What’s not wrong?


While it’s understandable to feel freighted by the unrelenting challenges and stakes our world is facing right now, including the gravely concerning, deeply disturbing, and undeniably life-threatening, we’re called on to continue finding effective ways of coping. One small but sturdy strategy, which can be adopted as a daily practice for added benefit, is to ask yourself, What’s not wrong?

You can start with your own body if you like. Do your eyes work? Your ears? How about your hands and feet? Can you wiggle your toes and bend your knees and ankles at will? Can you breathe? When you wish to tap on a keyboard, move a pen across the page, or a brush over a canvas, are you able to do this? If you get a taste for a cup of coffee or tea, do you find yourself reliably carried by your body across the kitchen to the pot, your dependable arm reaching as a sturdy set of fingers wrap themselves first around the handle of the carafe, and then the cup, allowing you to lift the warm beverage to your lips?

Astonishing, all of it, when you think about it.

Andrew Weil once commented that he’d rather be tasked with landing a 747 aircraft at full capacity without a single flying lesson than to be responsible for the functioning of his own liver. The same might be said about the lungs, the kidneys, and the heart–splendid organs, every one of them, operating day and night, often without much conscious effort or involvement on the beneficiary’s part. If your body is healthy and fully functioning, this is well worth celebrating. Thich Nhat Hanh would often invite participants in his meditation retreats to notice whether they had a toothache and, when they realized that they didn’t, to take a moment to celebrate this absence.

But what if you do have a toothache? What if your body isn’t functioning fully? What if you’re dealing with health concerns, mild or more serious? Molecular biologist and mindfulness expert Jon Kabat Zinn, speaking to a group of medical patients participating in his Mindfulness-Based Stress Reduction Program at UMass Medical Center, offered an illuminating observation, illustrating for these patients that, no matter what had brought them into treatment, the human body is a vast and intricate landscape with many neighborhoods and even continents, some of which are not in any way touched by the chronic pain, cancer, or acute anxiety, concluding, “There’s so much more that’s right with you than wrong with you.”

From the not-wrongness with your body, you can expand from there: Did your car start this morning? Is your roof without leaks right now? When you turned on the tap to fill that tea kettle, did clean water come out? Do you have food in the fridge? A good book or two in the house? We have a wild patch of milkweed on the side of our driveway and every time I’m near it I find myself wrapped in its sweet, enveloping scent. Offering pollinating possibilities and generative potential, any number of bees and an abundance of butterflies (monarchs, tiger swallowtails, and others) arrive at this fertile destination spot, reminding me that nature, as ever, continues onward.

But can we afford to pay attention to what’s not wrong? Isn’t it a luxury to turn attention away from the grave challenges at hand? Won’t that siphon off vital time, resources, and brainpower from the very real work that needs to be done?

Quite the opposite. In her research on the evolutionary role played by positive emotions in our ability to cope and even to survive, UNC-Chapel Hill social psychologist Barbara Frederickson underscores the fortifying contributions made by feelings of joy, interest, gratitude, happiness, and contentment. Positive emotions survived evolutionary extinction, Fredrickson posits, because they “broaden-and-build” our repertoire of possible responses to trouble and turmoil, bolstering physical, cognitive, psychological, and social coping resources in ways that negative emotions such as anger and fear cannot, enhancing well-being and emboldening resilience. Further, positive emotional states assist in down-regulating the physiological impact of negative emotions that pose cardiovascular risks for such conditions as heart attack and stroke and help to undo the harmful psychological and emotional effects of unchecked negative emotions that can lead to anxiety and depression.

Consider asking yourself what’s not wrong in your life right now. How are you coping? Running, art-making, gardening, enjoying a cup of coffee or tea with a friend, if you’re privileged to have time for any of these, are all worthy pursuits in these troubling times.  Are you able to marinate in the joy, contentment, and happiness that these activities and connections bring, knowing that by doing so you’re fortifying your capacities for more effectively moving forward?




Have the end in mind at the beginning.


In a dwindling number of hours, The Creative’s Workshop will come to a close, meaning that the expansive multiverse of prompts, interviews, daily writings, instructive videos, and earnest, generous exchanges with creative comrades from around the globe will disappear like the finest, fiercest flash mob that ever was, a 5-month-long cross-pollination of poets and memoirists, photographers, illustrators, filmmakers, podcasters and the like, all now packing up and getting ready to return home to regular life.

Except that there can be no returning to regular life. Seth Godin and his team accomplished what I imagine was their goal at the start–to give all of us the chance to know what it feels like to be running with a pack that’s hungry for living their most creative life and to allow the warmth of that proximity to provide nurturing, support and protection of the creative process in ways that regular life doesn’t always do. Even from the middle of the pack, and sometimes pulling up the rear, I know that hunger well. It’s not perfection, I learned, nor genius, that makes the creative life possible. It’s not waiting to be picked. It’s committing to creative practice no matter what–no matter the mood, energy, finances, the pandemic or the state of the world—and generously supporting others in their creative work. When this happens, as I witnessed and experienced first-hand, it expands what’s possible for both the artist, the work, and the world.

