In my early years, I grew to know a particular birch tree, planted on the same plot as I was. Its delicate arms played in uncomplicated innocence, inviting me to circle around it. I am reminded of Robert Frost’s reflections of innocence, carefree spirits, and evolving years: I like to think some boy’s been swinging them . . . And they seem not to break; [...]
A birch grew tall and arabesque in the corner of my front yard of my girlhood home. Through the decades, my birch tree followed me, no matter where I would find myself, signaling home, my place to be. My birch tree became my buddy, shadowing me when I would need to leave yet another resting place. No matter where I found [...]
I’m always waiting. I wait for blizzards to end in January, the last of the snow to melt in February, spring in March, warmer temperatures in April and finally I see signs of summer in May. Summer is here! So I wait six months to enjoy three months of summer busyness. And I also wait for something else–to make a [...]
One would think someone who claims a writing journey of almost 20 years had learned a thing or two. I’m not quite convinced. Sure, when I was fifteen I wrote a poem about a tree and finding security with it, how I grow in tandem with the tree’s growth and how I discovered spirituality among all things nature. I also [...]
As one of my favorite writers, he has simplicity of thought and an unwavering ability to observe and reflect from his time in the woods near Walden Pond. As a writer of memoir, I take Thoreau's lead by weaving my own reflections from observed experiences to pen Under the Birch Tree.
When I was a young girl, a small glass ball threaded by a thin plastic rope through a pinhole hung over the lock of my double hung window in my bedroom. When the brazen sun enveloped the plant vase and took hold of the gnarly roots, I wouldn’t just see budding foliage, but tiny rainbows upon the refraction of light. [...]
So delighted to have The Whirlwind Review feature my essay "My Pink Book." Sharing my words with you through this link: http://whirlwindreview.com/2016/09/19/nancy-chadwick-my-pink-book/#comment-489
In remembrance of that night beginning November 9, 1938, the Night of Broken Glass. Sometimes, I like to see my world as being either black or white, segregated into neat piles. My tidy thinking and tendency to categorize allow me to understand, to make sense of things. But segregation is unrealistic because of the gray. There is the gray of [...]
Unlike seasons in Chicago, San Francisco’s went unrecognized. The change of seasons was subtle for me with only the calendar months marking their transitions. January in San Francisco can be a beautiful weather month for someone from Chicago. It’s chilly but nothing a few layers of clothing or a jacket can’t remedy. Locals would say, “Oh, the rains this time [...]