Rooted in Hope

September 19, 2016

This is a flash fiction piece (less than 1000 words) I wrote for a contest recently where they assign genre, location and an object. Here’s what I wrote within the 48 hour deadline with an action/adventure story set in the rainforest with a toy boat. Enjoy!


The only sound louder than her pounding heart was the screaming of the howler monkeys. She and Ted were crashing through the underbrush as small darts and larger spears whizzed by their ears. They sprinted as fast as they could across the rug of knotted roots on the rainforest floor. The same roots that they had come looking for were now likely going to kill them. They were losing ground. The shaking of trees and leaves in their peripheral vision was getting closer. They just needed to stay ahead long enough to make it to the pick up point on the river.

When Bernadette and Ted had left the Awa village ten minutes ago, they were grateful. The trip had been a success, despite the constant humming of insects in her ears, the sweat that tricked steadily down her spine into the waistband of her pants from morning until night. With Ted’s direction, they had found the Awa tribe and met their Shaman, a man famous for his herbal cancer cures. Bernadette’s sister had been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer just a few months ago. Charlotte was the healthy one. She was the triathlete who’d never smoked a day in her life. Bernadette had made a sport of channel surfing while she smoked half a pack of Camel Lights a day. But as the cancer wound its way through Charlotte’s lungs, the fear wound through Bernadette. It peeled the weight off of both of them, left them both choking for oxygen and struggling for breath. And when the doctors began to shake their heads and claim their hands were tied, that’s when the trip to Brazil came up. After two weeks here, Ted and Bernadette were heading back to Colorado with a bag of ground herbs and two small boats made from palm leaves tied together with vines that the village children had given them as parting gifts.

As they wound their way through the thick underbrush towards the pick up point, the buzzing of the insects seemed to drop away, the sound of macaws in the canopy of the trees went silent. It was as though the needle has been ripped off the soundtrack of the forest they’d been listening to for two weeks. Bernadette felt the hair go up on the back of her neck. And as she looked over at Ted, the first dart flew by and lodged in the trunk of the tree just three feet to their right. Ted looked at her wide-eyed and yelled, “RUN” as the howler monkeys began to scream in the trees.

While the Awa tribe was peaceful, the Massacos to the South were aggressive and territorial. The Awa told a story of watching one of their fellow tribe members be captured and skinned alive as punishment for trespassing on their lands. The only chance for survival, they said, was to run.

Bernadette yelled out in pain as her foot caught on a thick root and she came down with a crash onto the floor of the forest. Ted was just behind her and without skipping a beat, scooped her up under her arms and placed her back on her feet. A whoop went up behind a thick wall of green leaves. They were closer. Bernadette was choking as she tried to get air in her lungs, tears running down her face, desperate to find a way out. She and Ted continued to pound through the rainforest and wound themselves closer and closer to the river. Bernadette could see it, the brown water dully flowing by. She heard a thump and a gurgle just behind her. As she turned, Ted looked at her with surprise, a four foot spear stuck through his chest as he slowly fell to his knees and mouthed the words again, “Run.”

Bernadette was getting closer to the river, but so were the arrows. As she made it to the river bank, she knew she had little chance of making it down the half mile to the meet up point. Her only chance to save her baby sister was to get these herbs to Charles who was waiting down river. Hands shaking, she pulled the bag of ground roots out of her bag and placed it in the small leaf boat. After a second, she pulled her ring off her finger and placed it in the small boat with the herbs and shoved it out into the water just as she heard a crash behind her.


Charles waited for Bernadette and Ted at the pick up spot with the boat engine idling. They were thirty minutes late and despite the heat, his hands were starting to get clammy. He’d been watching the banks of the river for a sign of them and had seen nothing. Charles looked to the water and as he looked up river he thought he saw something unusual floating down the river. As it made its way slowly through the eddies towards his boat, he could tell it was a carefully constructed toy boat made of leaves with a small bag and a silver ring in it. A ring not unike the one that Bernadette wore. Charles choked on his surprise. As he leaned over to pick up the toy boat, a spear whistled just over his head and lodged into the far wall of the boat. He dropped the toy boat back in the water, ducked down and lunged for the throttle. He threw the throttle forward and the boat lurched away from the bank and down the river. As he picked up more speed, the rain of arrows and spears slowed as he gained some distance. He slowly stood up and looked back up the river. Charles watched the small leaf boat with its cargo dip into the wake he’d left behind and slowly sink down in to the dark muddy waters.



