I was deeply moved by Brook Warner’s recent Substack, which shined a light on AI from a publisher’s perspective, Your Writing is Enough. She struck a resounding chord, that I wanted to respond from a writer’s perspective.

Writerly Things with Brooke Warner

Your Writing Is Enough

We live in a weird world. Five years ago, if you’d asked the average person working on a book project if they liked the idea of a robot generating their stories or their personal narratives for them, I think you’d have been met with bug eyes. It wasn’t even a thing—and what would be the point, right…

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5 days ago · 159 likes · 74 comments · Brooke Warner

Brooke Warner’s article dealt with AI and publishing, but it also touched upon the over-arching crisis of humanity we find ourselves in.

It’s true that AI can do many things for a writer. It can write a book for you and even lay out a publicity plan. AI can take the stress and struggle out of creating. The thing that AI cannot do is approach the energy of numinosity.

Numinous is a Latin verb meaning to beckon or to call. When we have a numinous experience, we are having a oneness experience. Good writers are vulnerable ones, the ones that give us a glimpse into our own ragged, struggling souls, and kindle hope, making us feel that we are never as alone as we think we are. As Enrique Martinez Celaya writes in Tending The Fire, “. . . art is about the possibility of creating a transformative experience.”

“Five years ago,” says Brooke, “if you’d asked the average person working on a book project if they liked the idea of a robot generating their stories or their personal narratives for them, I think you’d have been met with bug eyes.”

When I was introduced to Chat GPT I was curious, I played with it. It could write an outline. It could clean up paragraphs. It could make pictures. It was a fun, new toy . . . but I lost interest early on, because AI has a certain tone to it, a facade of words with no real underlying meaning. AI is generated from programming, instead of organic thoughtfulness. “A little alarm goes off. This sounds like AI. I’m no longer reading the work of this author. Was I ever reading their work? Now I’m editing a machine. I don’t want to be editing a machine. What am I doing?”

And it’s not just AI, promising to make our lives easier by doing the hard work for us, it’s that we’ve bought into the drive to present ourselves as a brand, to constantly compare ourselves, to crave and collect more followers, to go viral. In this fertile ground, we are primed for AI, and it’s not only creativity that gets lost, it’s our soul.

Writing ceased being a commercial endeavor for me quite some time ago. I stopped worrying about whether or not my books sold, whether or not my posts went viral. I became a life-long student of what has mentored me more than any single person. I am a perpetual student of writing. I’ve learned that writing is not just the crafting of words or the structure of stories. To write is to be a student of the human condition, starting with one’s own self.

We live in a time where none of us have very much power. Most of us aren’t part of the billionaire club; we can’t change politics except maybe our votes will count. We are practically impotent, except for our ability to create. Music, dance, art, writing and the like have the power to awaken the soul in us and in others; the power to fill us with resilience and spirit. The heart that connects with other hearts through making art is the greatest resistance that we have in these times. And when we use AI we not only give away our power, we give away the spirit of what it means to be a human being.

“In the very end, civilizations perish because they listen to their politicians and not to their poets.” ~Jonas Mekas

Story gathering delights me. I’m at a place in my life when I really can read all those books I wanted to read. Homer has shown me what story arc looks like. Seneca has cautioned me that life is short, so don’t waste your time, make it count. And writers like Anne LaMotte have helped me to find my place in teaching creative writing through work with marginalized communities.

The writing life that I embrace gives me the muscle of observation, perception, and purpose. I write daily, but it is much more than finding stories or a turn of phrase. My writing life is a doorway into the examined life. Writing is cause to mine the depths of heart and soul and find meaning in my world. Writing continuously reveals that it’s never just my story, or your story, it’s THE story, the story of humanity. AI cannot give me any of that. AI is a cold utility, devoid of soul. And yes, you can write a book with it, or create a picture, but to what end?

“When you cut and paste, you bypass the heart part altogether, and it’s my opinion that the resonant part of any writing stems from the heart,” says Brooke. Yes. What is our being without heart?

I know this to be true: Speed is the enemy of art. Sometimes we get stuck. Our work-in-progress demands to sit for a time and breathe until we begin the next edit, the next revision. So what’s the harm in using AI to jump start the process, one might ask. It’s not like AI wrote my piece, I’m just using it in the right way, to make my work better. Except that’s a lie. AI will not make your work better, because AI cannot grow you or make you a better human being.

Brooke punctuates her piece with this: “We need all the heart connection we can get, and we don’t do that via machine. We do it human-to-human, as we were designed to connect.”

Writing is a sacred path, whether you’re writing self-help or thriller, children’s stories or Substack posts. Writing reveals who we are to one another and allows for heart connection. Writing has its birth in the loss and love we experience; it’s messy and often chaotic. Writing opens us to communicate the ineffable. Writing is struggle. Life is struggle. Just as the worm struggles out of its chrysalis to reveal the butterfly, so do we.

Thank you to for igniting this flame of inspiration with your excellent piece that made me feel as if I were sitting in the room with you, nodding my head.

What about you? Are you AI curious? Have you played around with AI? Does AI have any place in the creative process? What or who do you think AI best serves? Let’s have a conversation.

Community – it’s a word with warm sounding edges and a soft middle. I’ve thought a lot about the word and its meaning over the past few weeks as I’ve moved into a new area where I don’t know anyone. So, how do you find community, anyway? Or does community find us?

In my most beautiful fantasy of community, I imagine it as a place of welcoming and acceptance; a place where you share similar values and likes as the people around you. I think of it as an actual place, like a neighborhood or some sort of center. Is community a place, a feeling, an attitude or all those things? Is it as simple as seeing and being with the same people everyday?

And what about participation? If you’re looking for community, is it helpful to find groups where you share interests, like art or dance? Or can you build community by volunteering, wanting to help, tend and care for others?

Is neighborhood community? The feeling of the people around you having your back and you having theirs? Is it doing things together? And how is community different from a group of casual friendships, or is it?

In this new place I’ve moved I’m acutely aware of the longing for connection. I had pictured myself here getting to know shop owners, having tea at the same place and being welcomed in each time I did. But most of America doesn’t have town centers anymore. The landscape is a sprawl of strip malls connected by highway and anchored by large anonymous box stores like Target, Walmart and Starbucks. Few places are small and cozy, conducive to conversation, so patrons come and go without anyone ever knowing their name.

In my new city of Roseville, I’ve discovered a community gathering place, not what I expected, but a hub, nonetheless. Close to my new home is a large regional park, called Maidu. When you enter the park, the median that divides one side of the road from the other greets you with towering redwoods. They are the sentries, the guardians of this place. From the parking lot you can see a skateboarding area with all kinds of fun and dangerous looking curves that would put this old woman into the hospital, but it’s fun to watch a group of nimble kids ride the walls, nonetheless. On the other side of the parking lot are sports fields, with wide open spaces between them. On weekends, local softball teams play ball and hubby, and I have sat in the stands cheering on total strangers, just for the love of the game. A farmer’s market takes over a corner of the parking lot on Sundays, offering an abundance of summer fruit, fresh herbs, tomatoes and garden squashes.

Beyond the ball fields and soccer fields, bustling this time of year with sports camps, are well groomed trails that wander through thick stands of Oak and open meadows. The city has herds goats grazing to keep the weeds in check. On this trail, I walk my dog, Mickey. A 3.4-mile loop of nature, replete with the occasional flock of turkeys, who share the path. Trail conversations come easily here. There’s a friendliness to sharing the business of walking and connecting with someone as if old friends.

