Just tell the stories…now!

You know how two things that are familiar, separately, can suddenly appear totally different when they wind up close together? Especially if you add in an unexpected wild card, or two?

This is what my world feels like just now.

It has a lot to do with stories.

Yesterday, a friend told me that she was spending hours and hours a day worrying about the current occupant of the Oval Office. What, she asked, did she do about that?

Please be clear that the answer was not mine. It came from the uber-wise Dr.Clarissa Pinkola Estes, whose book, Untie the Strong Woman, I’m reading at the moment, inspired by my Pilgrimage into the mythos of the Black Madonnas.

Because of this book, I who have five college degrees, am beginning to learn some crucial things about world history that I somehow managed to escape thus far.

The one that feels most important to me in this moment is that this is not the first time the world has been here. We have a long history of power-hungry dictator-types trying to secure their positions through fear.

It has never been fun. It has often been effective.

Knowing that, we have other choices.

One of those choices is telling the stories of liberation.

I have some friends who are working hard to do just that.

Our book, Breathing Words, is coming out in September. It’s an anthology. A collection of words by a community of writers. Many of them, stories of overcoming oppression and tragedy, lifetimes in the making, and utterly of the moment.

We’re all busy learning new things. Formatting. Websites. Pinterest. Perhaps even Twitter. Meme making. (See above. Thanks, friends!) Being a writer is complicated in our world. And yet, we have stories to tell.


According to author and teacher, Natalie Goldberg, “To write is to continue the human lineage” (The True Secret of Writing, p. 3). The oral traditions count, too!

Then, this morning, a wild card.

We’re still adapting to the blessing of three dogs rather than two.

Recently, Sarah and Luther have developed a new dynamic. Sarah, as she is fond of doing, stares out the front window.

Luther barks his head off, in these days, even when there’s nothing to bark about.

I devoutly wish he’d shut up.

Suddenly, this morning, in the midst of all these perceptions rumbling in me…a new thought.

But, on the way, a hint from Natalie Goldberg’s Old Friend from Far Away, “Write what’s in front of your face”.

Here’s mine… Three minutes. Go.

Luther has eye problems. He can’t see out the window. He can see Sarah, looking out the window. And he assumes that there is something to worry about. So he worries. And barks. Loudly.

It’s a lot like watching the news, especially these days.

The garbage collectors come two times a week. The recycling folks, yet another. The UPS drivers, a whole lot more often than that. It’s the way our world works in this time, no matter how much we might think barking will help.

Politicians worry about polls. And self-image. They look for scary things to distract us from the hunger for power and self-interest. It doesn’t help, any more than barking does.

What will help is hope. Our hope. And the certainty that we will not always be where we are.

Also, paint. And stories.


Keep up with the news on our anthology project by liking Breathing Words on Facebook. We’d appreciate it!







If you’ve been reading along for a while, you may have heard me tell the story about growing up with a mom who spent my childhood telling everybody that I was the smart kid and my younger sister was the artistic kid.

It took me a while to realize that Mom was doing the best she could. I wouldn’t presume to speak for my sister, but that particular set of labels didn’t work too well for me. In fact, I was literally 40 years old before it occurred to me that it was possible to be both smart and artistic!

I’ve found my own art forms through the years. Words. Quilts. Photography. The odd scribble drawing or unexpectedly satisfying pottery project. And knitted scarves. Miles of them.

This weekend, I set out on a journey. A Pilgrimage, really.

The kind of perspectives that involve loosening my grip on tales I learned to clutch tightly, in order to receive additional, more liberating ones in this moment.

Also art. Painting, to be specific. Not rollers and walls. Canvas and brushes and even an easel, which I sincerely hope comes with training wheels!

Thirty three days of exploring the traditions of the Black Madonnas.

Haunting music and dance. Tea and rose petals.

Women I’ve never met, and yet somehow know already. Community, simultaneously virtual and real.

Utterly amazing leaders, including Shiloh Sophia and Kayleen Asbo.

A red thread around my wrist.

And my granddaughters as my inspiration.

