Hi, I'm Jill
I'm a mom, an award-winning author of 3 books, and an avid outdoor adventurer, who married a performance artist and addiction counselor renown for the best risotto on the planet.
I grew up as an Army brat, traveling the world. Now, I'm psyched to live in Spokane and adventure around the Pacific Northwest.
If you were to ask me, “How can you love this world?” as I often ask myself, the answer would be, “Because Ann Patchett writes novels.” Sometimes it would be, “Because Alice Munro writes short stories.” And sometimes, it’s more specific, the name of a book I have just read, and how I stalled at the end — maybe with only seven pages to go — and decided that I needed to wash dishes,...Read More
Here is Warsan Shire’s poem, 34 Excuses for Why We Failed at Love: 1. I’m lonely so I do lonely things 2. Loving you was like going to war; I never came back the same. 3. You hate women, just like your father and his father, so it runs in your blood. 4. I was wandering the derelict car park of your heart looking for a ride home. 5. You’re a ghost town I’m...Read More
I began watching Penny Dreadful because I am half in love with Eva Green, but my favorite performance is Patti LuPone’s. I love that the show doesn’t attempt to justify the paranormal events. Sure. Frankenstein has raised these people from the dead. It has something to do with water and electricity. Also, stitching. Yup, lots of witches. Witches who help women and witches who help themselves. Hounds of god. Check. Wampyres. Totally. Lots of...Read More
A friend of mine, who makes gorgeous jewelry, and has spent her career researching symbolism and spirituality, asked me recently if it was enough to make beautiful art. Is beauty without meaning enough? In December of this year, I’ll have spent half of my life in Spokane. When I first moved here, my grandmother was in physical therapy after breaking her hip. Since I was a college student without a job, I would drive...Read More
When I was a kid, I wrote the names of my potential children at the back of my spiral-bound notebook. The rest of the notebook was filled with random journal entries and dozens of poems. They were terrible names. Brad. BRAD? But I wrote them like spells. The morning after I delivered, the nurses told me I was an old parent. I wouldn’t be thirty for more than 2 months, but they meant that...Read More
I should stop immediately. I’m watching an old fellow from my car window, and he turns as I reverse up the drive. He and I both hear the alarming sound of my car. I pause, listen, reverse again. It still sounds weird. I pause a couple more times in the next seven blocks, and then, at last, I pull over to the side of the road, jump out, and race around to stare at...Read More
It’s hard to describe what I find most irritating about the documentary, No Impact Man, but I think it’s the fact that extremes freak me out. Deciding, in a single year, that you’re going to forsake fossil fuels, coffee, toilet paper, electricity, plastics, new purchases, any food products outside a 50-mile radius, vacations, toothpaste, makeup, cleaning products, and that your family is going to as well, is wack. Maybe it’s especially wack because the...Read More
Until my wife was injured at work this last winter, I’d never been inside the building where she works. Confidentiality protocols for residential drug treatment are stringent. If a woman I don’t know comes up to Mary and starts talking to her, I walk away. Most of the time, the woman is an ex-client. I don’t know a single one of their names. In fact, I couldn’t pick out more than five or six...Read More
Maybe it’s because I was raised in an evangelical household. Or maybe it’s because the first statue I loved was Michelangelo’s Pieta. Because I looked at it and wondered what it would be like to love like that. The broken intimacy. I can’t watch the videos anymore, but when I read about someone being shot to death, I imagine that I am scooping them up in my arms. I have no context for imagining...Read More
My son is what used to be called dreamy. A child with worlds inside him, and a narrative always mid-story. This week, I’ve been at his school every day. A band and orchestra concert. An afternoon of running to raise funds for the school. The talent show performance. Last night, I watched the blond of his hair, cut skater style, swoop across half his face as he played Summertime on the trumpet. Each note...Read More