A couple of days ago, the goats disappeared and a woman stopped me and asked, “where are the goats?!” Of course, I had no idea where the goats were, but she went on to talk about the people who tend the goats, about the city government. How there were some issues regarding inflated payment the goat tenders – “and then the goats just disappeared,” she told me, implying that this too, this innocent herd of goats had somehow been politicized. The conversation ended on an upbeat note of “I hope they work it out. I like the goats.” I like the goats too.

When you walk a dog, there’s an opportunity to meet children who will ask to pet the dog. My Labrador retriever is very gentle with kids and happily receives their pets, pats and squeals. Then a conversation ensues with them, or with the parent – all of it civil, kind and welcoming. An unspoken set of shared values connect us for a moment. We like being in this place. We have no problem sharing it with dogs, kids, grown-ups or goats. The peace of the interaction is balm for so much forgotten civility in these times.

After a short while of living here and coming to Maidu, I’ve begun to see the same faces – the team of softball players who are all over the age of seventy-five and play games around the state and the country; the woman who pushes a stroller and holds the leash of a Great Dane who takes his job of watching baby and mom very seriously; the guy with the Golden retriever who chases the large soccer- like ball and paws it back to his owner. Maidu Park isn’t the little coffee shop I’d fanaticized finding, but this is my new community, much larger than I’d anticipated, and it feels good.

The feeling of talking to people face to face, up close and personal strips away anonymity and replaces it with the over-used, under-utilized description of our times, “connection.” We all seek connection. Maybe that’s the ultimate definition of community: a sense of being a part of the human ecosystem that cares about and for one another.

Life is made up of lots of little communities and then the one big community of humankind. In each of us, I believe, is an innate longing belong, to know home as a place that extends beyond our walls and front doors. A sense that outside of our solitary creature comforts is a call to engage with each other, embracing likeness and difference. The touch, the energy of face-to-face, is what I’m curious about, and I want to learn more. How and where do I fit? Is fitting an action we take or just a relaxed stance of warm acceptance?

Maidu Park is an unexpected community center, filled with people who like to walk and take in the surrounding beauty. In this place, I feel at home with the wild turkeys, local softball teams, family dogs, children and those who put on the daily miles.

My friend, Susan Tweit talks about kin being larger than family. What if I held community as not only the kin of human family, but plant- kin, and animal-kin? That feels like where I fit in the most. I’ve been a wanderer most of my life, but this park, these kin feel welcoming to my wandering ways. My new community is filled with goats and daily walkers, with wild turkeys and cloud-streaked skies. From a new and welcoming neighborhood, I travel to this gathering place, a delightful park in which I’ve discovered what feels like the heartbeat of community, a place where people have given themselves permission to be friendly.

What does community feel like and mean to you? Let’s have a conversation.

Dedicated to this friendly Substack community, who never fails to fill my heart and imagination with grace and gratitude. Thank you for being here.

Moving from one place to another, like all big events in life, presents with challenges, lessons, and ever present love. Though life right now is more about sorting and gathering than it is routine, Substack provides a touchstone. This is a place where I can share my stories and say thank you for being here.

Hotel camping for the next few weeks until my new house is ready for move-in, I am grateful for this comforting familiarity of writers and readers, and it feels good to be back in this wise and kind community. Happy Summer, everyone. May your adventures and dreams bring you joy.

“There is some kiss we want with our whole life; it is the touch of the spirit upon the body.”

~Rumi

Waiting: We arrived in California on July 1^st, and we visit our new house daily. She’s like an old friend going through rehab. Floors to be finished, walls to be painted, and an HVAC to be replaced. Each time we see her, she’s becoming more of who what she’s intended to be. We wait, counting days, contributing to her well-being. We wait, letting our hearts and minds fill with anticipation. This home represents a long-time desire to be in California, near hiking and water. The home is symbolic of our life journey: building, failing, losing, loving, effort, and satisfaction. Each endeavor of our nearly forty-year marriage, unfolds before us. We understand that gratitude is a product of grit and discipline, determination and surrender. And we wait. There’s a lot of physical work involved; a good deal of emotional work; and a sweet spiritual work that opens a portal of generosity in our lives.

We will move into our new home late in the month of July.

Discovery: The world around us unfolds in identifying and discovering the essentials – a grocery store, a bank, hardware store and where to buy dog food. We discover restaurants that delight, and ones we won’t go back to. We memorize street names and where to turn to get from here to there.

Up the street from the new house is a park, shaded by large redwoods. Neighbors walk and play with their dogs, a big focus on tennis balls and sticks. A little further away is another park with baseball diamonds and soccer fields. It’s surrounded by a nature trail that begins where the sports fields end. The well-groomed path winds its way through meadows and thick stands of Oak. Wild turkeys share the trail, along with an occasional fox. Blackberries can be found tangled in the underbrush, and the tall, brittle grasses of summer, lean back in the wind. Three and a half miles of beauty and wonder, providing new discovery each time we walk it.

Welcoming: We met the people who live next door to us when we were buying the house. A nice couple, our age, who grow grape vines in the backyard. One day as we were talking with contractors, there was a knock on the door and Doug (our new neighbor) brought us a quart sized mason jar filled with pressed grape juice, cold and inviting. Welcome.

On July 4^th, Doug and his wife texted us inviting us to join them for a barbeque. They have a large family – five grown children, thirteen grandchildren, and though not all of them were there, it was a big gathering and we felt honored to have been included in their family celebration. They even invited us to bring our dog

.We shared a meal and conversation. Our dog, Mickey swam in the pool with a couple of the grandkids. Then, at the end the day, other neighbors came by to meet us. We sat in a circle of patio furniture, sipping cold drinks and being welcomed by those who share the street. It’s the kind of welcoming and goodwill one dreams about, and here it was in a generosity of heart that moved us deeply. Sometimes the universe punctuates our choices with a clarity of right place at the right time.

Ancora imparo: Attributed to an eighty-six year old, Michael Angelo, the Italian phrase translates as Still, I am learning.

Still we are learning: Learning this new place; these new neighbors; a new home – work in progress. I’m learning the welcoming of goodwill and community, and the powerful wanting of reciprocation.

Though my routine is altered here, I still use the mornings to read, study and write. I often journal my day into being. This morning I sit with the warm feelings of the neighborhood welcome, and ponder the connection between human beings as I construct this essay. I love the notion that within each person we meet are stories that bind us; memories that scar us, and those which fill the human heart with joy.

I learn about the men working in our home to make her as welcoming and inviting as our neighbors have been. They work focused and hard. They give themselves to the projects at hand with skill and determination. I’m in awe. Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by what there is to be finished, and we haven’t even gotten to the moving vans and the unpacking, yet. More learning: Learn about the power of pausing and deep breathing. Learn about patience. Learn about appreciating others for their efforts and learn about expressing gratitude for all of it.

Remember the Silence: With so much going on, it’s easy to forget the silence. Silence is a light to the inner life, the reflective life, which needs attention, just the way all the outer projects do. Silence is the time of alone, but not lonely. A time of peaceful prayer before jumping back into the to-do list; small moments of quiet and letting my shoulders drop; belly breaths of calm; the essence and core that cannot be forgotten even on the edges of new and exciting adventure.

Home Is An Outward Pull and An Inner State of Mind: Every day I feel the pull: life is brimming with lessons and opportunities to do good, for one’s self, and for others. There is an expansion of heart that I want with my whole life, “the touch of the spirit upon the body,” as Rumi says. And everyday, while I’m waiting to move in to my new house, everyday, I feel more and more that I’ve come home.

