I don't need to do the math for you, but I'm going to anyway. It has been 4.5 years since I added a blurb to this website. One week after I posted the last note on this page, I started an undergraduate program for the fourth time. In 2020, I finished the program at long last. Thank the good Lord. And I mean that. You know what 2020 was like.

Although it feels like another lifetime on another planet, if I close my eyes and slow way down I can sink into the feeling of being on the cusp of change in 2018. I was 97% hopeful and 3% terrified. I didn't know how I would juggle all my responsibilities, which were sure to grow  in number and weight (they did), with my joys. I have kind of sort of managed it, though I must tell you, I'm a little worse for the wear. Inside and out. Maybe you are, too?

On the cusp of another change, I'm finding myself chanting an edict to myself that goes something like 

slow, slow, slow

No, really. Slow. Slow. Slow.

I am trying, but the impulse to run hard is strong. Of course the only thing to do about that is to 

practice, practice, practice  

softly, and begin. 

This is my favorite picture of Greta. Sarah White created illustrations I have fallen in love with. I love how she see's these characters.

I've been asked by friends and my children if Greta is me. Greta began as me, but she quickly became someone different. Greta decided she would not be me, and that I could write fiction. Now, she's going out there to be seen so I can practice being seen, too. 

​I love this story so much that I don't care if no one else likes it. Greta is insecure and she does an unkind thing which she cannot summon the courage to make amends for. I do quake, like Greta in her lion costume, when I think of retired teachers reading this book. I envision them reading with their red pens out and fainting with disgust at my poorly formed sentences.

My promise to myself as a writer, though, is this: I will not sacrifice emotion for grammar rules. I used to be one of those people who couldn't breath when I saw grammar errors. I used to judge and roll my eyes. Then, I became a writer, and I did not have the energy to poor any effort into stressing over grammar, or reading Facebook posts twenty-five times to make sure there were  no its where there should be it's or run-on sentences. When I became a writer, I learned, though I thought I had already known, the art of seeing the substance of words rather than the scrupulousness of their delivery. I learned to be less afraid of mistakes right when people turned a more critical eye toward my words. 

​Declare yourself to be anything in this world and just see what happens. Do not fear the critics. Don't even hear them. That is what I tell myself. But then, I also tell myself to not take the praise to heart. These things are challenging. I like challenges. So does Greta, so that she has learned to face her fears. I hope you will read her story. 

​Here's to courage. 

Sacred Intervention Specialist: Seemingly ordinary person who wallops you with knowledge and goodness and healing, acting for all the world like it's no big deal.

When I was in Sunday School, back in 1996, one my sacred intervention specialists showed up in the form of a serious and seriously funny woman who served us truths in bite sized pieces alongside boxes of Rice Krispie Treats. She taught me many things. God is not a man in the sky, for example (took me YEARS to integrate understanding around that seed of truth). She honored nuance in a way I had no experience with. She breathed spirit, and was so chill that there was room for every question that had previously invoked well-intended threats of holy smiting and things like that. In my short experience, with all of 13 years under my belt, there was no room for questions in the world of God.

HE said it. I believe it. That settles it. 

Only trouble is, a lot of things were said in the name of God. Anyone can say, "God said this to me," or "God told me to tell you to do this," or "I'm following the will of God." All of which meant, don't question me or my actions, and if you won't take my word for it, here's this scripture that backs me up. 

My Sunday School teacher also taught me about discernment. Seeing. Intuiting. Assessing. 

At the time, the surface layers of what she said kind of, sort of stuck. Absolutism was much more comfortable and graspable in my young mind. But, the seeds she planted. Gratitude is too small a word for the sacred intervention that took place during those chaotic years. 

Life's not always pretty. It's not supposed to be. The Sacred Intervention Specialist taught us that answers to prayer aren't always pretty either. Back then that lesson made me a hesitant prayer. How bad do I really want this? It made one of my best friends a very specific prayer. "I'd like some patience, God. NOT the opportunity to learn patience. Actual patience. Immediately. Thank you." 

Now, after an arduous religion rehaul, that bit of knowledge saves me from abandoning an intention when the challenging life lessons kick in. When you get aligned with God, you're gifted opportunities to grow. . . .not a happy hour with the saints. Happy hour comes later, once lessons are learned and you've reached a new plateau. You know, right before the next impulse to elevate starts knocking and you start all over again. 

