Winter is a time of consciousness, of examining our feminine side, of learning to live at one with that nature and how our roles are affected through the choices we make. During the dark dreary months, we can be working on our ideas and developing a personal nurturing time. It is a time to look back not only on the past seasons but on the millennium itself and reflect upon our accomplishments while looking ahead to the coming years. Join our "Best of Theme" authors and artists as they explore our winter theme of self-awareness.

Jenn Scerra's works in oils, pastels and watercolour are so lively and refreshing to live with, especially at this winter-time of short days and long nights. Her painting "Living Seed" evokes everything that is nurturing and feminine about the season. Its surreal landscape-vision reflects the timeless, cyclical nature of consciousness and reflection. See more of Scerra's works at http://www.geocities.com/jennscart

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"I lived with you for awhile when I was little," I say. " After Daddy had his fishing accident, when he was in the hospital. I learned to eat fresh peaches at your house, do you remember?"

Of course she doesn't, and I don't know why I thought I could jar loose a few cells in her crackled brain so that she would reminisce with me. It strikes me that Julia and I are going through this exercise just to make ourselves feel better about Mom. I start to cry.

( Read on... )

As a young woman, I watched as she struggled to fill the hole in her soul...her fight against drug addiction and alcoholism. Yes, I stood by and observed in silence as her rage burst forward. I heard the crashing of glass as windows and dishes shattered under her force fueled by fear she couldn't recognize. I watched her lose her mind after a fatal car accident, then crept silently into her hidden soul when she was institutionalized.

( Read on... )

This experience, more than any other early experience I can remember, suggests the glimmerings of a kind of social awareness. And it demonstrates why popular characterizations of the 50's as a time of oblivious acceptance and Leave-It-to-Beaver complacency have never rung true for me.

( Read on... )

Shirley Temple went native yesterday.
It was the last thing I expected.
She had sat in the nude for many years,
because I lost her dress
and never found or replaced it.
With her stiff legs spread straight out,
wearing only that stupid, perfect smile,
she reminded me of how the police found
the corpse of Marilyn Monroe.

( Read on... )

"Two hundred egg laying hens sit barely able to move in the tiny space. Another space - empty, just next door - is where her husband will raise his own chicks, since Josephine has already shown him just how profitable they can be. "Will you work together and share resources like food for the chicks?" I ask. "Oh no. No, no, no. In Uganda, a woman has to protect herself," she tells me. "He might take the money I need to repay the loan."

( Read on... )

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