Patricia Wild’s Blog

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
Forty years ago and just beginning to attend Friends Meeting at Cambridge, I'd considered the people I'd worshipped with every Sunday far, far superior to me. Until I didn't. Over the years, although my fellow Friends have proved themselves to
Saturday, at Art Beat, Somerville's largest cultural festival, I experienced A Moment: The nearby band playing Elvis Costello's "(What So Funny 'Bout) Peace, Love, and Understanding," an immigrant grandfather, his three grandchildren, and their parents decorated butterfly* pins, the adults