In the midst of this season of rampant new growth--because Spring escapes none of us--I'm endeavoring to maintain the chill of the Sacred Intervention Specialist. There is occasionally an impulse in me that screams things like "PANIC NOW," or "RAGE NOW," or "CRUMBLE NOW." I am learning to pay no head to the screamer. I am reaching back to the teachings of my tweenhood.

Honor nuance.

The Sacred answer to chaos is to chill (otherwise known as having secure and abundant faith).

Questions are in the safe zone. Observe. Discern.

Pray intentionally and with courage.

Practice. Practice all day every day.


Thanks Chum. Happy Spring ♥

{Did you like that Dr. Seuss reference? It's his birthday.}

For months now, my phone has been making less and less noise. My original smartphone. The one that couldn't hold the Facebook apps or any multiple of a dozen pictures. A few weeks ago, it quit making noise all together. No ringing. No buzzing. Nothing. 

As you might imagine, a phone that makes no noise is not good for communication, but I do love silence. LOVE IT. Communication? Meh. (Not really, I cherish long talks with friends. It's the day to day blather that gets me down.) Add ambivalence to my stubborn streak and my righteous insistence that phones should last for at least ten years, and you get me in a state of foot stamping commitment to NOT buy a new phone. Ever. Not ever. Never. 

But then, significant call and text misses were happening. And, last week, I didn't get to read the text that said, "Leave your shoes on and come downstairs. The gorillas still have ears," (autocorrect for something to the effect of 'the girls are still eating', I do believe) and laugh at it in real time. Real life, real time comedy being the priority that it is, I ordered a new phone the very next day. The dealiest of deals. The closest to free I could find, because I am no techie, and any phone that rang, beeped, or vibrated would be an improvement.  

Then it came (so fast), and I said goodbye to old Not-so-Trusty, which was strangely emotional. Things kind of sort of transferred correctly. I got the apps I didn't have room for on my old phone, and then it started.

Noise. 

So. Much. Noise.

It will not be quiet. I suddenly feel so needed in such bad ways. As I have sat here typing it has beeped, buzzed, or bling-blonged no less than eight times, and I am not taking my time with this post. I assume I could turn all these bleeps off, but then I'm back where I was....silent communicator missing all the things. 

There are some beautiful perks, like the meditation app I installed that blocks the bleeps while I'm meditating, and the gratitude journaling app that didn't fit on my old phone. The irony of mindfulness apps on the hunk of mindless machinery is not escaping me, but this is the modern day zen-gal dilemma, is it not? Be connected to people in ways that are fun, intrusive, sometimes infuriating, and occassionally deeply meaningful--or party like it's 1999.

I know there are many middle points between those two extremes, and I'm finding my new spot in the world of post-postmodern connectivity. I just can't help wishing that my phone would tell me useful things--like that my lunch is turning to char in the toaster oven, not developing a nice caramelized crisp, which is what my nose thought was happening. Instead, my phone just buzzed to tell me that Pinterest has ten new ideas for my hair. 

I love hair pins as much as the next girl, but I'm not sure that was buzz-worthy information. I'm not sure that merited a look at the phone, which leads to a click on the phone, which leads to 5 minutes on the phone that I'll never get back. 

Of course, I'm going to be exploring notifications on my phone apps, and toning them down (do I really need to know when every single email comes through? No), but the point is that this has me thinking about noise and distractions in general. Anything can be a distraction. Even making the bed can be a distraction if it's not where your energy belongs at that moment. How many times have I noticed that the plants need some grooming, or that the ceiling fan is dusty when I'm working through a tough transitional chapter in a manuscript? 

This year has really been demanding that I stop dividing my attention.  I must dole out my energy and fill my cup intentionally. It is the only way to build the life I want. I know this. I've known this. It's a practice. It's simple to commit to and even easier to let slide. Things had gotten haphazard for a while there. And by a while, I mean going on three years.

So, I'm working my way back into mindfulness, and along comes this new phone all noisy and determined to be my bodily extension. Well, you've got something coming Samsung Galaxy old discount model--I have self discipline. I was born before the internet era took it's first baby steps. I spent nearly the entire decade of the 90s writing letters on paper and actually talking to people, and I liked it. You are a tool of expression over which I have control. The end.

And there is the nugget, the reminder I'm getting from this mini-machine and this year in general. Pretty much everything we apply our energy to is a tool of expression. Everything we build, all of our actions, words, thoughts, adding up to one projection of self into the world.  Online or in real life, we're in charge of what we're putting out there and what we're taking in. I am in charge of me.