The world they’re growing up in needs more love.

More of the divine feminine.

More art.

And a whole lot more openness.

I made a promise that I’d do what I could. So, Pilgrimage.

You can come along with me!

If you haven’t discovered Sue Monk Kidd and Ann Kidd Taylor’s bestselling book, Traveling with Pomegranates, that could be a good place to start. Or to re-visit in this moment. Along, of course, with The Secret Life of Bees and The Dance of the Dissident Daughter. I’m sure I’ll have some other hints along the way.

We don’t need new hiking boots. Or special tourist visas. Or even a stash of air travel friendly protein bars.

We just need hope. And an openness to more love in the world.

What, really, do we need more than that in such a time as this?

A Trip to Another World

Deep in the winter of 1989, I went with a group of seminary students and one of our professors to visit the far away land of Hungary.

It was just before the old Eastern block fell. Free falling into a world of communist customs agents and Russian tanks thundering through what were once farmers’ fields beside the road.

It was cold. It was dark. It was so very, very different. (Which was, after all, the point.)

Alternative Context. A program designed to get wanna-be preachers outside the familiar worlds where they grew up and into the lives of those who seemed other.

Food was quite an issue.

Red pickled cabbage, the only vegetable we encountered.

Coffee so dark and thick it didn’t require a cup.

Something that resembled liquid peanut brittle for breakfast.

A fabulous bowl of fish soup on the shores of Lake Balanton. If you didn’t mind picking out the eyeballs.

And the infamous “pig jell-o” all gray and jiggly on a platter, full of suspicious chunks, at a village luncheon.

So much I didn’t understand, long before my days of local, seasonal food.

And so much I’ve learned.

We’re having a similar learning experience at our house.

The resident herd of Newfies are going species appropriate real food.

Controversial, perhaps, in some circles. The next logical thing in our world.

They have orthopedic and digestive and allergy problems I haven’t been able to solve so far. Problems that limit their lives.

We’re starting with turkey and, while we have some skill development to work on, it looks like they’re pretty thrilled.

My fears are disappearing.

There was the whole (perceived) germ thing, after years as an O.R. nurse. (Which is way more me than what they’re eating!)

And the hunting and gathering thing which I’m doing lots of myself, still complicated a bit by that recent fall.

Quantities. Timing. Keeping them from mugging each other for a chicken foot.

I started out anxious. And hopeful. And pretending to be confident!

Which is exactly how I’ve felt about every big change in my life.

My local farmer friends are thrilled.

Bill’s stocking up on dishwasher soap.

The ironic thing is that I’m feeding our dogs essentially what we eat. Clean, local, seasonal food.

Sources I trust.

Support for farmers I know.

The beasties might be feeling like they woke up in Hungary for a while. And there’s the whole thing about shifting to one meal a day!  Adjusting to that may take a bit.

I’m hoping they’ll be glad to learn new things. I’m still learning from that trip to Hungary.

And grateful now, more than ever.

Life is for learning!






That Woman

The words you’re about to read come from a dear friend known mostly as “The Peace Dragon Lady.” A survivor of a terrorist attack and cancer, Linda Garrison Ragsdale spends her life teaching kids about making peace and she has an uncanny way of saying what so many of us feel. Especially now. It’s an honor to share her words with you.

In light of the world turning in a direction I’m unacquainted with,
I find as always, my heart leads me back to the place I need to be.
In a world so undefined and filled with illusion, I want to be very clear what kind of American I am.

I am the grown up child
Who forever feels her hand over her beating heart
And hears herself pledge, “indivisible with Liberty and justice for all.”
I meant it then.
I mean it now.

I am the American woman, who would not choose abortion as a young woman,
But know that it is a choice for me to make for me- not made for me by someone else.
I respect the decision of every person to reconcile their choices with themselves and their spiritual or non-spiritual nature, as I would hope they would respect mine.
I cannot imagine the weight of that decision, but would never force a sentence for anyone finding themselves there.
It is never a choice taken lightly.
It is a choice that is never forgotten.
But as women, we have to make choices.
And we do.
I am a woman who believes in owning her choices and their consequences.