What is the essential longing that feels like home to you? Is it a place outside of yourself, inside of yourself or both? Let’s have a conversation.

Early morning. I’m usually reading through my Substack draft for the week. One last edit. A week’s worth of thought and musing. This week it’s all about reaching and letting go. But no drafts today. The days have been less about writing and more about about boxes, movers, sorting, and goodbyes. So, today is a “can I fit in a post before I start the perpetual to-do list?”

Last night was the last night – the last night in this house. Today we move to a hotel, while the moving company continues to pack us up for the great California relocation adventure. On Friday and Saturday, we’ll clean. A last walk through, with whispered farewells and thank you’s to and for this house. Monday brings a paper signing ceremony to let go of this beautiful home. Then, another paper signing ceremony for a house that waits for us in California. Closings and openings. Even Mickey, the dog, knows that something big is going on and shadows me more than usual.

This little pod of us will arrive in the new place on July 1. We will unpack boxes and drink cold tea. Wave at new neighbors and strike up new conversations. Eventually, all of the boxes that carted us from one place to the other, will be flattened and find their way to recycling. Eventually there will be fresh flowers on a kitchen table, a cup of morning tea, and a journal lying in front of me.

One chapter ends. Another begins. Reaching and letting go continue ‘til the very end. Cycles of birth and death within the human spirit pull all of us forward in a time that only goes one direction. On that horizon, eternity lingers, and a last night waits for me there, too. Since we will all die one day, I contemplate the question, how then shall I live and love my life? I’m grateful to be young enough for a new adventure and old enough to dig for the wisdom that accompanies change.

A dream came to me: There were three snake holes in my back yard. From each, a snake struggled. The sides of the earthen hole helped the snake to shed its skin. In new skin, the three snakes, moved gracefully across the yard toward “what’s next?”

Gratitude to the readers who find their way here; who share their stories with me. Gratitude for this community of creatives, constantly shedding and finding new skin. May the grit of endings and letting go open us to an ever present awe of creation and creating. May we all know the grace of reaching for the dreams and visions that light us up.

The next post will come from California. Until then, I raise my voice in praise of joyful chaos, singing while I pack suitcases. All good wishes and goodwill. Thank you for your presence . . .

~Stephanie

California dreaming this past week, as hubby and I shopped for a new home in the Golden State. One met the check list — less about the dwelling and more about its proximity to water and trails. We bought it. Back in Austin, we are excited and stressed at the same time, a big move now taking form in the days ahead.

Plowing through a list of unread emails, and handwritten lists, I found a small treasure, a gift reminding me of how weaving words can touch everything in life. An email from Central Avenue Poetry Prize told me how much they enjoyed my poetry submission and that they’d like to publish it in their March 2027 anthology. A small honorarium came with the invitation.

This is the first poetry competition I’ve ever entered, and I’m humbled by the validation – keep writing, keep learning, keep imagining and weaving, it says. The poem is called Shattering, a recollection of an initial childhood wounding which continues to inform. . .

Shattering

We were like little dolls

fashioned of clay

living inside a ceramic pot

painted desert sunset colors.

When it was known we can’t be sure

how we teetered on the too close edge

of the bookcase filled with classics

and one bird book

by Audubon.

Beginning with small quakes, the house shook

a faultline of grumbling

rumblings throughout the night rocked us

and our dwelling,

moved our beds

across the tile floor

and one day we all slid

off the foundation.

The pot tipped, fell from the shelf

an explosive shattering

broke into a million

stars that had lost their light.

One shard a bus ticket for my mother and I,

one a revolver for my father’s hands

held in his lap each night

loaded and unloaded

loaded again.

Four-years-old can’t understand

what a teen-aged sister can.

a decade later she told me about the gun

how he pointed it at his head

every night for a month.

Guilty I was the only one

our mother took,

leaving everyone else behind

to sweep up broken pieces

many of which were never found.

A silenced heart of an unknowing

the too young self, breaks too

and even now thin shards from the shattering

cut the bottoms of my feet.

The human story is made up of shatterings and celebrations. Writing them down helps to make sense of the world I live in and the world that lives in me. What shatterings and/or celebrations color your life and grow you? Let’s have a conversation.

Special thanks to some poets who inspire and model for me the poetic journey: Gratitude to and for and .

Life took a big turn last week. After two and a half years of having our home on the market, we finally sold it. We hung in there for so long because of an imagined life, a vision for our last years. My husband and I have spent our marriage, hiking. A good trail, a thick forest, and water’s edge inspires and teaches us, so we wanted to return to our old stomping grounds in California where the trails and the water is plentiful. What a blessing to envision and then be able to enact a vision.. I am grateful. A month of packing and making timelines will take priority, so I may miss a Substack or two – or I may chronicle this next adventure.

Today’s Substack is inspired by the pondering of where we place our attention and how that shapes our lives. I grapple with the fact that I have no control over the events in my life, but I do have control when it comes to attitude and where I place my attention

I appreciate you as a reader and a friend in this space. Your engagement always makes my day. And I never tire of how humans can connect in so many different ways and make a difference in each others lives through uplifting, encouragement and support. Thank you for being here.

The un-lived life is a tragedy that can dog us all. Seneca wrote in On The Shortness of Life, and I paraphrase, it’s not life that is so short, it’s the time we waste that makes it seem so. Where we place our attention, where we give our energy can sometimes reveal a path and pattern of squandering.

Attention is the focus and discipline of feeling, seeing, allowing and discovery used for beneficial of un-beneficial ends. We live in a time of immense distraction: too often, i-phones and social media suck the heart and joy out of life. We read less and ponder even less than that. We are currently a lonely, distracted country. Little attention is paid to soul’s unfolding and we try to soothe ourselves with the consumption of material things that think will better define us.

Too much attention to the 24/7 news is like a bad car wreck that you can’t look away from. Too much anger and frustration with regard to the twisted, sick play being performed in Washington DC. We constantly ask “how did this happen,” as our own over-consumption turns to greed. For a quick minute it seems like that those new shoes, the new dishes, the new whatever will make us feel better. We begin to think we need too many things in order to love our life. Too much stuff, too much media and social media numbs and estranges us from ourselves.

Everyday is a trial and error to give one’s attention to something worthy of precious time. I give my attention wo writing and reading in the morning and some mornings it’s a struggle, because I want to turn on the news, just for a minute, I tell myself. Every day is a practice of being present with my loving heart and unfolding soul. Each day is a practice of thank you. And each of those practices live right next to the shadow of my ire and frustrations, the desire of wanting to fix what is broken in our collective humanity. Arrogance envelops me. I step back. I have no control over anything but myself, and in some moments, even that is questionable.

I will vote to hope and help make change. I will strive to focus on making sense of life through writing reading and reflection. I will continue to give my attention to kindness and to the art of arranging words on a page to mean something.

The older I get, the more I see that this chapter of life is a reckoning and recalling of the past; making peace and re-framing some of the harder parts as necessary parts for growth. A small leather band incircles my wrist. Memento mori it reads, Latin for We are all going to die. It is neither intended to be dark or depressive, but is a constant reminder of this being so, how shall I live? Where do I want to place my attention?

At the end of this month, I will move to an area with ample forest trails and water. For the near present, my attention will be on this move, and all that I learned from the place I am leaving. A vision is unfolding and I’m excited for another adventure. May we all live life as fully as we can. May we focus on our families, our art, our service and our love of nature and each other.

Where we place our attention is a practice. Where do you place you attention during these overly-distracted times? How do you honor the preciousness of time? Nothing is forever, so may we make the most of being here. It’s good stuff to think about – let’s have a conversation.

