to praise the present moment

do anything

that comes from the heart

the body


it could be anything at all

the smallest thing

or a grand gesture

dancing just now

a simple sway

i thought, can i call this a dance?

it is not much

but what is ever enough?



the other thing


being here

being moved

in the way of this moment

praises it fully

anything given can be claimed

a thing is not measured in degrees

not in the heart of right now

returning is returning

we all know this

as we breathe


I bought my first pair of reading glasses today. I knew things were getting blurry. The other day I could not read my insurance card on the phone with the dentist.

The crew we hired is here washing the house exterior and all the windows.

Glasses and clean windows.

Perhaps they come today auspicious omens of clearer vision on all levels, in many dimensions.

I have been looking for good words lately and not finding them.

Perhaps it is not that they have gone missing, but that the view has been blurred, like eyes a bit weaker than I knew, or windows that have been through seasons of weather.

The thing that occurs to me is to soften in the seeing.

Accept help as needed; like glasses, or a cleaning crew, even the weather, the aging, the words that are hiding in plain sight, all of them here doing their part.





A lot of my life happens in my imagination these days, even though there is an actual reality occurring right here in the present moment.

I have a restless grief tinged energy over the lost time and space of now as I constantly seem to lose my gravity, the ground seems to disappear, floating into dream space, I struggle to pull myself back into the orbit of this body, this breath, this life.

It is a strange weightless space, this fertile void.

My husband lost his job back in July.

The abrupt and violent rocket launch with its blast, pressure, g forces, stomach dropped through the floor, catapulted into an emptiness, painful, shocking, bright at first and then a vast dark unknown.

The fertile void.

It is a double life in a way or a half life. Glass half full or half empty?

Part of me is living the daily routine, the usual stuff, here in Forest Hill, MD.

The other part is floating out there like a dream craft waiting for ground control to report where the landing pad is located.

For awhile it seemed like a job in Arizona was likely, so I spent hours of many days imagining myself in the desert, the sand and heat, the cactus garden out back, a swimming pool, days of long canyon hikes. Not to be.

Then it was Chicago, after that Milwaukee, maybe Tennessee.

Floating and dreaming each new life in my head.





We do not know where our next place or next thing will be.

But it will be. And there is a life here now. My writing always occurs to me as proof that I do in fact exist. I have a location in myself. That is true.

Stephen is cooking dinner. We will go feed and walk our dogs now. Tonight is the homecoming game at school, so Avery is off to that. There is laundry waiting to be folded.

And just now the song by Modest Mouse pops into my head, my head always a world of its own.

“And we’ll all float on ok…”


I held the pinwheel up and blew on it so it spun fast enough that the green and blue swirled together.

I turned it quickly toward him but the wind went out of it so fast. Energy moves and flows out to another form, a new expression of itself.

So I resorted to holding it in his line of vision and propelling it with my finger, choppy, but it still caught the light, and sparkled across his face.

He smiled.

On my ride there I wondered if I would be out of my depth. How could I possibly be prepared for this? I did not know what it would be like, look like, sound like, smell like.

I read to him from the SpongeBob book I bought yesterday at the bookstore.

The email said he loved SpongeBob.

My first visit to pediatric hospice.

Two words that we wish would never meet. Pediatric. Hospice.

He listened and looked at the pictures, a glimmer of happiness on his face.  Or at least I hoped that was what it was. He snuggled his SpongeBob stuffed toy with his sock covered hands.

I returned to the pinwheels. This one was stars and stripes. I spun it and it twirled, stalled, I propelled it again.

His respirator hummed, the breath of him, but he could not blow on the pinwheel, or read a book, or speak.

Seventeen years old. A ventilator. A feeding tube. A mother taking respite.

I showed up uncertain, with a SpongeBob book, pinwheels on his windowsill, autumn light catching the spin and shining, movement, stillness, my breath, a ventilator, seventeen, hospice.

How life spins and sparkles, on the air and energy, in a moment, changing form.

We are like pinwheels spinning; beautiful, catching the light, full of energy, radiant, grace in motion, and when it seems we have stopped, stilled, energy is not destroyed, it only changes form.

The truth of that is infinite.



I went for a walk today on a local trail.