I am the American woman who is angered by the hypocrisy of those who profess their pro-life stand, and openly deny the rights of those standing next to them, sharing the same air, but different enough to somehow be deemed unworthy of their passion of support for life, but readily offered the wrath of their limited love and compassion.

I am the American mother, who sees no boundaries for the children I am to called to care for – all children.
I ache for the child who came to speak to me with a gun, and the child who died by my side.
But I am the woman,
the mother,
the American,
who’ll hold the child who comes to me after being bullied, ignored, frightened or ill.
And for those children who are searching for who they are and where they fit in,
I am their home.
My welcome mat is rolled out, and soup is on the table.
I will whisper words of strength to them and like the Iron Lady whom I’ve admired from afar, I will spread my iron skirt and hold them in my lap.
“Give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free.”
Yes- I am that American lady too.

I am the American who sees her neighbors on every continent, and wants to hear their stories. I want to know my neighbors and make sure they’re okay. I want them to be able to call on me, and me on them.

And I am the American who loves this land, this lady earth who has graciously held space for us all, while we are learning how to clean up our acts.
I believe in our parks, our sacred lands
And protecting our resources from those select few who seek a buck over a body – a living breathing body of land, water and air and us.
Yes, I am the tree-hugging, animal loving, protect-every-specie, sweetie.

I’m the American who believes we have the right to use our voice, but know only the right voice can create change.
I am the American who will not fight, threaten, trick, lie, or manipulate a fellow human being. I am the American who puts people before the party, and wouldn’t sell my values for a gun, a piece of land or a drop of oil.

I am an American who holds her word as a bond to her very soul.
Words matter.
Actions matter.
What I put out into this world creates the world I live in.
I choose love.
Unconditional love because that is what my spiritual text calls upon me to do.
Those I are the words I choose to empower.

I am the American who sees a darkness on the horizon and will use every ounce of my energy into being a light, and keeping that light bright, dispelling that darkness with truth, honor and compassion.

Because I am the American, who now sees a bit more clearly the dreams I was drawn to as a child,
the America I believed in, hoped for,
wished for,
IS possible
if I keep my human heart beating to that rhythm.
I am that woman.
And I believe in that America. 

For more about Linda’s work and links to her marvelous children’s books, please click here:  www.thepeacedragon.com

MOTB – 3

Monday evening, we arrived home from a great weekend with our kids. Well, except for the whole flying thing! (I’m improving, but still not thrilled with sitting!)

I wasn’t thinking about my Make One Thing Better list when I wandered through the back door and glanced into the kitchen.

There it was!

A huge better thing we’d accomplished before we left. Actually, Bill did the accomplishing. I just did the international sign language thing for two inches to the left.

One day, a month or so ago, a plan sprouted magically in my head. I’ve learned to pay attention to those.

In this case, the plan was for re-arranging the part of our kitchen the early 1960’s builder would have referred to as the breakfast room. In our case “breakfast room” means the place where the refrigerator and two upright deep freezers rub elbows with our antique oak dining table.

We did a great job with the kitchen reno about 15 years ago, given the fact that we couldn’t change the footprint. I’d still choose most of the things we did, which is kind of a miracle.

The big exception for me was the way the multiplying major appliances had worked to close off the space by my favorite, free-standing wooden butcher block.

Our very sexy glass door fridge used to sit butted up against the left side of the butcher block, headed into the breakfast room. A stainless fridge, with black sides. It felt like this massive wall, sucking up all the light. And I spend a lot of time standing at that butcher block.

So, Furniture Yahtzee. Or, in this case, Appliance Yahtzee!

The fridge went where the smaller freezer was.

The smaller freezer went where the metal shelving was.

The metal shelving went where the fridge was.

Bill, who believes we can’t move fewer than seven things in one of my MOTB games, was amazed. We moved three things and made a huge difference. As in, let there be light!

Light from the french doors to the deck. Light not soaked up from the black sides of the fridge.

