by Katharine Kaufman | Apr 10, 2019 | today
The Yoga Workshop is closing. Thirty years old. Elizabeth invites a bunch of us to practice one last sun-salutation, Surya Namaskar. I keep thinking about it, but don’t write back. Cindy writes: “I wouldn’t know what to do.” I spent all the 1990’s there, well into...
by Katharine Kaufman | Apr 10, 2019 | today
Some people move money around. Others launder their money. I move laundry around. I hang my wet clothes on the line remember them a little later and its already snowing a few inches. I go out, shake them off, bring clothes in, open closet doors an inch, toss a sheet...
by Katharine Kaufman | Feb 17, 2019 | today
Today the frost clings on all the branches equally like how fire clings to a log. ~ I sit here in the studio. I miss Gay, my dear friend. She’s in Berkley still, and we’ve been out of touch. We met at University of Colorado as choreography students. Our lockers were...
by Katharine Kaufman | Dec 24, 2018 | today
This morning, right after the sun, I scraped ice off windshield and drove East, past black cows, brown horses, corn and oil fields, into the small town of Mead. A huge decoration says, Peace on Earth. Deflated plastic Santa and reindeer lie on the ground. We lie on...
by Katharine Kaufman | Nov 27, 2018 | today
I’ve never told anyone this before, the guest says to Terri Gross. I lean into the kitchen counter, turn up the radio. Here comes the reveal: The world class chef sometimes eats Peanut Butter & Jelly sandwiches for supper. Oh. ~...