Today, like many days, I woke up with a slight sense of dread and fear. My husband and I have adopted a no news allowed until evening policy. . . if at all. Discipline gives me a little shove to my books, journals and the laptop. Here I find solace, sentimental though it sometimes may be. It’s not that I want to hide from the events of these times, it’s that I want to find our common good once again — the place that knows the difference between right and wrong and isn’t afraid to stand for what is right. The place where awe resides.

in this morning of caffeine and chaos

the years press in.

longing follows me from room to room

clutter behind expectation.

life gestates in dusty corners

of something unkept.

unknowing birthed in solitude

becomes the dreaming of one last dream,

reminding me

we are all here to create.

Knowing myself as a creative being, owning who I am as poet and philosopher still feels shaky to claim. But I claim it every day, anyway. Life revealed from journal and pen; the light of soul’s expression birthed from a deep quiet. Rooted in the darkness, the script across the page, shapes meaning from the mundane.

Once I met and interviewed the poet, Richard Blanco. He described poetry as revealing the extraordinary within the ordinary. He’d been watching his mother chop onions in the kitchen one day, an act he’d seen her repeat hundreds of times. But on that particular day, he saw all of life unfold in that one small action.

I chopped onions for last night’s dinner, sautéed them in a pan with peppers and chicken breasts. An act of gathering and preparing, of presenting and feeding, but there was no epiphany. The muse rarely speaks if I go looking for her. Wisdom doesn’t unfold upon command. Only this morning, after the fact, did I have a realization that millions of us chop onions in making dinner, in millions of kitchens. My sense of alone, is never really an “alone.”

Creativity writes the day into being. Owls announce from roof tops. Coyotes howl from someplace far away in the canyon. My pen bleeds struggle while the honey of life sticks sweetly to my fingers and the page.

Write, over-write, and re-write, is what I do. And all day there is an invitation to create – meals, gardens, a home. Make poetry from the tattered threads of memories and smoky ideas.

To create is to resist the horrors too easily found in the current passage of greed and corruption, the place in which we all live in this country. As creative beings, we keep alive the profundity of chopping onions for the pan. I think most of us want to do more than just survive.

A journal and pen defines so much for me; helps me to find meaning; reflects insight and emotion; opens my heart a little more each day. To write a poem or sing along with the music is a radical act. We can and will create more than they can possibly destroy.

Praise the moments of grace, leaving a trail from pen to page. This helps me to remember who I am and what my creative work is about.

Where does our creativity come from? Is it from head and heart? An expression of soul’s longing? Can it be a radical act, defiance in the face of cruelty? What does a creative practice feed and nurture inside of us? Let’s have a conversation.

This piece was previously published in 2022.

What I’d been looking for was a certain picture my niece wanted. The one taken at my mom’s house, where my sister-in-law is sitting on my brother’s lap. Their arms are wrapped around each other, the camera lens capturing an enduring affection.

Sitting on the floor in my office, I’d pulled out a half-a-dozen photo albums from a cabinet. Flipping through the pages, I couldn’t find the photograph I could so clearly see in my mind’s eye. In the last album I went through, there were some loose things between the back cover and the last page. A letter that had been opened, but was still in its original envelope. I immediately recognized the spiral like, looping letters and the beautiful penmanship which belonged to another time.

The postmark was 1977. The stamp was thirteen cents. The return address read T. Homer Black. My dad. From the date, I easily recalled where I was then. Twenty-five years old, working for a rock n’ roll television show and living in Laurel Canyon.

There was a time when I had a stack of letters from him, letters dating back to my teenage years. The way I remembered it, I answered each of those letters. At twenty-five, we’d only met a few times and I hadn’t seen him since I was twelve-years-old. Once we were a family and I knew who he was. But after my parent’s divorce, when I was four, the pattern of large gaps between our being together grew with each passing year, and it was the tether of letters that kept us in connected.

At some point in my adult life, I took all of his letters and threw them away in an angry rage, fed by a deep sense of abandonment – I don’t need you is what that action said.

It’s a sad story, but not a unique one. Everyone has some sort of wound from childhood. A piercing of the heart that becomes an invitation to navigate a wilderness – the unfriendly place forcing us to commence a journey of self-discovery which will answer questions of who we are and who we might become.

So yesterday, I read the last remaining letter from my dad. It was filled with terms of endearment. He wrote that he loved me; he was glad I was his daughter; he hoped good things for me. Something heavy and icy around my heart cracked open and fell away. I let myself take in the tenderness of his words. I wondered how things might have been different if he’d come to see me, and had a relationship with me beyond our letters. Truth is, I can still feel the anger and hurt, but now, there’s something else, something that buffers an old, outdated rage. I understand. He really did love me.

More often than not, we don’t know the “why” of someone else’s behavior. We get stuck in our own narratives, giving meaning to memories that aren’t always accurate or complete. I’ll never know why my dad wasn’t a presence in my life, but after reading that old letter, I let in a new realization: Love and abandonment can live side by side in the heart – two things can be true at the same time. This man, my dad, who wrote me letters reached out to me across decades. And for a moment I brushed up against a love that transcends time and even death, realizing that it’s not too late to hold his love in my heart.

Our stories about family are fodder for the journey. My nuclear family is gone now, and I am the last one standing. I stand with them in spirit though, a little tribe of souls who broke my heart while also breaking it open.

Where in your familial life has your heart broken and then opened as a result? Let’s have a conversation.

Light and free. That’s what I’m craving today. You don’t need a Ph.D. in political science to see how screwed up things are. The uber rich, rule. The rest of us stress and struggle. Seems like I’m always searching for things that can bring joy and make me feel free and alive in spite of unnecessary wars and a growing lack or appreciation for ethics and goodwill. So, today’s solution to challenging and difficult times is dancing.

Though I can’t dance the way I did in my twenties, which was all night long, I still love dancing. My moves are a little stiffer than what they used to be but moving to music is one of the great joys in life, and as the title says, you are never too old to rock and roll.

Any room in my house can be a place for spontaneous dance. Organizing the garage? Be sure to put on some Linda Ronstadt. And when hubby joins me it reminds me that of all the goodness in our marriage, dancing with him is one of the best. Dancing is the antidote for lethargy, anxiety and worry. I love the phrase “dance it out.”

Every generation has its own soundtrack to life, music that moves you to dance, sing along or reflect. When I listen to old favorites, I’m transported back to a younger heart and a stronger body. I’m filled with good memories of growing up and coming of age. And most importantly I tap into the creative force of celebration.

In younger days, I frequented clubs with live music. I had a girlfriend who loved to dance as much as I did, and we would spend Friday and Saturday nights dancing until closing time, all the while, flirting with the band. As a twenty-something, I had a secretarial job with the television show The Midnight Special, the precursor to MTV. Almost everyone on the staff was under the age of 35 and we all shared one absolute truth: music makes the world go round.

As I got older, I stopped going to clubs. My cool music job morphed into more serious jobs that didn’t include tributes to Joe Cocker or new albums from Electric Light Orchestra. Suddenly life was about mortgages and marriage. I grew up and got responsible, but never lost my love for the transformative power of music and dance.

Over the years my musical tastes have expanded to include YoYo Ma and my mother’s favorite, Frank Sinatra. But when I listen to the music of my youth, my heart feels the way it did when I was twenty-two. I wouldn’t want to be twenty-two again, but it sure is a nice place to visit, musically speaking.

