Essays from the highlands of Panama.
I was twenty-five in 1975 and deeply, deeply depressed.
From Underwoods and IBM Selectrics to ChatGPT, every new technology seems to raise the same old question: who gets to decide what we should use and trust?
Honey, there ain’t no through.
Here I go again. Constructing an imaginary deadline no one but me knows exists.
Sometimes the world is much smaller than six degrees. Or: Don’t gossip at check-in.
Behind the Scenes explores “life, the universe and everything.” Today, it is a personal story of travel, grief, and roses.
Kali gets a bad rap.
From the Desk at Finca Luz
Recently, in my writer’s group, I was challenged about my use of the word derring-do.
Lo, how a Rose e’er bloomingFrom tender stem hath sprung!It came, a flower bright,Amid the cold of winterWhen half-gone was the night.
Grief sucks. At the moment, it’s sucking the life and joy out of me. I am struggling.
Thanksgiving! Coffee harvest!
Everything is about sex.Think about it.Try not to think about it.Didn’t work, did it?Our coming-of-age sex education stories always lurk right under the surface.
My mother, Virginia Allyne Johnson Worley, passed peacefully two weeks ago. She was ninety-six, and the last six years were not easy. Her body and mind were in slow, steady decline, but her spirit…
The rain came hard and fast this past weekend — the kind that doesn’t just fall, but roars down in blinding sheets. Downtown Boquete, Panama flooded, streets turned into brown rivers, and shopkeepers…
People often imagine authors hunched over a desk, scribbling in silence. Idyllic, right? My reality of my writing life in the Panamanian cloud forest? Not exactly what you might imagine.
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