The mind, once stretched by a new idea, never returns to its original dimensions.  ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson

This might suggest that the creative work must be big, bold, and wildly popular to justify its existence and yet none of this is required. Instead, I learned about the smallest viable audience and how involving this small group of caring others as the process moves along not only supports our creative work but also shapes it, honing it and crafting it in ways that enhance both the process and the creative offering. I heard many creative success stories over the course of the workshop and at least as many about disappointment and failure. The open, encouraging climate made it easy to have these kinds of exchanges and, with my eye on the clock and knowing that this level of generosity and candor is an all-too-precious thing, I found myself seeking them out and then watching the effect of these contributions on my own work. I’ve determined that I like creating in spaces where fear doesn’t get the final word and so many of us spoke so directly about all that would hold us back if we allowed this to happen.

I’ve been in two different workgroups with members from 5 different timezones for the better part of my time in TCW, one focused specifically on the business and practice of artmaking and the other an eclectic group of writers, filmmakers, professors, and coaches. We’ve made plans to continue working together after TCW closes down and I’m glad about this. There are parts of that multiverse that I’m not willing to part with, components that would be the ideal cornerstones for The Well Within Workshop. Here’s an example of just one, illustrating the tenet that you’re either working to make something happen or working to make sure that it doesn’t: Early on in the workshop, I’d commented in one of my written exercises that I very much wanted to read more but that I found myself struggling to find the time. I got a reply to this post from Helena, a TCW participant living in Sweden, who suggested that I needed a “Reading Retreat.” I responded that I absolutely did and then I asked, “What’s a ‘Reading Retreat’? Helena let me know that she had no idea but trusted that we could come up with one. And we did—we arranged to meet over video chat every Monday morning from 8-9:30 a.m. (the middle of the afternoon for Helena) to read together. Sitting silently in our respective spaces with our respective books, holding quiet space for one another in our co-created virtual library, has indeed been a retreat like no other. Anyone can do this. There’s no magic to it. Nothing complicated and it costs nothing but time, though technically the time is spent either way—I’d spent plenty of time bemoaning the fact that I didn’t have enough time to read. Maybe you don’t have a free hour and a half. Anya, from Seattle, for whom the start time for Reading Retreat is a bit too early, joins for the last 30 minutes. Works for her, works for us. A dedicated 15 minutes can work, too.

Who’s in your pack? In what small and not-so-small ways are you supporting your own creative work and the work of those who travel along with you? Are you offering the level of generous support that you’d love to receive and when your creative kinfolk offer their kind appreciation and championship, are you able to welcome this, to take it in? From where you sit right now, can you picture where you’d want all of your creative efforts, ideas, and kinship to land? Can you see it like it’s already here?


Coming back to our senses. Coming home to ourselves.



Creative practices and experiences invite all of us to come back to our senses and come home to ourselves. I’ve known this to be true for as long as I’ve been a maker, which is my whole life. And yet, the prospect of opening my maker space has me thinking more deeply about these twin concepts, to consider more fully what they have to offer as I design the curriculum for The Well Within Workshop.

To begin, what does it mean to say that creativity invites us to come back to our senses? Here’s a recent example: I’m sitting here now, writing this post on Wednesday at 2:40 pm CDT, fresh on the heels of learning via email only moments ago that the government-sponsored financial support for small businesses has just run out of funds. My husband and I applied for this support. And by applied, I mean to say that we spent the past 4 days in a frenzied scramble to pull together tax documents; payroll paperwork; bank statements; health insurance premium documentation; all against a disjointed soundtrack of contradictory messages and missives from the Small Business Administration; our local banks; our inflammatory news media; fellow small business owners; interspersed with loving phone calls of care and support from family. We found ourselves relying on bank portals that didn’t work; getting texts from anonymous bankers whom we’ve never met; and realizing that the weekend we’d planned to use in more gratifying ways had now evaporated. We did all of this because we needed to. As small business owners, both my husband and I qualify for these loans, offered in response to businesses whose ability to cover payroll has been devastated by the virus. While not as vital for me, as I am the only employee in my company and still able to generate income, my husband has been paying his company’s crew out-of-pocket since mid-March while unable to work due to the hazards of Corona, a plan that he recognized would soon become unsustainable.

All to learn only moments ago that these efforts were for naught. The funds are gone. The government may authorize additional funds but no one really knows for sure.

