Entries by Nancy Tierney

It’s May. And I’m Writing. Whoopee!

She said, “I want to write every day in May. Not just in my journal. I won’t do that “kind” of writing, writing meant for my eyes only. I want to continue to write what is true for me but couched in a way, hopefully, that others will understand it.” She challenged me and many others to do the same. To see what might happen. Just to see. And something inside of me said, yes. Yes, I will do this. Despite the fact I’ve not written anything for years. That is, nothing I’d even want to show you. Quite honestly, other than scribbling nonsense in my journal, it hasn’t been possible for me to write. Not like I used to. Not in the giddy, fluttery flow of irrepressible words. Not with any urgent impulse to express. Three years ago, I used to sit for hours at Rough Draft and words upon words would pour onto pages and pages in my spiral notebook. Words about Having. Beauty. Love. Lack. Desire. Daily amazements. It was a rush, a delight, to write in this way. I loved words and they loved me, and we would play for hours together. But in June of […]


I know how to take the hand of God and hold it in my own.

I know how to nestle in the sweetness of Her stillness,
Doze to the lullaby of Her breath,
Steal shy kisses from Her mouth.

August 15, 2017

They say, “Remember a time when…”
But I don’t want to.
They say, “Tell us about a memory you have of…”
And I say, No.

For what is memory but moldy meat,
The cold and crusted soup in an unwashed pot,
The greening scum in a dirty cup?

Baby Maple

Last night, a murder took place in my back yard.

Someone, I believe it was Robert, murdered my baby Japanese Maple tree. He crept into my yard and cut its throat in a clean diagonal line and left its leafy head where it hit the ground. When I went out onto my back deck to feed the squirrels this morning, it was the first thing I saw. The feathery tangle of maroon leaves no longer held high but in the dirt. I ran over to it, saying, “Oh, no. Oh, no,” hoping the tree was merely bent, that the squirrels had been overly playful and it had caught on something.


Just when I thought I’d forgotten how, when I was sure the flicker and spark had turned to a thin line of vapor, and too much regret had emptied me of the inclination, I spent the last 10 minutes flirting like a pro. It wasn’t hard. I didn’t even have to think about it. I wasn’t even trying. I just looked into his eyes and smiled, and the rest rose up in me like bubbles in champagne. So sweet. So familiar. So missed, this giddiness. This sly delight. This resurrection.