August 22, 2016

Sometimes words are my gift, and I sit patiently twisting the sentences, plucking words that don’t add to the bouquet, trimming and rearranging until it’s my version of perfect. Until the words are bent at the perfect angle so that I can hear the rhythm rolling through them down their stems out in to the air and into my lungs. Sometimes I hand these vases of words to people I love. Sometimes I hide them. I’ve got hundreds of half empty vases, sentences stuck at odd angles, or single phrases starkly jutting into the air, or vases that have tipped over with too many words, thoughts spilling out across the floor.

Sometimes words are my weapon, a razor I use to slit the throats of others, quiet and neat, leaving little blood and tremendous damage. Or I hold those words up in the air over my head while I’m shaking in rage, an axe I wildly swing with my nostrils flared, blind in my fury. I am careful because I know their power. I have hundreds of word scars, dotting my body like moon craters.

Presented or brandished, words are my air. Whether I am shouting with joy or army crawling from one day to the next, it’s often words that I reach out to. But sometimes I forget to inhale. I hold my breath, sure that I can get on without them, until I wait so long that I end of gasping to get them back to my body.

This year has been a difficult one. I am molting. I’ve done it before, shed old skins that no longer fit. Habits, patterns, or trains of thought that could no longer stretch to cover the curves of my body, the angles of my mind, or the arcs of my soul. Molting is painful. Mostly because I insist on hanging on to parts of that old self that don’t fit. I thrust the threadbare self, hoping it will cover me as I grimace red-faced behind it. But if I could just let it go, instead of holding on white knuckled, it would get easier. The words help me loosen my grip.

The hardest part about molting is loosening my grip on the people. No matter how long they’ve been gone from my life, it’s hard to look at a photograph of those that I once loved with all of my heart and wonder when it was that they were lost to me and me to them. For others I can remember the exact moment they slid from my grasp, the irrevocable minute they left forever.

The most important lesson I’ve learned so far this molting season is that people are never truly lost. They are still winding through life’s reddened canyons. And while I may not be there to see it, I take solace in knowing that they have people to help them float along, paddle over rapids, swirl through eddies, or pull them over to the banks when they are too tired to go any longer.

Those that have truly passed are not beyond the reach of memory. The words I breathe, the stems and blooms I carefully arrange can bring me back to them – to the gap in their teeth, their vanilla smoky smell, the soft, tanned leather of their skin. These simple things, knowing the people that you love are happy or at peace, make the metamorphoses just a little bit easier. Loosening a grip doesn’t have to mean letting go.

Back to the words. I’m wondering where they will take me. I’m hoping to fill up a lot more vases. I’m hoping I can line them and follow their shadows back to where I should be. My new skin awaits.


Prologue and First Chapter Feedback

January 18, 2016

Ok folks – big favor to ask. I’m in the process of applying for a writing seminar with two of my favorite female writers. But here’s the deal – you can’t just throw them a check and expect to get in – you have to get accepted. And I need to submit ten pages, which luckily for me, is the same length as my prologue and my first chapter. So while my inner critic is going crazy, I’m looking for some general audience feedback. I know my poor writing group is sick to death of it and have been total troopers watching me baby it week after week until they challenged me to “kill my darling” (which is as bloody and painful as it sounds) and then subsequently helped me get the defibrillator out and resuscitate it into its current form. So if you’re so inclined, give it a read. I’d love to hear your thoughts.

Prologue (Snow)

Eskimos have over 50 words for “snow.” For fine snow, soft, deep snow, drifting snow, crusts of snow, or fallen snow floating on water. It’s rumored that they have even more for sea ice; large hulking floes, floes with overhanging shelves, sheer vertical blocks of ice, and even one for ice that is dotted with holes like Swiss cheese. So many words to hold the gentle movements and dappled light of a familiar landscape – words so real you can feel them float over your lips and taste them on your tongue.

And yet at 34, as I stood by the virtual smoking wreckage of the life I had planned for myself, I realized I couldn’t find one word to capture the type of loss I felt. Nothing to capture how it felt standing in the perfumed lobby of a funeral home watching the hearse drift slowly down the driveway to deliver my mother’s body. I stood stiff and fragile trying to pick out an overpriced urn, careful not to move too quickly, or else my liquid insides would begin to spill out of me onto the grey carpet. Or just two weeks later, huddled in the front seat of my husband’s car, that the hope I had found in the twins that were growing in my belly was lost. Nor words that could capture the sound that tears make as they fell on a white sheet, a delicate tapping noise, not unlike a tiny heartbeat, which the doctor had just told me would never again come from my womb.