I get out in nature to move, breathe, feel, think, find the center of myself.

On this particular trail I walk 2 miles out, where it turns into city street, and back to the parking lot. A four mile hilly forested trek.

At the 2 mile mark there is an apartment complex alongside the trail. As I got to that spot I found myself a sudden witness to a family conflict. A young woman with dark hair, ponytail, holding a small dog like a baby. An old woman, grey haired, stout, slightly hunched over. A willowy, tall, young man, stocking capped, with a dark tattoo sprawling across his neck, flannel shirt, cigarette dangling. A fight about money owed. The young man accused by the women, “never going to see the money again.” Young man desperate and agitated, pacing, pleading with a hint of anger.

“Mom. I said I will get the money to you. Mom. I am not a fucking liar.”


That word dangling in my atmosphere as I walked out of range.

I am a mother of four.

I could feel the sons anguish, the pain.

I could hear the mother’s disappointment, and worry.

Conflict. Relationship. Blood.

I walked with this for the two miles back.

When I arrived at my car I still felt the echoes of that exchange. A sadness.

As I opened my car door to leave, an old pick up truck pulled up alongside me.  A middle aged man with a scruffy beard emerged from the truck, wearing muddy boots, worn shorts and t-shirt. He walked to the back of the truck and lowered the tailgate.

I felt my heartbeat increase in pace. My sorrow turning to nervousness. I was alone there with him.

He pulled a wire cage to the edge of the bed. I watched him lower the cage to the ground delicately, he opened the small door, and gently with whispers I could see on his lips but not hear, he coaxed the chipmunk out to freedom.

I got in my car and drove home.



Dance is a home and shelter.

A language I have always spoken with myself.

I understand her.

She understands me.

Dance is the spiritual practice of my flesh and bone.

It breathes me awake.

It empties me out.

It fills me up.

The dance takes all of me as I am.

Dance accepts my joy, my sorrow, my delight, my rage, my ecstasy, my grief.

It does not ask me to reject or deny any part of who I am.

Dance is the complete me.

My dance sets me free.



I like my surroundings tidy. I was not always that way. I still am not as tidy or fastidious as many people, but I get more averse to clutter as the years go by. Perhaps this is because of the accumulation of loss and my ongoing initiation into grief. And this is not a testimonial to the superiority of tidiness, just something that is occurring for me. My experience is only mine, nothing more, nothing less.

Learning to let go is being amplified and reflected in me and around me.

Letting go creates space for me to breathe and feel in.

I think about forgiveness and how I am learning that often it is not an act of hanging on, but letting go, releasing becomes a blessing.

What we cling to holds us captive, especially when it is no longer meant for us.

That is hard. That kind of giving of freedom to another. Letting them set sail. Watching them go toward and then beyond the horizon.

Letting things move on and past us when it is time is a sacrament. Listening to the echo of the love, and knowing that that love is not lost but arriving in a new place, a distant shore, is to honor it and hold it.

Maybe it is not really tidiness I crave, but to simplify it all down to what is essential, so I can focus and fully love what is here and beautiful in this moment, and all the moments that are meant to be, until the next bon voyage.




grasp of a hand

tilt of my head

toward the center





heat of breath


bead of sweat


down my cheek

moving in

to the marrow

the core





to stay


heart pounding

rush of blood

ocean inside






It finally got warm today and the sun took on the brighter hue of light that is a signal of the definitive turn of the season.

I sense my own kind of turning.

I sat in a new favorite spot this morning by the river. A rock that rises just high enough above the water that a small surface is mossy but dry.

It reminds me of a rock I used to go sit on in college, a refuge for my troubles, a resting place for my broken heart.

Rivers with rocks that hold me suspended over water, a place apart from people and their world, what that demands, and how impossible that can be, and more to come home to myself, and discover all the love and beauty that hums and blossoms out there.

Rivers and rocks seem to want to be there for me. I am grateful for that. They are good solid company.




I stopped writing. Again.
I have come back. Again.
I do not have much of anything to say. Again.

I realize having something to say is not the point.

Showing up is the point.

These words being clicked on a keyboard no more important or less enduring than if I go out and carve my name into a tree or on a rock.

Showing me once again the proof that I am, in fact, here.