In my childhood home we had a stereo that was a piece of furniture. That was the beginning of my musical journey. And the Jukebox, transistor radio, FM radio, cassette tapes, 8-tracks, boom boxes, separate turntables, amps and speakers, vinyl and CD’s, all before the miracle of the i-Pod happened. Many years ago, my husband and I downloaded all of our CD’s to our i-Pods and I marvel that all of my music could be contained in this tiny little device that fit into my pocket. The i-pod is obsolete, but I still have mine and I still have a dock that will play its music.

If I ever wind up in assisted living, I want to be that old woman in the corner of the facility who has on a pair of headphones and can’t stop tapping her feet to the beat of James Jamerson on some great Motown track.

While I have a list of artists that I like to listen to on a softer, quieter level, like Joni Mitchell and Dan Fogelberg, my favorite artists for evoking that sing and dance energy are:

The Eagles

Linda Ronstadt

Bonnie Raitt

The Impressions

The Temptations

The Four Seasons

The Pointer sisters

Steve Miller Band

And of course, The Beatles

Dancing lifts my mood. Helps me to feel alive. What about you? Do you still dance? Do you have favorite artists that you like to sing along with in the car or when you are doing things around the house? Who are your favorites? Please share your musical loves – Let’s have a conversation.

In a life growing old, the longing to purge the unwanted and un-needed trappings of what once defined me, gets stronger. Boxes and bags filled with things ride to the Goodwill in the back of my car on a regular basis. Identity, title and ambition get smaller in the rearview mirror. On the horizon, rests the essential. Things and goals matter so much less. This is a time of sweet, black tea, journaling words on a page; a time for books I always said I wanted to read, and now reading – discovering Marcus Aurelius at seventy-four, and Seneca’s On The Shortness of Life, shape my mornings. I look back with fondness at a history of other morning routines, always rushing to order my days and crown myself the Queen of Logistics.

This physical body continues to change, no matter how hard the longevity movement tries to convince me that connective tissue can eternally remain supple and strong. Personal health and genetic snips keep score and illuminate the slow dissolve of athletic prowess and physical energy. I take long, quiet walks that keep my heart and legs strong. I go to Pilates classes filled with women my age working next to vibrant thirty-somethings. I cannot help but be aware of the low, constant hum of something signaling to me just beyond the finite. It rumbles beneath each floorboard and each step.

More afternoons now on the back porch gazing into the forest and tilting back my head to take in the enormity of the sky, marveling at the glimpse of eternity found in lingering clouds. I love this part of my day. Connection and engagement with the world sits right next to the solitary – a reflection, punctuated by whispered prayers of gratitude.

None of us, at any age, knows how much time we have. I’ve squandered time in my life enough to know that the curriculum now is to live and love fully each day, as if it’s my last. “Finish strong,” the woman at the gym used to say. I want to finish strong, both in the outer world, but also in this inner life with which I grow more familiar.

At this age and stage, I thought there would be more answers, but what unfolds daily are more questions and musings. Perfection and mastery no longer hold any allure. I may have finally embraced the big sloppy “and.” The ultimate “fuck it, I got this” moment, when the absurdity and bliss of old age and dreams collide. I am an old woman lost in the clouds, dreaming in the rain.

This poem was born in a back porch moment, in between sips of tea and a stacks of books. Born in a kind of reverence and surrender to the something greater, always stirring within:

self doubt and self knowledge

exist together

two sides of the same coin.

not entirely confident

not entirely insecure

but devoted

to knowing

self deeply

stumbling toward the authentic

the vulnerable

compassion and delight

metaphor and symbol

solace and comfort

in the extraordinary.

born of ordinary

awe and respect

for the pains and passion

expanding heart and mind

with no arrival point

no destination

an ongoing quest

coming home

to the self-doubt

and self knowledge

weaving threads

making wholeness.

mr. Eliot wrote this:

The only wisdom we can hope to acquire

is the wisdom of humility:

humility is endless.

Every morning I say thank you for this creative life, for the gift and blessings of growing old; for the musings, curiosity, and discovery that fill the days; and for friends who make my world a more colorful and inviting place. I am grateful.

Decisions are rooted in deep soil. They have consequences and offer direction. Certain decisions in life come about slowly, forming and shaping us long before we’re conscious of a decision unfolding, Those simmering types of decisions contain the qualities of longing, intuition, and imagination. The rational component of pros and cons seem to unfold organically.

Recently, I made such a decision that I see reflected elsewhere on Substack. I made the decision that the inmates running the asylum we call Washington DC, will not and cannot define me; I decided to dive into the conscious practice of kindness; nourish and develop a sense of unity and community. I decided to give myself to my writing in ways that would express that. And, I decided to lift up those around me, who just like me are suffering and scrambling daily so we won’t be swallowed whole by the devastating daily news of war and corruption.

These decisions were not immediate. They’ve been working on me my entire life. They were born in my grandmother’s garden, sitting by her side as she taught me how to gently harvest tomatoes and green beans. They seeped into my consciousness when I heard her whispered prayers giving thanks for the bounty.

From the mud, the lotus grows and blooms. I’ve decided the type of chaos, destruction and corruption currently existing in our politics, can only be buffered by how each of us shows up in the world. I’ve decided to show up as a writer, a poet, a philosopher, a lover of nature. Part of the decision is a commitment to being an up-lifter, an encourager, and someone who holds the practice of kindness as essential to a life well lived. We are meant to care for each other. This is the decision that has been working on me, waiting for me to awaken to it and claim it.

The current “so-called” leader in Washington wants us to despair. He want us to feel weak and defeated; to crawl to him with misplaced devotion, Mr. “I, and I alone can fix it.” He sees himself as our salvation, a god on the hill, who turned away long ago from the grace of serving others. Humility is a strength unknown to him, and so is the practice of kindness. His altar is money and more and more and more. His more can only lead to his own destruction. We see that beginning to play out.

My artist friend often says “Art is my salvation.” Art is salvation, growing from the most curious and open parts of ourselves. Anything we create in the spirit of openness and learning, also creates us. Beauty is a radical act.

As the infection permeating the cells of the Washington body, rot, die and fall away, there is an invitation to renew. Things will never go back to the way that they were, but we are being presented with an opportunity to make things better than they are, and hopefully better than they were. A citizenry that practices kindness, caring and creativity is patriotic and provides an illuminated path home. And as the old adage states, “home is where the heart is.”

Here is where my heart is: I embrace the glorious diversity and creativity of the American people, who give me hope and faith. I believe in democracy – hold these truths to be self-evident that we are created equal; that we have a right to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. My happiness is defined by feeling safe in my home, having food on the table and breathing in the beauty of this land. I’m blessed with a husband and family, a writing life, and the presence of nature. I know joy from a dozen small things that remind me what I have decided: We are here to care for each other. And no amount of corruption or blood-sport politics can change that.

If you doubt the optimism in such decisions, this is a good time to read or re-read Viktor Frankl’s book, Man’s Search for Meaning. It underscores how the commitment to love and beauty will get us through the worst of times. Frankl’s decisions served him and more importantly, served those around him. That was the big lesson for me. In dark times, it’s not just our own selves that must be cared for — we keep our humanity alive by caring for those around us.

What decisions are you making in your life right now that help you navigate these dark waters? Let’s have a conversation.

