Patricia Wild’s Blog

[Here is an excerpt from a memoir I'm working on—Strands.] Grief does not appear solely through tears; it is also expressed through our anger and outrage. * Maybe twenty years ago, Kevin, a friend of color, said to me, “Patricia?
[Since I am both proud of what I am currently working on and, apparently, unable to do more than one thing at a time, here is an excerpt from a new book I'm working on: Strands] Sometimes Nature lies beyond my
Six stamps left. Loathe to step inside our tiny, neighborhood post office and wanting to support the currently-endangered USPS, we'd both ordered stamps, lots of stamps—but because so many others have done the same thing, our orders were slow in
Zoom has become a daily feature in my life, much-needed yet disquieting. Yes, I long for connection with others; I am cheered when I see beloved faces, each in a tiny box, fill my desktop screen. Like my daughter Melissa,
Almost home from our daily walk, just as we were walking past, we saw a neighbor we didn't know come out of her front door, sit down on a chair on her cluttered porch, and sing. Loudly. As if in
[This story centers on someone whose identity I should protect. So will be using the they pronoun.] Yesterday on a walk, I passed an elderly white person, warmly dressed, waiting in a bus shelter in Porter Square. (And by "elderly" I
More than forty years ago, when my oldest daughter was in elementary school, we'd lived in Wethersfield, Connecticut's historic district, its Main Street lined with carefully-restored eighteen-century homes interspersed with newer yet still elegant dutch-colonials and Victorians. (We'd lived in
I'm not giving up anything this year; I'm taking on something. Something I've been afraid to take on for most of my life: I'm welcoming everything that happens to me. For, as Francis Weller points out, "This is the secret
Here I am, once again, "circling Fort Knox with a butter knife trying to figure out how to get in."* I know I want to write about loss, about sorrow, and about how, for most of my life, I've let
Back in the day when I taught homeless women in greater Boston shelters, one of my students, young and lovely, suddenly looked up from whatever she was working on* to say, "You know something? It's not that we don't know
[Cuyamaca Rancho State Park, California, after a fire.] When I was working on WellingUp.net, I told its web developers: "You know? This is probably my last book." "Nah," Byron Hinebaugh replied. "You're just getting started." Turns out Byron was right.
[This 2007 photograph of an El Salvadoran mural taken by Alison McKeller.] This week I heard a story, a story I'd heard before, told by a friend held in solitary confinement. His tiny cell's overhead light broken, for months he
Much is being written or vlogged about Greta Gerwig's "Little Women." May I join in? Seated in perfect seats in the Somerville Theater on a rainy Saturday afternoon, a beloved, grown daughter by my side, I was already prepared to
  One Sunday morning every December, my Quaker meeting shortens its morning worship to put on a fifteen-minute Christmas pageant. Directed and performed by the children of our community, some First Day School students chose speaking parts, others opt to
Sometimes I exchange books with a dear friend. Sometimes I'll notice intriguing titles or descriptives in a box of give-aways on the sidewalk and grab a book or two. Sometimes my grandchildren tell me I should read the YA they've
What I'm about to write may seem ridiculously obvious. And political—not spiritual. And yet this Ah Hah feels Spirit-given: Yesterday at a meeting on immigration justice, we were bemoaning the current administration's latest attack: drastically raising the fees to apply
In order to be very, very careful, I must leave out most of the salient details that would make this post come alive. Pop. For the safety of the person I want to write about, I'm leaving out most of
[Set, "King Lear," Actors Shakespeare Project, Chelsea Theatre Works, Chelsea, MA] One of the many reasons my husband and I subscribe to ASP has been that their (brilliant and well-acted) productions are staged in under-used spaces throughout greater Boston. We
We talk about "speaking truth to power"; sometimes using just the right words, even if they're highfalutin', can be enormously clarifying. Like "false equivalency." I am loving how, with greater and greater frequency, the media is calling out out the
[Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind.] Take it from me, someone who'd stumbled around post-cataract surgery until I got my new glasses, I am now exquisitely aware of how we're inundated with written
I have a new mantra these days. And it's powerful. And eerily, mysteriously effective. Here's an example of how it plays out: This morning I read yet another news article about some egregiously, blatantly horrible thing Trump has done, and,
A coal barge slowly cruises up the Ohio River; it passes the Jeffboat Company, now shut down, where the rust-colored barge that coal's resting on had probably been built. And I, sitting at a cafe across the river sipping an
There have been many times over the past month as I either prepared for or recovered from both eyes' cataract surgery, when I simply sat. Sunblocked, broad-brim hatted, adequately hydrated, I just sat. Earlier in the month I silently mourned
[Santa Maria Magdalena de Pazzis Cemetery, Old San Juan, Puerto Rico] It's been almost three weeks since I last heard from the friend I used to visit in prison, recently deported back to trouble-torn Dominican Republic. "They'll kill you for