And sight lines through to the wall murals I worked so hard to paint back in the day. Along with a couple more inches of traffic pattern.

Perhaps best of all, my treasured stock pots, even the biggest one, are much easier to reach.

Would I double the square footage of the space if I could? You bet!

Does it feel bigger and more open and more welcoming? It does!

There’s more room for chopping since I moved the knives.

And, it makes me happy.

I’m still sorting what goes where on the shelves. That really never ends around here.

And setting some stuff aside for donations.

There are also some changes in our routine coming up which will probably require more adjusting.

Seriously, though, it’s a whole lot of better for a couple of hours and no money.

And, since I’m thinking about money in terms of investing, rather than spending, these days, I’m pretty excited.

What’s tickling your mind in this moment?

It might be worth paying attention!




Post-modern Family Dinner

Dinner is quite the event when we’re hanging with our kids!

You see, among us, we have significantly different food needs. Kind of an “everybody doesn’t eat something” situation. And, most of us like to cook. The task for last night was to plate up food that everybody could contribute to and enjoy.

Shopping was in order. The girls like shrimp so we started there. Wild caught. A few added oysters for those who enjoy them. Next, green stuff. Organic Brussels sprouts. Some wax beans and a summer squash from the weekly CSA (Community Supported Agriculture) box. Garlic, lemon, and herbs.

Dave and I did prep work, especially the sharp knife stuff. Olive oil, sea salt & freshly cracked pepper got things well seasoned.

Kenzie and Dave did a great job with the grill. Oysters, shrimp, veg all on a gorgeous night. Kenz, who is almost 10, was in charge of timing and everything was beautifully done.

Taylor was our saucier. We peeled and chopped a whole bulb of garlic and  simmered it in olive oil. When it was tender and fragrant, we added sea salt, black pepper, crushed red pepper flakes and a splash of Chardonnay, and simmered a while longer. Taylor is seven. She tasted frequently and decided when we needed more seasoning. Just before we were ready to serve, we added a small bundle of Italian parsley and about half a cup of arugula, all finely chopped, with a good squeeze of lemon.

Our garlic, herb sauce went great with everything, including the oysters Kelly opened handily after Dave and Kenz popped them on the grill.

A few strawberries rounded out our menu for the evening.

Grampy was in charge of supervision and table setting.

Learning. Laughing. Cuddling. A chance to feed the ones we love. And some really good food.

It doesn’t get much better than that!

What are we teaching?

’tis the season for back to school commercials!

My personal favorite…the dad skipping around Office-wherever, with a cart full of notebooks and colored pencils, singing, “It’s the most wonderful time of the year!”

And some I like less well. Loaded with peer pressure. Subtle, sometimes, but pressure all the same.

Makeup. Sneakers. Backpacks.

“What the cool kids are doing.”

This color. That style. The way to fit in.

I wish I could say I didn’t get it, but I do.

Want to speak on stage? Rich solid colors. Classic but flowing. Sequins at night. (Or in the daytime if you’re really famous!)

Different rules for guys, but rules nonetheless.

It feels like wanting to share the messages closest to our hearts. To connect with our tribes. Really, it’s marketing.

I look at my girls, so different from each other and utterly amazing in their own ways, and I ache for the doubts they feel already.

The Perfectionist and Comparer inner critics running rampant. In elementary school.

I watch my dogs and think that one of the blessings of their type may be a lack of inner critics. And no particular interest in the cool colors for this year.

I would give that to my girls if I could.

For now, t-shirts with wise owls and the encouragement to “Be Different.” Delivered with huge hugs in just a few days.

Support for their unique gifts.

All my love for each of them.

Prayers that they’ll start to catch on before middle school when the stakes only get higher.

And the courage, however wavering, to walk the talk. To be who I am. To risk living out of the best wisdom I know. Out loud.

What else, really, do we have to give?

Showing up here with about 350 words on a day when everything is crazy and it still hurts to sit and type.

It’s me. The most me I have to give.

That is my hope for all our kids.

That they show up. Whole. Real.

Even when it’s scary.

That is my hope for the world.