Gratitude for the hope, faith and love inspired by some of my Substack community. I wish I could remember all of the names and stories that have touched me, but here are a few:

for his fidelity to poetry

for how she shows up in the world and inspires my path

for her commitment to personal growth

for her reminders of where enchantment lives and thrives

for demonstrating courage and kindness in the face of adversity

who keeps the light burning brightly in Haiku

for deep thoughts on the liminal and in between spaces

And to for always reminding me of the power, comfort and revelations found in nature

The undercurrent of war, destruction, separation and fear permeates our world. I sometimes wake up feeling heartbroken. As such, my mornings turn inward. I write myself into the day, looking for the Presence of the Divine. I don’t feel I’m alone in this, so in the early hours as I sit with tea, I know I’m sitting with thousands of others, who light a candle and say a grace to begin anew; begin with how we show up in the world; begin with making art in order to walk in love and beauty. For this creative circle I give thanks that none of us are ever as alone or as broken as we think we might be. Here I share today’s journal entry, more cathartic than craft, but connected somehow to those in my universe who write their way into the day too.

4.15.2026:

In these older years crisping and curling the edges of my being, I grow more reflective. A commitment to inner work, baptizes through water and flame, a contemplative need. For me it began at sixty-five and continues to pick up speed. I’m redefining who I am and it’s tricky not having the day-to-day roles of work, career and title as the goal. There is an un-lived life calling, one of inner work, humbling by its nature, solitary in it’s need, and radiant in its discovery.

Beauty finds me in writing my old age, into secret stories asking for release. A pen can make peace or war with a thousand words. Crafting a poem can be illuminating and liberating. Essays and stories connect us like threads in a great tapestry, inclusive of all. There is not just my story or your story, but always, the story.

Eternity shines the light on how I’ve clawed my way through boneyards of disappointment, betrayal and regret. Yet in a moment’s pause, tuning into the emptiness between an inhale and exhale, a gentle radiance surprises. Through the illuminated lens, the remnants of life lived in illusion reveal themselves, as a new dawn continues to rise in my heart.

Sometimes I’ve tried too hard to define and therefore separate what exists as whole and held in this tender mystery. Reflection informs me there is no joy without sorrow; no love without loss, no dark without light . . . but so often I battle windmills trying to live just one side of things while pushing away the other.

I read an article recently about AI tech bro leaders, who eschew anything reflective, mocking the notion of a purpose driven life. Soul’s light will never be replicated by AI. Maybe it takes the battle of survival and years of bad choices in order to discover the need for looking deeply and not just transactionally.

Can Oneness exist within this dualistic thinking? Or am I like Persephone learning to dance with Hades? Within their dance was masculine and feminine, dark and light, love and loss, and the discovery of a way to embrace all of it and become one. Embracing all is the ultimate say “yes to life.” That’s really the purpose of this entry, an underscoring of One. God/Goddess/All That Is, exists everywhere in everything in every moment. It is here that I begin to write my way into the day, with the comfort of this knowledge.

With love and appreciation for my fellow creative souls on this journey in these time, ~Stephanie

At first, Substack was the place people came to read and to write, or at least it seemed that way. Being in the orbit of creatives and coming to know them through their work, fed something essential in me, so I was grateful to be here. But Substack is changing. There are more and more people on the Stack who are telling me how to monetize, how to get more subscribers, how the algorithms of “Notes” will bring readers to me. And let the scrolling begin. Counting subscribers, likes and comments, collecting them as the be-all and end-all is slowly eating away at a community of creatives, who like me, came here to read and write. Sometimes I feel like everything has gotten too big to matter. Too big for nuance. Too big to care.

I found myself wondering this morning if I could live without Amazon. I wondered what it would be like to get in my car and go out into the world to get the things I need. Being an Amazon customer reminds me of the fidelity I used to show to Facebook. For a while, it was fun checking in with friends and family, everyday, and then several times a day. Then being on Facebook became habitual, and I reached the tipping point where it became something else, something mindless and thoughtless, like an addiction.

Facebook gave people a kind of anonymity to feel comfortable with attacking. To me, it looked like one big Jerry Springer show, a bad car accident, you can’t look away from. Except that I did. I deleted my account but was still a part of the data collection that goes on world wide. Nothing is private anymore. Nothing. If someone knows your likes and dislikes, what you tune into or don’t, they have a lot of manipulative power over you.

A short while later, I left Instagram. Instagram was fun in the beginning too, a different slant than Facebook, but similarly, it became mindless and thoughtless and I got caught in a trap of scrolling, buying and just not thinking. And once again my personal data was collected and added to a system to vast to comprehend.

My phone is right up there with social media, texts, games and ads to keep me interested – a little too interested. Scrolling through games and ads easily replaces scrolling through social media. What happens to me; what happens to a society that no longer makes eye-contact? I came of age believing that the eyes are the windows to the soul. What happens if we no longer can see, no longer look for that twinkle in the eye, that spark of divinity in one another? Here’s what I think happens: I think we become existentially lonely, and as a result, we give ourselves to our devices more and more. We give ourselves over to what is being sold to us – good little consumers, all.

My husband was surprised recently when he asked AI some questions and discovered that AI knew a lot more about him than he anticipated. Like the rest of us, his data is stored in some universally large system that will do it’s best to bend and mold him into a bigger, better consumer. Does it even need saying that bigger and better consuming also contributes to existential loneliness? The message is “you are not okay the way you are. You need this face cream, this car, these dishes, these false eyelashes to be okay and acceptable in the world.”

So. . . could I learn to live without Amazon and it’s convenience, the way I learned to live without social media? I don’t want my life to be about consuming. I don’t want everything I think I want or need to be delivered to the front door. It numbs me. Yesterday I heard myself say these words out loud to the no one who is always listening: “I’m on a mission to make eye contact with the world, to see the soul in others and in myself, and to practice kindness.”

As for Substack, I fear it’s becoming social media dressed up as something else. That being said, I am grateful for the relationships, the comradery and the friendships I’ve found here – they transcend the pull of the consumer trainers that pepper the Substack with promises of quick cash and thousands of followers in ninety days.

I’m grateful to the Substack writers, poets, and artists who have made me think, given me reason to pause and reflect, and inspired me to go deeper with my own creativity. These days it seems we must be willing to clear the thicket and the brush in order to find the growing things that nourish our hearts and souls.

kindness isn’t just an action we take

kindness is a muscle we build.

humanity is on shaky ground

an existential crisis

marked by the lack of eye contact.

unrelenting restlessness and anxiety

is the river running through our veins

so once again, pick up the pen, and write hope.

a morning moon hangs between the branches of old oaks

reminding us there is light in our collective darkness.

With appreciation and love for my poet friend and her partner who inspire and nourish this heart. And to who keeps me thinking about the changes in our world and calls me to creative activism and advocacy.

Today, April 1, 2026 marks my seventy-forth birthday. And this is the story I tell myself about how life began:

I entered the world by crawling out of the cave – Carlsbad Caverns, in New Mexico, to be exact. My father was the park naturalist there when I was born. Most days at sundown he gave a talk for the tourists at the large, arched opening that was the mouth of the cave. After his lecture, as if on cue the bats would fly out, long black ribbons of small dragons, disappearing into dusk.

The image of the cave’s opening, the doorway from which I told myself I’d come into the world, was permanently embedded in my developing brain, a symbol and foreshadowing of who I would one day become. Of course, it helped the story along, that my parents and my siblings told me I’d been born between a stalactite and stalagmite. They thought they were joking, but I believed it was true. Hundreds of times, through the power of imagination, I’ve returned to the mouth of the cave. From her, I derived an understanding and comfort that the cave is the womb and the earth is my first mother.

