Lessons from the Fall

By Linda Hoffman Kimball

, you need to check them out here!

It’s been 4 weeks since I fell off an e-bike and broke my wrist. I believe the ER doctor, looking at the x-ray, used the words “crumbled parts”. He gave me some kind of nerve block, waited for it to take effect, then hoisted my right forearm arm, and squished it like playdough to manipulate the parts back (more or less) to their intended places.

With a prescription for serious pain meds, a splint, a sling, and a yellow foam contraption to protect my arm, my chauffeur/husband drove us back home.

Yes, this is my right wrist attached (less reliably right now) to my right (dominant) hand. As a writer, visual artist, and quilter, I have found putting those delights away for a season very challenging.

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The Task of Time Warps

By Linda Hoffman Kimball

World Trade Center memorial

(I post this on the anniversary of a terrible day in US history. September 11th is a painful, tragic, excruciating anniversary of horrible deeds that murdered many. Let us hold in our hearts all of the complexity of that day for a quiet moment before I launch into my own very different musings on the time-warp-ed-ness of memories.)



My oldest child turned 40 this year. What astounds me about this is that I can remember in exquisite detail her infant and toddler years and those of her younger brothers. It’s like my brain has become a … not sure what the current technology would be for it, but back in the day it was called a roll-a-dex. Pull out one random card, and I can remember vividly episodes from their childhoods … and my own. I keep accumulating years and memories which is, of course, so much better than the alternative! But what am I supposed to do with all of these seemingly random visits from times gone by?

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Glass Grapes & Grieving

By Linda Hoffman Kimball

As a convert to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints in my college years in New England, I learned the craft of creating apple dolls just like the kind sold in the gift shop at Sturbridge Village, the marvelous historical living museum an hour away. Later on I learned how to make everything possible from cranberries. I also learned where to go in the Boston area to do fun things on the cheap. I went for informational strolls with my Relief Society sisters along Boston’s Freedom Trail.

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On Age and Agency: musings on a pinterest quote

By Linda Hoffman Kimball

“You’re never to young to learn and never too old to change.” Russell M. Nelson


Pres. Russell M. Nelson famously said, “You’re never too young to learn and never too old to change.” This must be true because I found it on Pinterest in lovely lettering. As a quarterly blog theme, it’s a fun and challenging truism that gooses me out of my comfort zone.

What is one never too young to learn? Quantum physics? I would think so,

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Interview with Ashley Mae Hoiland

By Sandra Clark

Segullah is delighted introduce our newest Featured Writer and Artist, Ashley Mae Hoiland. This month we’re asking her about her writing life beginnings, inspirations and plans beyond her first, and just released book.

Ashley Mae Hoiland received a BFA in studio arts and an MFA in poetry, both from Brigham Young University. She published her first book, One Hundred Birds Taught Me To Fly, through the Maxwell Institute in November 2016. She is also the founder of the We Brave Women project, an initiative to help people connect to and know brave women around the world. She created a pack of 60 flashcards that feature a hand-painted portrait of a brave woman on one side and a bio and quote about the woman on the other side.  She served a mission in Uruguay. She now lives in Palo Alto, California with her husband, Carl, and two children, Remy and Thea. She has written and illustrated several children’s books and once headed a project that printed poetry on billboards. More of her writing and projects can be found at www.ashmae.com. She is also a contributor at bycommonconsent.com 

Tell us about your writing and what lead you to it?

I remember in 5th grade as an awkward, gangly kid, my teacher told me after I had finished a writing project that one day she was going to be asking for an autograph for my books.  When my first book, One Hundred Birds Taught Me To Fly, came out I searched around and found that teacher and related to her how the words she had given me over 20 years previous had fueled my confidence for so long.  She had no recollection of saying that, but was so generous in saying that she remembered me well, even though I’m not sure that could be true.  For me, even as a young kid, writing has felt like a safe and dear friend.  Writing feels like going home.  I was never very good at articulating myself with spoken word, in part because I don’t like being in the spotlight and often my voice shakes or I get emotional, but writing feels so kind in that way—it allows me to speak bravely and with emotion and gives me the space I need to let the thoughts unfold.   

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I’m too tired to be smart

By Heather Oman

This afternoon after school, my 14 year old son and I engaged in a semi political discussion. I’m not sure how it started, but it veered from poverty to food stamps to Obamacare. I questioned him on some of his more immature assumptions about being poor, pushed him on some other issues, and tried to …

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Be humble and learn something

By Michelle Lehnardt

This past year, my oldest son began taking professional photography work. I’ve spent several years in the business and in addition to teaching him technical and artistic skills, I’ve guided him towards the best photo labs, websites for proofing and sunlit locations. Over and over he’s called me for bits of information, opinions and critique …

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Scarcity and Prayer

By Kellie Purcill

119HThe answer came as a little rectangle of paper, a few lines printed across it, nothing else. As answers to prayers went, I was decidedly underwhelmed.

I sighed, and scrunched my eyes a little tighter to squeeze whatever other clue out I could get.

A little piece of paper, some empty lines… and a smoothed lead pencil. Ah… recognition. In response, a blink type effect, then two names are there, carefully pressed into the paper. My ex-husband’s name, and his wife’s.

I am not a god of scarcity.

Huh. I ended my prayer and rolled into bed mulling the answer over like it was a loose tooth.

I’ve been wrecking myself against some significant decisions lately. I’ve had the stresses of starting a new job, beginning the second year of my degree, my youngest has started high school, and my oldest is in his final year. I’ve come home some nights late in the evening, to the assorted messes and heavy slumbering heat two teenagers can make, and wondered just what on earth I was trying to do with my life.

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To Ask or Not to Ask: That is the Question

By Kristen Hogan

“What is the universe made of? If it’s not water or air, what is it?” “The universe is made of space.” “Yeah, but what is space?” “Space is empty. It’s nothing. That’s why it’s called space.” “That’s impossible, actually. It has to be made of something.” So begins a conversation with my seven-year-old son. I’m …

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Knowing What We Don’t Know

By Jessie Christensen

Last weekend I decided to watch a movie that came out last year, but apparently has not had much publicity because I had not heard of it until a few weeks ago. The movie is called A Better Life and it is about a gardener who lives in Los Angeles and is raising his teenage son by himself. The gardener, Carlos, wants his son, Luis, to have a better life than he has, but is so busy working to just to pay the rent that he and Luis have grown apart. Carlos’ boss convinces him to buy his truck when he decides to go back to Mexico, and for one day Carlos thinks he finally has a chance to get ahead. Then his truck is stolen and Carlos, who cannot go to the police for fear they will discover that he is undocumented, enlists Luis to help get it back and save their family. A major theme in the movie is the unknown: Luis really doesn’t know what his father does all day or understand the sacrifices Carlos makes for him; Carlos doesn’t realize that his son is drifting farther away from him and is tempted to join the gangs in his neighborhood; and most of the people in Los Angeles don’t even see Carlos or his family and friends at all or understand anything about his existence.

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