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  My wanderings have taken me from Toledo to Tokyo, Pittsburgh to Paris, Vacaville to Vienna, Charleston to Cologne.  I have marveled at the wonders of the world, made my home in exotic locales, and forged bonds with people of many nations.    Of all my journeys, none has resonated with me as deeply as my recent trip to Ireland.  I made a soul connection with the place and her people.  This should probably come as no surprise to those who know me well.  After all, I have an abundance of Irish DNA surging through my veins.  The connection is cellular.  I'm also an enthusiastic storyteller and conversationalist (a nice way of saying I have the gift for gab ).    Still, I was surprised by my immediate affection for Ireland.  I had only been there a few days when I began daydreaming about buying a cottage in Kenmare and opening up a bookstore/tea shop on her quaint, colorful mai...

I confess, I am a travel harlot.   Each time I journey to a new locale, I capriciously give my affections away.   It doesn't matter if I am traipsing over the wild Yorkshire Moors, sipping lemoncello by the sea in Portofino, listening to the wind rattle through a bamboo forest in Arishiyama, or devouring Tex-Mex beside a trailer in Austin, I fall in love as easily as a tweenie-bopper at a Justin Bieber concert.   No matter the adventure (or, misadventure as is often the case), I always find something to adore.   That one thing that becomes, for me, synonymous with the place.   It might be a restaurant, park or museum.   Sometimes, it's just one moment.   One perfect, vivid travel moment painted upon the canvas of my mind.   A masterpiece to be privately admired over and over again.  I call it "looking for my dragonfly moment." I coined the phrase several years ago, after a series of unfortunate events lead me to South Korea. ...

Knowing of my love for Marilyn Monroe , a friend sent me a book of Marilyn's recently discovered poetry and journal entries.  I took the book to my screened-in porch, curled up on my chaise, and lost myself in Marilyn's candid, touching musings, the cicadas providing a rhythmic, soothing backtrack.  I was struck by Marilyn's intellect, courage, self-depreciating humor, and deeply probing questions.  I found her to be a talented poetess and a philosopher.  I've always intuitively sensed there was more to her than big boobs and a big smile. Yet, so many times I have focused on her external, rather than her internal beauty.  It's an easy trap to fall into - looking only at the surface, failing to probe a bit deeper.  How many times do we make rash judgements about someone - a surly cashier, a seemingly "perfect" parent, an unfriendly neighbor?  Dumb Blonde Jokes I have been unfairly judged because of my looks and pers...

Turquoise Sea by Leah Marie Brown Imagine if you will, a footpath carved into the side of a granite cliff overlooking a turquoise sea.  Now, situate this idyllic thoroughfare on the Italian Coast.  Picture yourself standing on the path.  Do you feel the sea breezes blowing seductively on your skin?  Can you hear the surf gently lapping the rocky shore far below?  If you knew such a trail existed, wouldn't you want to traverse it? When I read about a trail in Italy that stretches between the clifftop villages of  Riomaggiore and Manarola, I felt my pulse quicken, my imagination take flight.  The guidebook said the Italians have been calling the trail Via dell'Amore (Lovers Lane) since the 1940s.  Sigh. I imagined it to be a place for romance and daydreams.  I saw myself strolling down that magical path, pausing to admire the Mediterranean sea, a patchwork of cerulean and turquoise spread out...

I found myself in the heart of Florence, walking down an ancient, dimly lit pedestrian street just moments before the magical gloaming, when the sinking sun would bathe the city in liquidy shades of gold, bronze and copper.  (Apropos colors, when one remembers that Florence was once the financial center of Europe.) Florence is a magical city in any light, but during the gloaming it appears more beautiful and more mysterious.  Shadows deepen, elongate, shading the city in slightly sinister tones.  The air appears as gauzy as a shroud.  Streetlights flicker to life, creating otherworldly halos around the heads of the statues standing sentry in the piazzas. It takes little effort to imagine a Medici woman, ensconced in a voluminous cloak, her face partially concealed by her hood, slipping down an alley to meet an old crone hawking deadly nightshade.  What secrets do the shadows hold?  What demons does the light keep at bay? ...

My first two years of high school were as turbulent as a washing machine on spin cycle.  Family dysfunction, the death of my grandfather, and a surge of hormones sent me spiraling out of control.  I skipped out of school, ran with a tough crowd, got into mischief, and challenged anyone in authority. In my junior year, I took a creative writing class.  Mr. Schriener, my teacher, urged me to release my teenage angst through blank verse poetry.  Finding it terribly cathartic, I filled spiral notebooks with poems about the girl I had been and the woman I hoped to become.  I wrote about the pressing issues in my tiny world:  The vapidity of the popular clique, my first love, my unrequited desire for expensive designer jeans, my stepfather's frequent forays into adultery, battles with my mother, the uncertainty of my future. Mr. Schriener read some of my poems and suggested I submit them to magazines.  With a belly full of nerves and doubt, I sent...