And still I couldn’t find the words. Words to describe the type of loss that I had scraped my white knuckles raw on. Words to describe the type of pain that I choked and gagged on. Words to respond to the offered condolences that lay flat like a doormat or rang like a doorbell at a house where no one was home.  There was only the sense that I was stumbling blindly, fingertips grazing the hallways of my life, trodding forward, and nodding slowly to those who apologized for those things and people that have left me or would never be.

But eventually, there was the coming back.

And slowly, the life that I pulled the curtains against began to shine again. While my bones still ached from these losses, I realized that they would not break. And the words began to trickle back in, bringing more light, and helping me to stand straighter. There was a whisper of life calling me outside. As I took the first few steps through the front door and out into the world again, I remembered what is it was to feel again life’s bold beating heart, swim in its bright, vivid colors, and linger with the sweetness of each and every moment, every memory.

This is the story of that journey.


Chapter One: Single Red Lines

I couldn’t tell if that single red line staring back at me from the pregnancy test was sullen or smug. Sullen as it reflected my frown, a Charlie Brown squiggle-faced expression peering in to its display; or smug because it was parroting back the small voice in my head that had grown louder with every month as it whispered in my ear, “You can’t get pregnant.” Most likely it was neither, but as my attempts to become pregnant had morphed from an expectation to a fist fight with my own ovaries, I found myself looking for friends or foes on either side of the action. Clearly the pregnancy test was just the ref, keeping tabs on the fight and at the end of every month, raising the winner’s arm in the center of the ring. This was the eighth       time I watched the pregnancy test raise that “not pregnant” arm, reaching it straight across the display with slow determination. It was almost as if it were a forgone conclusion.

It kept its composure, kept its celebration to a minimum as it darkened on the white background; far more than I could as I held its housing in my shaking hands.I tipped the test to one side and then to the other as my panic rose in my chest, feathers brushing up against my ribs as it got ready to take flight. I felt like I had been fighting for months. I was ready for flight. The panic of the single line was only heightened by the fact that I just broke the rules. I had been so conscious and careful, tiptoeing around my own body for months, treating all of my thermometers and tests like surgical tools.

So I got nervous after I picked the test up off the counter, because that wasn’t something you were supposed to do. Don’t pick it up and for the love of all things holy – absolutely do not tip the display back and forth I thought, as I tipped it carefully left and then carefully right. In my mind’s eye, I could almost see a woman in a white lab coat, pale pink lipstick and hair that clung to her head in tight curls who looked vaguely like my grandmother, wagging her finger and shaking her head at me. I hated that. Wagging fingers. Most people’s parents teach them not to point. Mine never did, and it didn’t matter because I was never really a pointer anyway. But the wagging finger made my blood boil every time. On my first day of sixth grade, I stood at the corner across the street from the hulking brick building, having just walked from the high school parking lot. The junior high school and the high school were just a block apart. Moments ago my sister had swerved our ’74 canary yellow Toyota hatchback into a parking spot. As I got out and stood nervously by the passenger door toying with my hair and waiting for some advice on how to survive my first day of middle school, my sister grabbed her back pack and shut the door, walking away without a glance. I watched a stream of students, all of whom looked bigger than me, walk towards the intersection and wait at the light. It seemed like they knew the rules. They knew what to do and how to do it. I didn’t like doing things for the first time. I didn’t like not knowing what to do. I didn’t ever want to be the stupid girl. There was really no worse fate in our family than to be stupid. But I needed to get to school so I pretended I had walked there a million times before as I made my way to the intersection and stood on the corner, tracing invisible designs with the toe of my shoe on the sidewalk. I got lost in the terrors of my imagination of what home room with Mrs. Adams would be like, looked up to see the light change, and without thinking, stepped toward the street. Immediately I heard a loud whistle, turned to see the crossing card waving me back. Instead of leaving it at the overly aggressive gym teacher whistle, she began waving her finger and shaking her head at me once I had take the half step back up on to the curb. I saw a deep, deep red, and it was reflected in the rosiness that climbed up my neck to my ears like a vine. I was so angry I wanted to cry. I looked around to see if anyone had seen my massive, first-day-of-sixth-grade faux pas, but no one appeared to have noticed. When the light did change and I made my way across the street in a river of students, I decided to flip that crossing guard the bird. I had my hand pressed down on my jeans so my defiance was only slightly visible, but still gave me satisfaction as I felt the tip of my left middle finger graze the denim of my new Guess jeans.

