letting go

February 18, 2015 by Laura J. Frantz

Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful. — William Morris

We are moving in two months, so I am taking William Morris’ words to heart. I am making choices, selling off, giving away. I feel stripped down to a ribbon inside. I move from room to room, pulling items out of corners and closets. I hold each thing in my hand, feel its weight, and I whisper to myself: And this? Does this matter to you? Will its loss tear through you, leave you broken and wanting?

The whispered answer:
Just let it go.

lake, sky, woods

February 10, 2015 by Laura J. Frantz

I leave the trail and follow a narrow deer path along the shoreline to a small, sheltered cove.
I stand very still in sparse underbrush and listen to voices echo across the water.
I drop to my knees in the middle of a stand of hardwoods.
I bring my face close to moss, bugs and fallen leaves.
I hover over clusters of soft, grey mushrooms.
I stare too long at a patch of sunlight on bark.
I lose hours to the forest.
I wear the woods home:
dirt on my knees,
burrs in my hair,
mud on my boots.

Brevity Magazine, Winter 2015

January 20, 2015 by Laura J. Frantz

My interrupted photographs illustrate the Winter 2015 issue of online literary nonfiction journal Brevity Magazine. I clucked over this project like a mother hen, and gave it the majority of my spare time in November and December, to the dismay of those I love. Now this project is out in the world, and I bend to the task of redemption.

the old lucketts store

September 17, 2014 by Laura J. Frantz

Thirty minutes before closing. The grounds are dotted with little houses, each one filled with whispering old objects.

Electric fans move the air inside the main building and I wander through three levels. A man browses through silverware on the ground floor. I see him again on the second floor, looking at a small wooden puzzle box. And then we’re on the third floor where the air is thin. We are spirits looking for lost possessions.

Eyes closed, my hand wraps around a small glass bottle that once held a tiny bouquet of buttercups.

All of the silver, all of the linen, all of the brass and the wood and the glass, every small and large thing wears a fragile coating of dust and soul and each thing wonders
who will ever love me again

Honeysuckle Syrup

June 11, 2014 by Laura J. Frantz

My girl and I walked between buildings in our townhouse development and found a patch of fragrant honeysuckle at the edge of the woods. I washed the blossoms, then steeped them overnight in simple syrup. The syrup is lovely mixed with soda water, poured over ice with a squeeze of lemon or sprig of mint.

print

October 23, 2013 by Laura J. Frantz

I’m experimenting with through the viewfinder photography again. I find that I still love the feel of the old Kodak and the distortion and noise introduced by the dirty lenses and mirror. I love the brokenness and imperfection and mess.