Carlsbad Caverns blessed me with a gentle peace which fills me when I’m in dark and craggy places. Early on I was given a vision into the last room of the caverns, what I came to know as the womb of the cave. Ancient crones sing and dance there, in front of a glowing fire. The sound of water dripping from rocks into a pool, keeps the rhythm. This is what my life became, keeping the rhythm and cadence close by, in poems and in dreams.

The veil between the world we call reality, and the ethereal world of magic and moonbeams, grows thinner with each passing year. Imagination is what allows one to pierce the veil and see into a time and place where metaphor and symbol weave our life into poetic lines.

When I visit the cave in my mind’s eye now, I see myself dancing with the old crones, bare feet pounding on soft sand as embers leap from the fire. These images are etched on my heart. The cave is where I first became aware of the crones. They are the part of the story which explains how it is I learned to see in the dark.

Wind chimes

forged from the boneyard

of forgotten dreams,

sing the songs

of ancient crones

Sing a song of mercy and forgiveness,

sing an oak tree lullaby,

hum the haunting refrain of crones

who dance here now

and a thousand years past.

The floor of the caves

know their rhythms, still,

a rhythm that lives in me

as close as a heartbeat.

To celebrate my birthday, I will make a pilgrimage to a forest place which feeds my soul and helps me to weave my words into stories and snippets. I will remember the cave, the womb and the crones. I will place a small leaf upon which I’ve painted the word poet and float it into the water in a favorite place of mine, fed by spring streams. This is a birthday gift to myself, a ritual, to set free the poet and follow where she takes me. Today I celebrate the goodness of life and the impermanence of life. Seize the day. Drink the moments. Follow the clouds. Love life in it’s profundity and its mundane.

This birthday I give thanks for the blessings born in an imagination which knows no boundary and unfolds itself in stories, poems and prayers. What greater gift could there be?

What rituals and celebrations do you create to honor your life and the life around you? Let’s have a conversation. . .

What if an entire generation of children don’t care about library cards? What if they don’t understand library quiet, and rainy afternoons choosing all the stories there are to read? What if we lived in a time with more writers than readers, and little by little, people just stopped reading?

What if school boards and state governments got to decide which books can be in the library and which books cannot? What if the kids just don’t care anymore and would rather watch TikTok anyway? What if our eyes and our brains changed because of the amount of time we’re in front of a screen? What if we grew numb to one another?

During the Last Great War, my Crone sisters and I ran to the woods, where we hid contraband. We buried boxes of precious paper and pens, now banned across the country. Publishing houses were shut down by the government, and libraries were burned to the ground My sisters and I built a lean-to against a large Mother Oak and measured out the provisions we’d brought. Our hair grew long and matted. Our hands became dry. The King’s army of JUST-ICE, sometimes rode into the forest at night, and we learned to cover our lean-to with branches and bramble so that our home just looked like part of the landscape and we’d remain safe.

Only when the moon was full, and the waters were still, did we pull out our blank notebooks, paper and pens. One last book. Let us write one last book, a book about preserving kindness and a humanity that cares about helping others. A book someone will find two hundred years from now and remark, “…there were people who knew what humanity was, and their intent and energy kept the goodness in humankind alive. They wrote about the slow fade of a once great democracy, of the people by the people for the people.

Before books were banned.

Before they burned the libraries down.

Before they locked up writers.”

Buried deep in the forest, the old Crones inspired others, because their stories could not be contained. And people outside of the forest began to make poems. Prose. Journalistic accounts. And two hundred years later when “they” that survived found the pens and paper and small notebooks, scattered among our bones on the forest floor, they wept at the truth: We have always been connected by our stories. We need each other.

When the blank paper was filled with our accounts, our history still being formed, we wrapped our work in scarfs and fabric and tied them with string. We gently placed them between the roots of great grandmother trees covering them with earth and leaves. In the dark waters that pooled from streams and run off, we were shown it all: the corruption of power and money, and the hunger for goodness and civility

My sister Crones and I prayed someone, someday would find what we’d chronicled, the cautionary tales of a society that stops reading, doesn’t value thinking, and doesn’t know how to listen. So together we wrote the last book ever written; a book of everything we could recall about decency and kindness. A book about how to be with each other.

Two hundred years later, someone would find our bones and make graves for us, under soft earth where wildflowers bloom in spring. Someone would read our last book and know there were then, and are now, people who will always raise up love and goodwill. Someone will survive us.

Just before the last bit of earth, covered our remains, that unknown someone would whisper: “in the end, beauty and love always saves us.” The last book ever written was rewrapped and pulled close to the someone’s heart, before they walked away. And finally, we rested in peace.

I live in a house filled with books, and always have. Books feed my imagination, teach me about things I find interesting. They entertain. They make me feel and ponder, and they inspire. Tell me about the books you love, or the books you write or want to write… let’s have a conversation.

A little reflection with my tea kept me company this morning. I was thinking and feeling about what I’ve let go of in this life, and what I’ve reclaimed:

If I knew I was going to die tomorrow, and was given a choice of last meals, I would ask for a toasted onion bagel from the Carnegie Deli in New York City. I’d want a large mug of strong French roast coffee, with a dollop of real cream, to go with it. But, I let go of those things decades back. The coffee was the first to go. Too acidic for me. My hips hurt when I drank it, and they didn’t hurt when I stopped drinking it, so I gave it up.

In the first few years I’d go long periods of time with no coffee at all, then experiment with a cup only to find that my hips ached and burned. Coffee caused me too much pain to keep lying to myself, so I finally let it go once and for all. But damn, if I don’t still miss the ritual of preparing the brew in a French press coffee maker. Missed the smell of it brewing. The first pour, hot and steaming. The cream floating like clouds dissolving into a rich beige color, inviting my mouth to the mug. Oh God, the first gulp, the rush of adrenaline, the waking up of my brain, the clarity of the day.

The cream and the bagels came a little bit later. Wheat was not my friend, like the coffee, it made my hips ache, and tightened the muscles in my neck. The whole gluten free thing had not become a trend when I gave up wheat some forty years ago. The cream wasn’t as big a deal. I didn’t drink milk anyway, but cheese – cheese was hard to let go of. And the perfectly toasted bagel, buttered or slathered in cream cheese was real loss.

It’s a metaphor to give up those things that cause you pain – not just coffee, as in my case, but relationships that don’t support who you are and who you’re becoming. Work that is meaningless. Loyalty to something or someone that are more habit than pleasure. There are certain things I never should have let go of. I too often let go in trying to become who I thought I should be instead of who I was. For a time, I mistook my wild side for irresponsibility and recklessness, cutting my hair short and dressing in suits to go to an office. I missed my wild side the most, the impulsive and serendipitous side that loved poetry and wanted to dance barefoot late into the night.

Anything that is part of a dream can be reclaimed and revived. When I met my husband, he let me know that he loved my independent streak. He encouraged my wild spirit and didn’t feel my strong opinions diminished who he was. We danced barefoot to old Motown until we collapsed laughing and sweating. He became my life partner whose love took the form of support and encouragement to be my truest self.

I grew my hair long again. I watched films late into the night and discussed them with my new best friend. I began writing in earnest, every day. I learned the dreams we carry never really leave us. I’ve given up things in life that I didn’t want to let go. I’ve given up things that caused me pain. But, it’s never too late, I tell myself, to reclaim what is truly important. I reclaimed the wild barefoot dancer in me, the writer and the poet. That’s the happy ending in the midst of an ongoing story.

But oh what I wouldn’t give for a toasted onion bagel from the Carnegie Deli!

What have you given up that served you? And what have you reclaimed that added to your wholeness? Let’s have a conversation.