Leaning over the counter in my bathroom, I looked back down at the test and couldn’t help thinking that there was something wrong. Maybe one reason the red line hadn’t twinned from a single to a double was that my pregnant pee, bursting with pregnant lady hormones, hadn’t made it all the way into the test. I could see all of those hormones, trying to launch themselves from the tip of the test, fat and waddling their way up the pregnancy test stick, holding on to the plastic side to take a rest before they made it up to the display. Did I hold the test in my urine long enough? It’s possible I hadn’t given those chunky girls enough time to hold on to the strip. Maybe I had the tip pointed upwards in the stream (another pregnancy test no-no)? Could there be something wrong with the test? Just like a two-tailed coin, maybe this test was only capable of showing one line, no matter the circumstances? Maybe this was a bad batch with a broken pregnancy urinary yardstick?

My panic went from brushing my ribs to sweeping against my entire chest, rattling my lungs to exit and made my breathing sound like a rusted fan. Maybe this entire brand of test was bad. Truth be told, this was the second line of tests I had used. Because at first, choosing a test from the wide array at the local CVS had seemed fairly benign. I looked at a few, turning the boxes over in my hands, reading each of their claims on simplicity and accuracy. Some claimed to have the response sooner than others, “Only brand that can tell you six days sooner!” Others touted response rates, “rapid results in one minute.” One even exclaimed that it gave you results in words instead of symbols, “Easy to read results in words!” They all claimed 99% accuracy, and only differed in their pastel packaging, pretty pinks, blues, and purples. After another minute gaping at the tests, I reached my arm out towards the shelf, grabbed one that was the closest to my hand and was not a generic brand, and threw it in my red plastic basket along with some Advil and sunscreen. I shook my head. How crazy was it to have all these tests that did exactly the same thing? I remember thinking – what did it really matter? And as Tony Bennett once wisely said, “Life teaches you how to live it, if you live long enough,” I have come to expect that if there is something that I disdain, anything I pass judgment on, something that I “will never do” inevitably ends up squarely in my lap, staring at me with puppy dog eyes saying, “I told you so.” And my flippant choice of pregnancy tests would become far more serious in the coming months.

My first few tests gave the results using a plus or minus sign. Pregnant or not pregnant. A flashback to my very simple addition and “take away” lessons from Mrs. Wilson’s first grade class. But the more tests that came back with a minus instead of a plus, the harder it was to face the minus. I feared it. More accurately, the more difficult it was for me to face the lack of a plus. With every minus I was reminded of all the additions I was missing out on; the warmth of a baby sleeping on my chest, the tiny fist curling around my index finger, beautiful blue eyes staring back up at me. I was not making any additions to the world or to my family. I was not getting more than the standard grade. Instead, I kept getting minuses. They indicated I was less than, that I was subtracting from the world by my continued inability to get pregnant. For the first four months, I was never a plus. And it was the maddening absence of a plus that sent me back to CVS. To look at those boxes more carefully, and pour over the differences in an effort to ensure the next test gave me a different result. I headed to the checkout line in the drug store with a new test. One line or two. And while the single red line was still technically a minus, it didn’t seem as judgmental. One lined compared to two seemed more humane. Until now. Now I was reminded that a minus was still a minus.

I had always thought that I would get pregnant quickly. My parents often told the story about how I had been a “surprise,” conceived at the Hotel Daniela in Florence while they were on vacation and my mother was on birth control. She was 34 at the time, had an eight year old and five year old already. I came across a picture not too long ago that was taken as I stood in the doorway of the Hotel Daniela sixteen years after the fact with a big smile on my face, grinning at the camera with the excitement of a teenager standing below the sign that was her namesake. What was not captured on film was that smile as it melted into horror as I realized I was standing in the doorway of a hotel where my parents had once had sex.

