It boggles the mind, my mind, that it has been twenty years! since I first launched this website, www.nancyflynn.com, with the graphic design wizardry of my dear friend, Cynthia Frazier-Rogers. In 2004—when W. Bush was the President, when we were mired in that tragic folly of the Iraq war, when I was still in my freaking forties!—I remember regularly monitoring the ICANN domain name registry. I was waiting to pounce on and (hopefully) reclaim the .com version of my name…
The morning started in fog. Then a slow-to-emerge sun began to take over the day so we headed to the happy place that is Cistus Nursery on Sauvie Island a dozen or so miles out of town to look for a few more native licorice ferns—specifically the Polypodium glycyrrhiza ‘Rowdy Creek’ that the Cistus folks found growing on a stony cliff in the Redwood Belt right on the Curry County/Del Norte County line of Oregon/California. I have two already and they are thriving in our front yard shady garden…
Well, the time has finally come for me. I am done. I can no longer pretend these social media platforms are harmless, are working for the overall greater good. I can no longer engage, participate, abide even though I know these sites have been good for many communities particularly writers and artists. The latest news that the CEO of the companies under the umbrella of the (very silly) company name Meta will end its fact-checking program in favor of a community-based system to determine veracity and truth is the final straw for me…
The red twig dogwood, Cornus sericea, in our backyard habitat is early to bloom this year. I have to wonder if it is because Phil, …
After days of bleak—gray, cold, wet, chill, puddles, sodden earth, wet shoes, dashing quickly from car to the side door of the house between falling drops—in the continuing interregnum, the between, the still-between—blue skies emerged on a Friday afternoon, this third day of January in the preposterous, future-sounding year of 2025. Yesterday, on its half-century anniversary since being released, I listened to the Bob Dylan album, Tangled Up in Blue, one that more than a few over the years have described as his masterpiece…
I took this photo a few days after the terrible, shameful outcome of the November Presidential election here in the U.S. Those were the days when it felt like I was walking around in a world I finally had to admit existed, one that I do not feel I belong to, a land of cruelty and anger, a population of the aggrieved and the inflamed. No longer was there the stable and reliable world I would prefer to inhabit; everything now felt flung apart, flung down, spent. And so many of us isolated and far far apart. It was a beautiful autumn here in Portland, Oregon. Many days were sunny even verging into warmth…
Sometime a poem can emerge from something as mundane as the cleaning out of a cluttered desk drawer. Cataloguing the objects found, remembering the reason why (if any) a particular item—a ticket stub, a stray button, a silver-dollar coin from the 1890s—got stashed away, somehow deserving to be saved. How to then build a poem from a group of seemingly unrelated objects? What through-line could work to ties such disparities together into a kind of whole?…
It rains. It pours. The atmosphere is currently a torrent pummeling down. All the world is wet, cold, muddied, gray, puddle and flow. The sky, a wash of white—no texture, no definition, one mass of socked-in cloud. That is the general feeling these last few days of autumn as we edge to the solstice, the shorter daylight day of the year, here in the Pacific Northwest…
Sometimes the questions get asked and asked and never find answers. Sometimes, time does its magical work and makes the asking of the questions less than urgent, even relevant. What is below was written a good while back. I would like to think I have made peace since then with some of this angst and churn. And age fifty now begins to seem like a long time (nearly two decades!) ago…
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I am drawn to bodies of water, particularly rivers and streams. I love to walk along them and stare at their rapids and ripplings, cross them on bridges, and study the way they change through the seasons with rainfall, snowmelt, or drought. One of the longer versions of my preferred author bio attempts to spell out why…