The dual-disciplines of devotion and focus are tools of liberation. They show us our natural boundaries, and insist that we keep them well tended. So, I'm off to turn down the noise on this phone and meditate for clarity of purpose. Heaven knows my purpose is more important than my hair. ♥

On Tuesday, I rushed my family out of the house. They were dragging themselves against the strong current of restfulness out toward the blustery world as I was dragging boxes up from the basement to be filled with the things I've called Christmas my whole life. The tree came down. The knick knacks were wrapped in tissue and ever softening newspaper. All tucked safely away for next year. This year, really.

For the past few years, well, more like ten (have I been a mother that long?) putting Christmas away has given me nothing buy joy. Taping the Christmas tree back into its box with grand dramatic guestures is the grand finale of my triumph. We survived. Then eleven months later (if I could wait that long) there I'd be, chomping at the bit to pull everything out again.

This year, when the things came out, I felt little. These things weren't Christmas at all. Only the tree tugged at my heartstrings. The tree was tradition, so full of my children's short history now. Preschool handprints. Popsicle sticks covered in glitter. Pictures pasted to the bellies of snowmen. Our tree is covered in ornaments that once belonged to our grandparents or were gifted to us by someone special during childhood. Family friends, cousins. There is a weight to it now. It is pregnant with meaning. Our past, their future. The roots that bore me into this new year; this new cycle with a whole new purpose.

This year, Christmas did not feel like Christmas and I couldn't put my finger on it. I wrote about it, but never posted what I'd written, because the sense of waiting--of lack of completion so permeated everything in December. Here is some of what I wrote then:

Every time of year is pretty much my favorite. Truly. Weather delights me in all its forms, in exclusion of extreme heat that is not accompanied by thunderstorms. The turn of the seasons fuels my fire, and advent, the season of waiting honors the process of turning like no other for me.

It's not just the change of seasons, and the coming celebrations that are lending themselves to this turning energy this year. Human beings seem to be at the vertex of their turning as well. Regrettably, we are not as graceful at rebirth as the trees. There is no joy in watching the death and destruction falling all around us. It is easier when the trees are the ones letting go. The suffering is palpable. It is hard to celebrate.

It's striking me that the undercurrent of the energy of Christmas in the U.S. has, for a long while, been triumph. Religious triumph. Commercial triumph. We didn't call it that, certainly, but I think it is what we meant. We said words like 'peace' and padded ourselves with the security of things and beliefs. Oh, so comfortable to be the chosen ones, and the ones with the most stuff at the same time!  Joyful and triumphant.

I have been wandering around looking for triumph, under different titles of course. Tradition. Joy. Cheer. I found the tradition. I found the joy. I found the cheer. They just didn't feel right. All the old ways to do Christmas weren't working-they weren't even desirable. 

Triumphalism. It's clearly been dying for me for a while, what with the greatest triumph being that the whole thing was over. Don't get me wrong. I'm the kind of person who listens to Christmas music all year long, loves baking and cooking for people, loves an opportunity to give and serve, and knows that family is the golden thread that runs through my veins. It's just that November, December, and January are the months I want to creep all the way in, let my soul be immersed in God. December being the climax of this rest, and all that Bing Crosby cheer and the parties and the travel and the whatnot and the general loudness of it all need to just hush up for a hot second so I can hear the voice I want to hear. 

No wonder I've been living for January for so many years.

The silence comes and I can finally hear and think and see straight. This January I am revisioning; feeling my roots plunged so deeply into the heart of my being. The aliveness. The readiness to be present to what is right now. And I am so grateful for last year's lessons--which were discerned with last minute suddenness--appropriate for the drama that was 2016. To have landed both softly and firmly true in my own footsteps in the midst of chaos was a gift I will not forget to live into this new year.

As swiftly as I rushed them out to begin the week Tuesday morning, I'll be rushing my people back in this evening. A weekend of winter's rest and toil--all together--nestled into life. What luxury.

Okay. I got knocked for a total loop there. It's been a crazy month, mostly spent getting my head and heart to work together again. I've been making plans. Big plans. Changes, too.

Right now, I'm mostly excited about going to D.C. in Washington for the march. I just snagged the pattern for my pussyhat, and the perfect yarn is waiting in my stash. I'm not going to regurgitate my November here. The long and the short of it is that November was the birth of activism for me, just as it was for many folks all throughout the country. Any hesitance I had before is gone now. Everytime I start shaking in my shoes over the next commitment to fighting for women in children, the fear is met with a firm command from my heart, "We're doing this." Courage, baby. 