I assumed that same “the wind blows and you’re pregnant” circumstances would apply to me. So while Chris and I were starting later than my parents had, I still felt that the odds were in our favor. We had decided to “pull the goalie” in June of that year. After the summer passed without us getting pregnant I went to see my doctor. She assured me that after more than a decade of birth control, my body would need to adjust. It would need to shake of the shackles of hormone regulation, begin to regain its own rhythm as it jogged down the street under the trees, stretching its legs and building up its pace. The stress of my new job hadn’t helped, adding hurdles and obstacles in the way. But they were starting to clear and for the past few months, all we had was open road. I was ready to be pregnant.

We had done everything right this month. Chris and I had sex at exactly the right time according to the ovulation test I had taken. I had cross-checked the days using a tracking calendar, and just to be sure, had mapped by temperature using a basal thermometer. A few friends that are church-goers said prayers. Others sent their thoughts, good energy, or big hugs. I meditated, exercised, and slept well. I had already started to follow the diet of a pregnant woman – no more nitrates, sushi or alcohol. I had even taken the drastic steps to kick caffeine to the curb a few months back. It was a tough break up. He grumbled and slammed the door on his way out.

I’d often think about the showers, the registries, the nursery, and hopefully, the little baby girl that would allow me to be a different type of mom. As a mom, I’d mirror my own mother’s creativity, her strength, and her passion. I would put her selfishness, her need for drama, and her addiction in a box on the top shelf in the closet that my children would never find it. And I kept feeling that. And each month passed with just a single line on the pregnancy test. I felt deep in my bones that this test would look different than the others. This was the month that the display would have two lines instead of one. And these past few days, my body felt different. It felt fuller, more whole. My skin felt fresh, my hair thick. Those two lines would tell me that there were now two people in my body instead of just one. That I was now an equal to all of my friends who had children, that I was finally contributing and joining the world of motherhood.

But this test was no different. It had just one.





And with that, my hopes of having a baby flatlined for the eighth month in a row.



2016 New Year Resolutions

January 9, 2016

New Year’s Resolutions. A very hot topic on social media this past week. As a serial list maker, I honestly don’t think they’re so bad. It’s both exciting and calming for me to take the time to sit and think about what I want to achieve in the next year. But it can get scary. So to keep the resolution process from becoming daunting or overwhelming, I break it into two parts – a theme for the year and some specific goals. The theme sets the guiding principle for the year. I frame the goals more as aspirations. By doing so, my ability to accomplish them or fail at them are not an indication of my self-worth, they just mean I was more or less busy, more or less focused, or prioritized some things over others. It also allows me the leeway to come home and lay like broccoli on the couch sometimes and not feel guilty.

So let’s start with the theme. The theme is really just one word that helps me to focus, set goals, keeps me grounded and helps me to tackle the most important challenges in my life at the moment. For 2015, it was gratitude. This was mostly because 2013 and half of 2014 was such a shit show. So it felt right to spend last year focused on having gratitude for everything in my life from the big stuff – friends and family, a roof over my head, a challenging career, and good health to the little things – the sigh of a contented pup getting belly rubs, Monarch butterflies that cocooned and hatched out on our front porch, or the smell of sage in the canyon where we walked the dogs.

Gratitude is still a focus. It always will be. But for 2016, I needed a new word. Something relevant to life’s most recent surprises. And I landed on the word surrender. And lest you think that surrender = giving up (which is most certainly the hell does not), let me provide more context.

I had my entire life fairly well planned out by the time I was 24. Ten years later, standing by the virtual smoking wreckage of that vision, it forced me to rethink who I wanted to be. It was a lesson that while I certainly had choices to make (like being happy – happiness is a choice), life also does whatever the hell it wants to do. And your job is to react. The tighter you hold on, the bumpier the ride, but if you can loosen your grip a bit and just allow it all to flow a bit, you’re be far less battered and bruised in general. Sometimes your best choice is just to throw your hands up in the air and say, “Fuck it!”

I was reminded of this again this past year. While 2015 started with a lot of promise and momentum, it ended with me carrying a lot of fear in my body. Fear I won’t ever accomplish some life goals – like finish this book. Or writing “enough.” Fear at work that despite my best efforts, I was failing. Fear that with my work/life imbalance, I was letting people down that I care about. Fear that things wouldn’t change. Fear that they would. So you can see – lots of fear. And it would pool in my belly, and sometimes it would reach into my chest, or up into my brain. I’ve found that surrendering is the best strategy to transform fear – to leach out the venom. Fear can’t hold paralyze you if you don’t give it the power to do so. And when I don’t hold on so tightly to things being a certain, very specific way, it allows for things in my life to unfold more naturally and without fear.