Spring in Texas pushes between the spaces of taco trucks. Patches of strong grasses grow through the asphalt looking for what used to be forest, and heavy rains in the early morning feed everything that rises from the winter dry ground.

March is the shedding and revealing month in the Austin hills. Live Oak leaves yellow out, shed, bud, and re-leaf within weeks. A majestic Spanish Oak, who I call Grandmother, keeps watch from a corner in my backyard. She shed her leaves in November. Along with the Live Oak ,she is leafing now. New green feels like the color of promise and hope, the color of rebirth, revealing the cycles of life.

Mother/Father God live in these trees, live in all things, and nothing is without the Divine spark that is Creator and Creation. To this prayer do I give myself.

When the rains stop, the clouds break apart, revealing a silver light winding itself around homes, forest, and Ford-F150’s. Rains stoping and light returning becomes a metaphor for healing. Beauty can be found in likely and unlikely places. Poetry is born in the weeds that grows between the sidewalk slabs.

Today came with a list of “to-do’s,” a trip to Home Depot and the grocery store, a class, the day-to-day stuff of life. One more cup of tea and the promise to make things: make writing, make a meal, make mercy, make kindness and hold fast to the ideal of being in service in some way, no matter how small, to those around me. I practice like this, with these prayers and intentions, because our world feels broken and my heart is aching. I practice like this so I won’t forget, light follows the darkness.

Rilke’s, Letters to A Young Poet, lived on the shelf right next to the two books by Annie Dillard, I was sure of it. After two days of scanning the rows of books, I can’t find it. I wanted it to help me flesh out this idea, this wondering if there could be a letter to an Old Poet, someone not yet seasoned by confidence.

“Nobody can advise you and help you. Nobody. There is only one way – Go into yourself.” This is what Rilke wrote to Franz Kappus in answer to Kappus’ request that Rilke read his poetry and give him advice.

A degree from Naropa hangs on the wall of my office with the title of Writing and Poetics. A framed memory from a heady time when I wrote every morning and was privileged to be in a place where I shared and exchanged words with those who loved capturing the experience of living.

Then, I was a young woman struggling to find who I was or might be -- not just as a writer, but as a human being, My life was buried in a rubble of happenstance and foolish choices that were not true to the something greater I was trying to birth.

Anne Waldman once wrote “OK” at the top of a poem I’d turned in, but when I got the paper back, the “OK” looked like “Oh,” and I thought that’s what she meant. The message was my poems were “Oh.” My defense in those days was to make a joke of myself. “There’s not enough black in my closet for me to be a poet anyway, “ I quipped. I ignored the aching in my heart and continued to write. I didn’t realize that all of our narratives whether stories, essays or poetry reveal patterns which help us to make sense of life.

Naropa was one of many beginnings, it was a diving board into the deep end of the pool. “Oh.”

“. . . Poets are born and not made in school,” wrote Mary Oliver in A Poetry Handbook. Born yes, but in need of the history and its examples of what poetry is.

A trail of completed and uncompleted works over forty plus years, novels, essays and the occasional secret poem follow me. Somehow I managed to create the writer’s life, a modern philosopher’s life, informed by observation, realization and dried up pens.

Though I’m not what anyone would call a commercial success, I nonetheless love the early hours in my office, drinking black tea and writing the day into being. Somewhere in this room, is my copy of Letters to A Young Poet. I wonder about this old poet, I think maybe the advice to young or old will be the same: “Go into yourself.” (Rilke)

Here is what I imagine Rilke would write to me:

Gather the scattered pieces,

of life that broke off

before you were ready,

grind them into dust.

Immerse in water

then roll in the fine powder

coating your soul.

In what is lost

your words

make whole again

with acceptance.

Encourage and support

young women,

young writers around you.

Let yourself

be humbled by the collision

of age and dreams,

neither survives.

Be the elder who does not offer advice

but with a quality of love,

nourishes and encourages.

Write from your heart

unspeakable secrets

the source of pain and beauty,

stand in the light of your truth.

Embrace the end in sight

we’re all living on borrowed time

and return to stardust.

Give thanks

for the life you chose,

you caught sight of god

in old women and butterflies.

With appreciation to poets in my life, who hold me close with encouragement and goodwill. I’m grateful for you:

, who can teach all of us about writing from the heart. , Metaphor, Symbols, Mystical writing, are the threads of her loom , , painter, poet of raw and gentle things, medicine woman of words, and for the one who wrestles with poetry as I do, who grounds me. . .

A rich, creative community lives on Substack, and I am grateful. We write alone together.

Good behavior takes on a lot of definitions. There are times, when day-to-day life can feel like a prison; when the list of “what I want/need to do” overtakes “how I want to feel and be.” Or good behavior can be defined this way: “productivity,” as in I was very productive today. That’s the societal version of what we hold as good behavior – the “I got so much done today” mentality of living life. What is done, anyway?

Like most people my age, I spent decades working hard, waiting for the day when I’d slow down and live a more contemplative and quiet kind of life. This morning I realized that I hadn’t taken a day off in a couple of weeks. There are always errands, the ever present list of things that need to be done, Pilates classes, grocery shopping, laundry, yard work . . . There’s a reason I feel tired, the kind of tired that happens when I don’t take time to rest and recharge.

What happened to the vision of slow and contemplative I’ve held for so many years? Did I just forget? Am I so engaged with life that I’ve adopted an Energizer Bunny attitude? Or did I fall asleep with my eyes open and stop paying attention to the deep need for rest? The latter one on the list says it all.

My mom was a single, working woman whose philosophy was Sunday is jammies day. All throughout my childhood, we spent Sundays lounging around in our p.j.’s, reading the newspaper and doing quiet things. I remember being very excited when I entered the first grade, because I was going to learn to read the funny papers all by myself, a goal I eventually accomplished. And regardless of my age, the funnies were always the first thing I read in the Sunday paper.

Mom slow cooked something on Sundays, pork roast with apples and potatoes; or Swiss steak, made in an electric frying pan. And it was the one day of the week when we had a dessert like cake, brownies or ice cream. Jammie Day Sunday’s were the best day of the week.

We didn’t answer the door on Sundays. I’m not sure we even answered the phone. It was a true day of rest, topped off by a really good meal. This was in the 1950’s and 60’s before the term “self-care” ever entered the lexicon. What that Sunday did was nothing less than renewing our heart and soul. It taught us how we wanted to be in the world. No matter how hard a week was, we always knew that Sunday would bring relief and perspective.

Carrying the tradition forward, my Sundays became jammie days too. (And I miss the Sunday newspaper.) It’s also become a day for slow cooking, for reading, for recharging through the act of deliberate rest and relaxation. A hot bath in the middle of the day, followed by a nap; sitting on the porch with my husband, drinking tea; writing in my journal. . .

But recently, I haven’t made the time or the intention. Maybe it’s because there’s so much going on in the world and I’m too anxious to relax. Maybe because I let the “to-do” list in my life overwhelm me. Unfortunately the momentum of turning Sundays into a day where I think I should get other stuff done, begets other Sundays of the same. So, this morning I told myself the truth: I’m tired. I need to get back to the Sunday attitude I was raised with – an attitude of self-care, underscored by how I want to feel and be in this world and not judge myself by what I can get done. It doesn’t need to actually be a Sunday, either. I can pick any day, but I need a day. No television news. No getting lost on electronic devices. And definitely jammies.

Do you take a day off every week to just be kindly with yourself? A day when the objective is not getting stuff done, but true, deep rest and relaxation? Let’s have a conversation.