I've been thinking a lot today about the day the first proof for Fierce was delivered to our door. How I fell to the ground and couldn't get up. How I called a friend and sobbed and wailed till I almost puked. The creation of Fierce is something I've celebrated never. It is something I rose up through. I suppose all the next steps will be the same. What I am now is commited, grounded, and ready.

I am writing today to ask you for something. Do not forget what abuse is. Do not forget that possessiveness, jealousy, and control are all warning signs. Do not forget that we are called to be good to each other, for goodness sake. Do not forget that out hearts are the sacred center of us. That tenderness is strength, and boundaries keep us strong. None of that has changed. 

I went from wanderer to warrior this month. It had been coming for a good long time. Still, this awakenening has been painful. If you're in pain out there, and you're wondering what happens now; if you're feeling like surviving didn't mean a thing if the country thinks its okay to rape, dominate, and control, hold on to this: you are not alone. Far from it. We are all being transformed day in and day out. Be present to your pain, forgive, hold on tight to goodness and mercy, and ride up through the storm. You'll find your warrior strength in it. Just don't give up, whatever you do. The struggle is a catalyst for courage, and we're going to need a whole lot of it if we're going to smash the patriarchy. 

Love, Love and more Love, Sisters

Dear Friends, Family, and Strangers,

This is a word on transforming rape culture, and what everyone can do to help.  This is not about who you're voting for, or about politics at all.  The next president isn't going to transform rape culture. 

We are.

For any type of cultural norm to persist, we have to engage in it.  For "locker room talk" to be accepted as a normal part of masculinity, we have to accept that it's normal, encourage it, and close our ears to reports of the assault that is a natural product of blatant objectification.  That has been the way.  Some people still believe "boys will be boys," but many of us stopped buying into that aging lie long ago. 

In fact, many of us find the phrase "boys will be boys" outrageously insulting to the good men we associate with. 

Accepting or encouraging psychosis and misogyny as the normal traits of men deprecates men and boys and is dangerous for women and girls.  Men can and do exhibit kindness, self-control, respect, healthy attachment, constructive power, and consideration regularly--as a lifestyle.

If you are a man (or woman) who learned that disrespecting women (or men) earned you points in the locker room, if you learned the pattern of assault and domination as the path to self-respect and connection, please know that any connection or self-regard that comes from a place of fear is not real and will never be sustainably satisfying. Fear and domination is nothing but an unending downward spiral of anger and hopelessness, demanding escalating expressions of assault and domination to get your "hit" of power and connection.  There is a better, more fulfilling way.  There is great honor in getting help to find a way to love others and take care of yourself healthfully.

Women, we've been playing along with this game, too. Accepting that powerful men get to speak about us this way, or touch us when and how they want to. Feeling, even behaving like the objects culture teaches us we are without knowing why. Claiming our worth from who we're connected to, instead of our innate uniqueness. This is not all conscious, so maybe we've made a stream of choices we don't understand and don't like to think about. 

Why did we say yes when we wanted to say no?  Why were we silent when we wanted to scream?  Why did we laugh at the joke that wasn't funny?  Why did we minimize the experience of our friend when she told us that she's not sure what happened, but when she woke up her pants were down and her legs were wet?  Why have we ever said, "This is no big deal?"

Because we were taught to through both blatant and subtle messages from birth onward.

It's been over ten years since I got conscious about how abuse, misogyny, and rape culture were guiding my choices. And yet, when rape, assault, and abuse are hot topics in the media and people are minimizing the seriousness of these issues, I have to fight to stay in my right mind. 

It matters. It matters. It matters. 

Finally, this morning, after days of staying with the discomfort and disease over the latest rape culture media parade, and the piercing ache that rises in response, I realized what the feeling of panic in me is about. It's about my kids. It's about my nieces and nephews. It's about the cherished children of my friends and friends of my children.  It's about the messages, both blatant and subtle that they are receiving.

Over the past few days I've been nearly sick, not over the media's response to the Trump video, but over the response of the people and clergymen. Please know, this is not judgement of your vote. It's not about your vote at all. This is a request to understand what minimizing the effects and seriousness of this language is saying to our kids and teens who are acclimating to their national culture right now.  They are soaking up our culture like sponges. Even if they have moral or religious guidance that tells them otherwise, the boys are finding out: This is what is allowed. This is what is expected of men. While the girls find out: This is the way it is. This is what I have to tolerate. 