So with that said, let me outline the specifics of what I’d like to unfold in 2016 (my SMART goals in aspirational clothing):

  • Exercise regularly. Doing something I like that won’t kill me or put me in the hospital for four days. I am honestly a different person when I exercise. It also gives me some more of that illusive life balance thing. And to be clear, I’m not aiming for Rock-like quads. So let’s aim for a minimum of three times a week and see where we go.
  • You want to know something that really gives you perspective? Meditation. And as much as I know that, and I can tell you how different I feel when I do it regularly (see above for exercise) I come up with all kinds of crazy shit not to do it. For Christ’s sake it just involves sitting quietly for 20 minutes every day – how hard is that? But just as I sit down I think it may be a good time to unload the dishwasher. Or send an email. Or read this book here on the table in front of me. Or I’ll find I suddenly have a very cute dog beak in my lap. So I need to stop with the distractions and stay steady with my zen ninja shit. Same frequency – minimum of three to four times per week.
  • Finish this fucking book. Whoeee this is a big one. All kinds of crazy fears here. Fear that I’ll never finish it. Fear that I will. Fear that people will hate it. Fear that people will love it. Fear that no one ever reads it. It’s no wonder I can’t finish this shit. This is where the surrender part comes in. And if I can just give myself some space to write it, where I don’t feel like I’m disappointing anyone, I’m going to get it done. 2016.
  • Be present. I live far more in my brain than I do in my body. My noggin has a tendency to whirl along at warp speed. When I get really overwhelmed, it’s like a game of Frogger up in there. All these thoughts whiz past and it’s all I can do to get keep my focus without being run over. When I’m present, all of that street noise disappears. I can hear, listen and enjoy whatever I’m doing NOW. And that’s nice. And refreshing. And allows me to spend amazing time with amazing people. And to quote Mr. Miyagi, I don’t end up “Stuck in middle. Squish – just like grape.”
  • Swear less. Ha ha. Fuck that. Who am I kidding? It’s both sad and amusing to me that most people give me gifts or make jokes on FB about my apparent Tourette’s like inability to keep my language clean. I’m OK with it. Though it would be helpful for me to remember to shut my pie hole around small children. I’ll add that one to the resolution list.

So there you have it folks – my plan for 2016 in a nutshell. I’m hoping that my dedication will be enough, but I also welcome some kind words or a sharp elbow if I need it to support me and hold me accountable. At the very least, through this blog, I hope to amuse and engage you through some fun writing as I update you on my progress and other wild adventures. Cheers!






Walk Tall

December 11, 2015

My friend Abby has two of the best words of advice I’ve ever been given. Walk tall. They’re not so different from the advice my sister gives me when she is helping me dust myself off after having busted my ass once again on life’s crooked sidewalk, “Chin up, tits out.” They are both brilliant and wise and haven given me the gift of words – my sister by teaching me to read and Abby for bringing me back to writing after years of allowing it to gather dust in the shadow of my fears. I love them both fiercely and they are both gaining one more year of wisdom this week.

There are some days and weeks when I feel strong and tall, long-limbed and loose, and grounded with gratitude. But there are also weeks, like these past few, where I feel small and lost, huddled up and bobbing along, while I struggle to find a horizon to set my sights on as everything churns and shifts around me.

As luck would have it, this week I came across something I had written in a writing workshop years ago with Abby. The exercise was to write a letter – from anyone and to anyone – to tell a story or give some advice. I chose to write a letter to my younger self. Good advice, that apparently, I still need to be reminded of to this day:

Stand up straight, for god’s sakes. Don’t waste your long-legged youth hunched into corners of self-doubt. Get rid of those bangs, they don’t hide that bastard step-child of a nose you have and it only serves to hide the truth in your eyes. Ease up on the make-up, the war paint (as your grandfather called it) was never something you were taught to wear. You wear it as awkwardly as you stumble in those silver spangled heels.

Focus more on your hopes than your fears. The what ifs should be the wind that pushes your dream clouds across the skies of your mind. They are not the harbingers of storms.

Yes, you are smart. Please stop waiting for someone to tell you. It will not be in the books you read, on a billboard, or etched in the ink of your boyfriend’s tattoo.

