Far away city
Far away city with dreams that went to sleep
About Lucinda
Lucinda Watson has worked as a teacher, a healer, a volunteer, a naturalist guide, a storyteller and a board member of a few nonprofits, sometimes all at once. Watson worked for more than 10 years at the Haas School of Business, teaching communication skills to the MBA population and recruiting business leaders to speak at Haas.
Latest Blog Posts
Explore some poems, snippets, and essays of my life.
Fragrance
Fragrance: a Memory If you go down the stairs in my house, there is an empty level with a guest room, a bathroom, and a room I call the movie room because it has two La-Z-Boy loungers in it and a large television. This floor is clean, airy, and quiet, but it has a sacred place inside a closet inside a cloth bag. There is a memory. This memory is of fragrance. This memory of fragrance is from my daughter who wore the dress I think only once or maybe twice. I bought it for her in London at…
The End of the world
The End Of The World Around 8:30 PM she breathed a sigh of relief as in 90 minutes her head would hit the pillow and the illumination of the world would end. Over the years she had tried a few things to help her sleep: milk, cookies, magnesium, men, books, and various sleep technicians. None of this had helped her yet now, during this time the world is ending, her sleep was the sound of a book closing. A thick book. Hours would pass and she would lie in the same position lost in another world, past or future. Hip…
Integration There’s a moment when a child stops playing just for her as there is “Another” watching. The play become something other than sole imaginary play and is now “observed” play. The child comes out of her unconscious and is now conscious of her presence in the world No one really remembers this moment except me, that is. I was so lost in my play at age 4 that noticing I was being observed was an electric jolt. An intruder. As if someone could see into my mind and know what I was thinking. I was no longer playing for…
Thanksgiving
Thanksgiving Once, long ago, I wrote a poem on Thanksgiving about a couple who were standing on a stone wall outside their house. They were wearing matching Fair Isle sweaters with wreaths around their necks and were in their fifties. A bird swooped down and took the husband’s sweater in his mouth and flew away with him. The wife was too embarrassed to explain what had happened so she spent the rest of her life ignoring the fact that he was gone. Why am I telling you this story? I have no idea. I think I am telling the…
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