No.

There are so many layers to why we accept abuse and engage either actively or silently in rape culture. On the external layer we may believe it could never be us. We might believe our daughter is so confident and feisty that it could never be her, or that our son knows better than to disrespect women. But what we learn from the many layers of culture in our lives is strong. If you are not careful about how you talk about this in front of your children (grandchildren, students, friends) you could easily reinforce rape culture ideology into their brains without ever intending to do so.

Boys will be boys.
That's just the way men are.
She should get a longer dress.
Power means getting to do whatever you want.
Men just need sex.
They can't control themselves.
These things happen.
It's just locker room talk.
Men are dogs.
She was asking for it.
He was just being a guy.
And on and on and on. . .


We have to be intentional about unraveling these lies.  These lies and the ideas they promote form the bedrock of abuse and inequality. They really are that important. Words matter.

So does action.

We have to be intentional about teaching our children how to respect each other, love each other, and care for themselves.  We have to be intentional about how we explain our vote to our children.  We have to be intentional about saying, "That behavior and language is wrong."  No buts.  No excuses. No minimizing poor behavior by pointing at someone else and saying, "Well, they are worse." No hierarchy of worth based on other people's shame. If we do not teach our children to be intentional about gender relations, culture will teach them to play along -- to follow the rules of dominance and subservience.  Kids everywhere are getting a crash course in the way things are right now.  

I will not accept things the way they are. I will work to consciously change things for myself and my children.

My vote is not going to make that difference this year. No vote ever could. But, my words, actions, and ongoing commitment to my core beliefs will.   

We are all equal. We are all worth the effort it takes to treat each other as such.

There is no caveat in the Golden Rule that makes exceptions for gender differences, or any other differences for that matter.

Let's rise together. 

Here we are.  It is September.  It's a perfect September day, actually.  The sky is the exact shade of September blue that makes me feel like my mom is nearby.  Not the sky toward the horizon, but the deeper blue that's two thirds of the way to the top.  It's in the seventies, and the Sault Ste Marie breeze is in full play.  This September, our third here, is the first that has felt like an Ohio September; probably thanks to the ghastly heat that made its home here throughout the summer.  I have so many September memories.  Budding first love, marching band, then later my tiny babes toddling through fallen leaves for the first time.  There is nothing, nothing, like the first days of autumn. 

I'm sad, though.  It's going beyond the usual homesickness.  This summer was a dream from beginning to end, so saying farewell to it is dropping a shadow on September this year.  We just got home from Disney World, and everything is going to be a letdown after that, no matter where you make your home.  August was steeped in and surrounded by loved people driving far to see us here, and my heart is feeling the miles from here to all the theres so keenly that I could (and do) just sit and cry at random intervals throughout the day. 

That is just healthy sadness. Something to be expected when you live so far from home, but underneath the sadness there's a layer of harsh disappointment mixed with a still tender heart from letting Fierce out into the world.  I smell trouble. 

Depression is an old pal of mine.  We got to know each other quite well in my latest teens and earliest twenties. Learning my way in and out of the shadows was a major part of my early adult life education, hard won with experience, support, and a lot of patience and tenacity. 

Disappointment is a tough emotion for me for reasons I've not yet uncovered, and it often triggers a trip into Depressionland--like Candyland--only greyer and with less opportunities to skip ahead.  Keep the creepy characters on the board, though.  This time, the disappointment involves higher education, another flashing red warning light area for me.  Put the two together and I'm in a ship taking on water. 

This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass.

I'm the little engine scooping water out of the boat with each repetition of the phrase. 

I am enough.  A phrase I nearly choke on in my heavier moments.

When I was roughly 17, there was this day that I told my dad and his friend, who were having a theological discussion, how unafraid I was.  I felt it, too, this unwavering assurance that God had my back, and that nothing could shake me, because faith is just too powerful to be intimidated.  That night I had one of the most disturbing nightmares I'd ever had.  I told my dad about it, and he said, "I thought you were about due for a challenge."

In the midst of the moments that I don't want to get out of bed or leave the house these days, that is the phrase that keeps coming to mind, and it us propelling me forward.  Am I due for a challenge?  Hell, yes, and I'll take it head on, because I've found that my dad was right. When you make a declaration to the world, the universe, whatever, it asks you, "Are you sure?" 

