Author: Margaret Evans

So, I’m out power walking in my neighborhood a few mornings ago, trying to shake the gauzy shroud of melancholy I’d been moping around in for days. I could feel this column starting in my head like a stubborn seed pushing up through dry, barren soil. An idea was forming, but I didn’t want to let it. It was too amorphous. Too vague. Possibly too controversial. Shaping it up – then toning it down – would be too exhausting. I wasn’t going there. No way.