Your failures are your successes. They are not things to carry around in your purse like rusted razor blades. They are yours – THAT is the shadow you should wear on your eyes and paint your face with.

Use your gifts. They are not meant to be kept in a box, placed on a table, or looked at wistfully. Break the box so you can’t put them away. Shatter the table so that you have no choice but to hold them in your shaking hands and use them every day.

Let the seeds of disappointment grow green-leafed hopes. Tend to them carefully, fighting off the plagues of selfish relationships. Use water to feed the plant, keep it away from the blight of family doubts.

Trust. You’ve done well to place the bird nest of your heart in the hands of others, to carefully rebuild it when it has been dropped or stepped on. But you need to learn to place it in your own branches, trust the strength of your roots, your ability to bend in the storms and stretch in the sunshine.

Trust your next steps and stride confidently into the future. Walk tall.


An introduction for those that don’t know me (all two of you reading this blog)

November 5, 2015

I’ve loved words all my life. At least since I first knew them. My sister taught me to read at the age of four in the damp chill of our basement, our brown fur beanbags pushed side to side on the slate floor. She leaned over me with a book, her finger tracing words as they tumbled in fits and starts from my mouth, some of them catching on my tongue. As I read more on my own, I would drag out my mother’s electric blue typewriter and copy the words from the page, watching the letters punch the paper and only getting only a page or two in before I left the typewriter humming to go outside and play with the dog. I spent every Sunday morning across the kitchen table from my mom with a stack of dictionaries and thesauruses as she wrestled with the New York Times crossword puzzle. She would take a sip of coffee and call out a word, and I would rush to find them, thinking that the faster I found them, the more likely we’d be able to pin the puzzle into submission.

The more words I learned, the more they filled me. I wrote my first poem in sixth grade for in Mrs. Adam’s class. It was the color and consistency of cotton candy, a melodramatic mess about moving away from my best friend in New Jersey. But I got to read it for parent’s night in a packed middle school library and for the first time, felt good about being the tallest girl in school. Fast forward through high school, I stepped on to campus with the desire to be a business phenom and promptly enrolled as an econ major. But with the advent of my first “D” and my favorite poet coming for a semester, I switched to creative writing. I loved it but was fickle. Writing sometimes felt so personal and painful, it was like I was peeling my skin off. Add the ego of a 19 year old to the need for self protection and you get lots of first drafts without revisions. So I fought with my professors over “edited” pieces that were turned in two and three times with no changes coupled with some very creative grammar rules. If ee Cummings could do it, why couldn’t the rest of us?

Once I got out of school, I got away from writing. Moved across the country, lived my life according to the plan I had built in my mind. And then that plan began to fall apart. At first it was just a frayed edge, but as time passed, it began to unravel, the cloth falling apart until I was standing in the middle of my thirties, naked and afraid with one single blue thread in my hand. Writing is part of what helped me weave my life back together. None of these things give me the “right” to be a writer. Anyone can be a writer. And anyone who tells you otherwise is full of shit. I am not published. I have not won contests, awards, or accolades. Writing either holds you in or tips you out of the chair depending on the moment, and why I love it so much. For the days I actually make it to the chair. I’m still the little girl that writes a page and leaves the computer staring in to an empty room to go play with the dogs. To quote Steven Pressfield, Resistance still kicks my ass on a regular basis. But I’m working on it.

Aside from writing, I love food, brussels sprouts in particular, and consider myself a connoisseur (pancetta and carmelized onions, baby). I am a recent convert to the Mini Cooper and am completely obsessed. The tiny rubber mini cooper thumb drive they give to all new owners justified the entire purchase in my mind. I’m a complete and total fitted sheet folding flunkie. I will admit to getting so frustrated that I resorted to watching tutorials on YouTube. I still can’t manage it and half fold and half stuff them into my linen closet. Can anyone fold those fucking things? I’m a frequent dropper of f-bombs. I’m also a repeated auto-correct victim (I’m fairly certain I DON’T mean ducking, Autocorrect, thank you very much). I am a fart joke enthusiast and am not ashamed about it. I am a Springsteen devotee (his music runs in my blood), but have a wide range of musical tastes, reggae and country excluded. Four years in Nashville couldn’t bring out the country in me. Don’t judge. I’m a die hard dog person and immediately skeptical of people who don’t like books or dogs. I am a fertility survivor, member of the tribe of the motherless, and a hopeful memoirist. And most of all, I hope you enjoy this blog.