color and composition, and encouraged me to submit them to an upcoming open show at her gallery.  She thought they had a real shot of being good enough to get in.   "Sophie's Adamanth", the painting he named  I felt giddy on the drive home and called my friend Jess, a professionally-trained artist with a Fine Arts degree from

When I got married, I said the same vows with the same good intentions that everyone else does.  I was in love and I meant it when I said "for better or worse" and "until death do us part".  I looked into the intelligent hazel eyes of my new husband, and I was ready to work to build a strong stone home with him.  We were going to show the world how it was done; we were going to overcome the legacy of my parents' divorce, of our grandparents' unhappy marriages.   We had dreamed of crafting our marriage into a comfortable home; resilient - with carefully masoned stone blocks; stable - on a meticulously laid foundation. And we had talked about how to maintain it together: stay ahead of the leaks, repair the cracks, update the windows, build future additions.  He is an engineer and craftsman, I am an artist, and I could only imagine us building something beautiful, efficient and comfortable.  I was excited to build that home, that future, with him.   And w

I always seem to come back here, to this place of writing and sharing.  It feels like a boulder on the shore - I may wash away in the tide for a while, but somehow I always end up washed back here. It's now been nearly twelve years since my first post here.  I was 18 when I started this blog for my Freshman English class; two months from now, I'll be 30 and freshly divorced. There is much, of course, that I cannot and will not write about that last detail; I am not here to tattle or list grievances.  Here is the short story: we were together for nearly 12 years, and now we are working on paperwork for our dissolution.  No, there was no infidelity on either side.  And no, I was the one who initiated both the separation and the dissolution.  Yes, it was - and is - very painful.  And yes, I do hope he quickly finds happiness after we part ways, even if it sounds trite. And here I am, back here on this seaside boulder, washed ashore like a half-drowned man clinging

I don't know that I've ever written for the fun of it. At least, it's been a very long time since I have. I've been writing as long as I can remember, even before I can remember.  In my memory box are crudely stapled construction paper booklets, and on them is my mother's neat print in blue Bic ink, "Heather is my little bookmaker." I had no idea that I did that. But I like that I did.  I like that I wanted to write before life started to hurt. You see, I'm in this strange now-not-so-new place, this place of prolonged peace that I've spoken of.  No one in my family is dying or divorcing or remarrying, and no one in my church is rebuking me or my Dave. In fact, my life is wildly enviable right now.  Dave has been hired to an excellent company.  His salary is enough that I quit my part-time job to work on writing full-time.  We are in a church that we call "ours".  Our fridge is full, our families are supportive, and our vehicle

It was a Wednesday night, and Dave and I had just finished eating a late dinner in the living room.  As the end credits scrolled across the television screen, I lay back on the couch. Long orange light slid across the kitchen floor - it was just before sunset, the night of the summer solstice.  Dave stood up, thanked me for making dinner, and went down to the basement to work. The DVD looped back to the menu, so I rose to eject the disc - season one of The Simpsons , the third disc of three.  I reached for the plastic rental cover and popped it back into place with the two others. I walked toward the basement stairs.  "Be back in a minute - don't lock me out!" I called down to Dave.  I heard the soft thunk of something mechanical.  "OK," he called back.  Discs in hand, I slipped into sandals and opened the front door. It was a beautiful night, and a thin summer humidity cooled by the evening wrapped wide ribbons around my ankles, calves and arms.  I str