Tender and true….a tiny tidbit

Stay soft.

And open.

And tender.

And true.

I think this is what hope looks like.

“Perfectionism is just fear in big shoes and a mink coat.”
– Elizabeth Gilbert

Of treasure and need….


This is for your hungry places,
where  the cold fingers of need creep up through your thin-worn soles,
and you feel small against the bluster of a wind that would slice right through.

For the places where you go mostly alone,
hunted down by fear that raises stiff the hairs on your neck,
the kind of fright that preys on perception
and sends you into scurry
like the monster beneath your childhood bed.

We all have those places where we feel found wanting,
towered over by a freakish sock puppet shadow
screaming bold and frantic lies.
“Not enough,”  it howls.
Not for you.
For you there’s shortage.
Of provision.  protection. wisdom.  solution.  love and comfort.  health.  belonging.
And whatever that something,  the circumstance lies,
it proves what you’ve always feared:
you’re a failure and alone.
A misfit.


I want to whisper something into that despairing hole of unmet need,
in that very place where you feel the smallest and weakest,
where hot tears puddle in a heart that feels betrayed
by the seeming plenty of those around you.

Things are not always as they seem.
There is enough for you
without cutting into anyone else’s goodness.

This isn’t how your story ends.
There is more,
and there are freshwater waves rushing toward your shores
to sweep away your thirst,
mercy soaking ground gone hard from disappointment
until it’s soft enough to let your dreams break through.

Don’t go bitter
from the spittle of yesterday’s hand-me-down beer.
Dive deep,  little pepper flake,  where the grateful waters flow:)
You’re gonna harvest pearls from these hard,  craggy shells
and find the treasure buried for you there.


“Where there is ruin,  there is hope for a treasure.” – Rumi

(I’ll be sending a copy of my last zine of the year to Susan Troccolo
of Life,  Change,  Compost.
I just read her freshly published book
of essays on friendship and breaking new ground.
Wonderful read!  The Beet Goes On.  Go see:))

Hope sings the wind…..

I’m loving the wind in the last of the leaves,
how it whispers “let go” to limiting things I’ve believed,
and come awake to fresh mercy rolling in with each day.
to the way healing can fill  cracks in broken things
and nothing ever stays the same
but hope remains,  they drift and sing,
yeah hope,  like an anchor,
it stays.

And in the swirl and changing tide,
there comes flooding in a generous sweep of life,
something like a breeze that sends leaves flying,
and what drifts down from the updraft is unseen
but keenly felt,  like snow on bare skin,
and suddenly it’s snowing down a miracle
and nothing has changed exactly,
except for everything
and it’s always surprise,
no matter how often it happens.

confetti marigolds

I love how it comes,
the shift that sets the fracture so that you’re moving again
in the sweet buoyancy of that thing that I think is named “grace,”
scooped up and carried,
all for the price of a simple,  surrendered yes.
No heavy lifting required.
This is wealth.

I often wonder,  when I come back around to reclaim
what I go numb to when fear storms up a fog
and I can’t remember what I forgot to know,
that the heaviest thing we’re asked to do
is to trust and then let go.

It's a generous wind blowing,  stirring long-discarded dreams:)
 Put out your hands and drop down in your belly to that place
 where you open and give your yes
 or close up hard and grit your no.
 Love waits for you there
 with a wealth of grace
 waiting to be
 the breeze you ride
 out beyond the breakers
 and into the song of your deep:)

These are yes and go moments.
Don’t think them away.

“Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forest of our lives.”
-Mary Oliver

I want to give away a copy of my November zine;  leave a comment and I’ll plunk your name into the hat this week:)
I love it when you share……thanks for joining the conversation.

A singing river runs through it…..

I’m wrapping up a long and demanding growing season with Rivergreen,  our family business and livelihood,
and it’s been a bumpy go,  with me longing for change,  body and soul.
I’ve been wading out deep in swirling waters,  listening for the yes of what my heart is thumping,
and I’m answering a knocking and a nudge
to build something new,  not with soil and seed and stone,
but with the words I love to cobble and craft into copy and stories and song.

I’m happiest there in the river,  swept along and caught up in the flow,
choosing words like pebbles and sifting through rhythm
to paint pictures to share and to show.
It’s my growing joy to wordsmith for others,  giving voice to their own heart’s rustle and rhyme,
until their story is fleshed out and finding big air,
and they’re hearing their own vein of song.


And I’m calling it Singing River,  like the sound of Muscle Shoals,
because I feel the life-blood in my spirit,
the ripples,   the current,  the pulse.

And I carry a tenderness for the people
who lived here first.
Somehow part of my heart beats on a drum for them,
for recompense,  for healing of the land,
for every way that a collective heart can be restored.
I want what I build and leave behind
to honor these,  and the River who runs through it all.

Opening for business soon:  The Singing River Wordshop.
Big dreams and baby steps:)


“So this,  I believe,  is the central question upon which all creative living hinges:
Do you have the courage to bring forth the treasures that are hidden within you?”
-Elizabeth Gilbert


The rumble and the roar…..

Do you know it, the strange sort of strangle
that can slip through sideways like a ghost,
a creeping sort of vapor that hushes away your voice
until it’s tied up inside a dream you can’t remember?

And then Love sends a rescue and life pricks sharp and draws blood,
shaking you hard from the spell
and you feel it rumbling,  bellydeep,  this awakening,
and you crawl back into the dream to reclaim what you lost

and what you find is a song that your fingers ache to play
but they don’t know the notes anymore
until you wrestle free the music hiding still inside your soul
and you ride it like a wave ’till you’re untangled.

It’s where I’ve been and I want to say it sucks because it hurts
but I’m re-naming it adventure,
leaning in for the journey with a barefoot heart.
A walkabout with Spirit.  A terrible beauty.
And with every step further in I take,  fresh joy comes rushing up like strength,
and I feel some years peeling back away from places gone silent
until it sounds a little something like a roar.

Oh don’t hide from healing when it comes:)

“The thing about chaos,  is that while it disturbs us,  it too,  forces our hearts to roar
in a way we may secretly find magnificent.”
-Christopher Poindexter

I’ll be sending a copy of my October Ripplesongs to Barbara of Long Hollow
with a whole lot of joy and thanks:)