Poodling around York. And having a Yorkshire Curd Tart about now, with an espresso from Caffé Nero.
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About Me
- Christie
- Creative writer - Traveler - Archaeologist manque - Ardent lover of the play of light, the journeyings of time, things ephemeral and ancient
Popular Posts
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On my way back from campus, a fine flurry of yellow leaves. Dissettling December . . . image: Christie B. Cochrell, Leaves in Fountain -
Darkness falls—and then there are candles in red glass cups, fires of piñon wood, carols. Cakes fall—and I remember in the lov... -
I love niches, those quiet hollows in deep walls (adobe walls in Santa Fe, in California missions, or built into Cretan w... -
A magnificent Don Carlo at the operahouse. Being grateful once again for Verdi, and for having had the good fortune to visit his home ... -
When the snow-girt earth Cracks to let through a spurt Of sudden green, and from the muddy dirt A sn... -
Just for a smile! “For a moment at least, be a smile on someone else’s face.” —Dejan St... -
“Don’t let all of this go . . .” A letter to myself from summer, setting down my intention from the mindfulness clas... -
I have my new leg-warmers on, and just had some of Julia Child’s boeuf Bourguignon delivered to our doorstep (as well as ... -
Today you are You, that is truer than true. There is no one alive who is Youer than You. —Dr. Seuss im... -
When everything we create is far in spirit from the festive, in the midst of our turbulent days let us think of what festivals were ....
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