Are you sure you're not afraid? 

How fierce are you, really? 

Fear followed me relentlessly after that dream.  It chased me back inside of a cave I didn't find my way out of for years--nearly a decade.  It buddied up with a battle for worthiness and, together the two just about undid me time and time again. They never quite won.  Not then, and not now, because Grace, the hero of every hour, has nestled herself deeper and deeper into my being with every passing year. 

Honoring the wisdom of my teen self now is part of my daily walk, because I know now that my mouth was not being haughty.  It was speaking a powerful truth.  A truth whispered lovingly to my tender heart by that beautiful still small voice:  Fear is swallowed up by faith. 

What I didn't understand when I was a teenager was that the Are you sure? moment isn't a threat, it's an invitation. 

Come on, come on, Grace cries, Saddle up! Fear wants to keep you safe and small, but I want to see you grow.  It's going to feel risky.  You've got to face all of your fears.  You've got to be willing to fall.  It's okay, though, because my first aid kit is pretty powerful, trust me. 

I'm in, and I know there's no shortcut. The only way through today is through it. This has not stopped me from looking for a shortcut through the darkness over the past few weeks, but in my heart I know what's real.

The September blue sky.  The memories of beautiful days gone by.  Healing. Love that travels for miles and miles and miles.  Love that just cannot be stopped.  Peace that feels its way into brokenhearted disappointments. Silver linings. Showing up. Strength training. Grace's top notch first aid kit.  Rest.  And the willingness to be risen again by all of it, and through all of it. 
.
.
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So, just how fierce are you?
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Let's find out. 

All the people in this house deal with anxiety.  Even our littlest one, nearing seven is having the anxiety bug drop in on her.  It runs in the family.  However, we are becoming masters of anxiety management thanks in part to this book.
 
Seriously--if you're muddling through your child's chronic anxiety, this book is a super hero.  Not everything in it works for both kids, but there's something that works for each of them in that little gem.

Last night, Amelia and I were talking about how much we love visualization, and I led her through a traditional visualization exercise.  You know the bit:  water, a tree, flowers, wonderful breezes, and glorious peace.  Then she asked for a turn!  Sure, I say, and settle in for what I expect will be a repeat of what I'd just said.  

Nope.  

Close your eyes, she says, and imagine you're standing in front of a corner store.  You go in, she says, and buy TEN packages of bacon.  Then you go home and invite all the people in the neighborhood to your house.  You eat bacon, she says, and play and enjoy all the people.  

There were more details, but I can't remember them, because I was laughing too hard.  At first I just found the whole thing funny, but then, the genius of my daughter's thinking sunk in. The answer to anxiety is not always peace and solitude and gentle breezes.  Sometimes the answer to anxiety is pleasure and joy and people.  

Oh, yes. They keep teaching me with their wide open hearts.  

Wishing you peace, solitude, gentle breezes, pleasure, joy, and lots and lots of good people today. 

Oh, and bacon.  Don't forget the bacon. ;) 

Hearts are stretching everywhere.  All day yesterday, my mantra was double down on love.  Willfully choosing love is becoming my habitual response to these events.  My shock turns to horror turns to rage turns to sadness turns to love for all people.  Just, seriously.  Our hearts are stretching deep and wide.  

Do you remember that song? Deep and Wide?  There's a fountain flowing deep and wide.  That one has come back to me lately.  I'm so grateful there is room for all of us in the fountain.  All of us.

Last week, Fierce Solidarity had some of its first events at one of the world's hidden gems.  Camp Skyline is a fountain of its own. It lives and breaths Love into campers and employees every year. I'm so blessed and grateful to get to call the directors of the camp my friends.  Shana and Matt are beautiful, grounded, heartworking people, and they've just begun their big summer work for the year. During the busiest time of year, they made space in the camp schedule to bring me in to talk with counselors and to host a book launch, both of which were invaluable experiences for me.  I feel so supported I can hardly take it all in.  

But what I feel most of all is honored.  Being gifted with this work feels like the best of all honors to me.  That I get to do it, and that others choose to support me as I do is humbling in the best possible way.  The debriefing from my first events (made so thorough by theamazing notes my husband took during the event he attended--lucky me to have such an invested partner) has looked and sounded a lot like a raspy, tear choked thank you followed by even grittier determination to press on.

So thank you, thank you, thank you.  And, what's next? 

​