But where was I? Oh yes—creativity as a way of coming back to our senses and what this actually means. I’ll tell you what it means to me. To sit down here now and compose this post, to bring all of my thoughtfulness and attention right here, right now, offers an astonishing antidote to the dizzying effects of the past 4 days, with respite that I can feel almost immediately. I’m calmer, clearer. With my spirits lifted, I’m eager to keep writing. My earlier distress and scatteredness have all but evaporated. Out of the corner of my eye I see emails arriving and while there’s some inclination to shift attention—Maybe it’s the bank!—why would I step back into that world of unending reactivity and tension? In the 30 minutes that I’ve spent writing this post, I’ve landed on an activity that’s delivered something as vital as a government-sponsored loan—self-possession. Sovereignty over my time and attention. Something to show for the effort.

Creativity offers this to me so dependably, again and again, and maybe to you, too. I take particular sanctuary in creativity’s ancient through-line. Our ancestors built and baked, wrote and painted their way through life-threatening plagues, pandemics, wars, and complete financial devastation. They signaled slaves to safety via hand-stitched quilts; healed from the horrors of combat through written accounts of peril and survivorship and responded to deadly diseases with the creative co-armament of medicine and music. That we’re all here is living proof of the power of creativity to play an instrumental role in buoying the human spirit and better ensuring not only survival but sustenance. It just did this for me now. I bet it happens for you, too.

I feel better equipped to face the next round with the government and the bank, having tapped this creative well within. Colloquially speaking, I’ve indeed come back to my senses, in this instance, through writing. In future posts, I’ll explore in more literal ways how the act of coming back to our senses relates to creativity more broadly, and how the particular creative experiences and practices offered at The Well Within Workshop encourage and promote this energizing, life-affirming and health-promoting return to our senses in a way that feels like coming home.  I’ll also take a deeper dive into the notion of coming home to ourselves in a farther-reaching way, with its many possibilities and potentials.

I’m wishing you and your loved ones good health, good spirits, and a willingness to reach for whatever creative practices feel most comfortable for you and available to you–I have a handmade quilt at the workshop stitched many decades ago by Elizabeth Kuhns, who cut up her husband’s old suits. It’s well-worn now and of course completely beautiful, as all hand-crafted things that carry history are.

Post Script: My husband tells me that he got an email from the Small Business Administration just now, letting him know that while funds for small-business loans have indeed been depleted, his application came in just under the wire and was approved, that he’ll receive support in the next 10 days.


A favorite patron saint


I hope this post finds you all well and at home, with plenty of food and toilet paper and in good company as we all do our best to soldier on and make the very best of it. And, if the virus has found you, may your case be a mild one and your road to recovery be well underway.

If I ever felt the need for a welcome oasis, it’s now, and I’m finding that in the midst of the colossal workload and unending hijinx at The Creative’s Workshop as we just crossed the half-way mark. I’m loving every minute. We’re asked to post our work (either written or visual) daily and get feedback from our peers; to respond to 3 prompts a week; and, along the way, we’re given rich opportunities to drop into writing groups, book clubs, drawing get-togethers, Zoom calls with coaches and Seth–all in a collective effort to further hone our voices and generous offerings for the people we hope to serve through our creative work once the workshop ends.

A recent assignment asked us to identify an individual whom we feel is doing good work in our respective genre. Lynda Barry immediately came to mind for me as someone who’s offered so much in the way of connecting folks with their inherent creative nature.  I respect her and her work for so many reasons: Lynda did things in her own way. She wasn’t troubled by the fact that neither her work, her look, nor her world view was appreciated by much of the mainstream in her genre (comics). From the age of 9, struggling to contend with the challenges in her early home faced by so many immigrant families, then and still, Lynda aligned herself with school and with drawing, spotting an R. Crumb book in the hands of a classmate and finding herself completely smitten with the idea that it’s possible to draw your own world and then retreat into it, as a way of coping with harsh realities that too often for her felt unbearable.

Lynda maintained her drawing practice, at first copying her respected comic artists and then eventually creating an underground comic strip of her own, which led to a series writing workshops and books, all in support of the idea that anyone can write and anyone can draw; that we’re all born creative; and that this world will accommodate even the wackiest of creative products (Lynda has a particular affinity for wacky).

More recently, Lynda accepted an instructor position at UW/Madison, where she’d intentionally cross-pollinate the students enrolled in her class–freshman undergrads side-by-side with Ph.D. students; fine arts majors with science majors. She liked the energy of this combination and felt it furthered the creative challenge and output. Lynda’s on sabbatical now, having been awarded a MacArthur Genius Grant late last year. I did a happy dance when I heard this news–her novel, irreverent approach to comics alongside her deep reverence for her creative practice and her abundant generosity in sharing these practices with the rest of us absolutely deserves the highest reward.

As I’m now starting the process of pulling together the classes and practices for The Well Within Workshop, so many of them will have Lynda’s mark on them in one form or another. I’ve recently met a woman at The Creative’s Workshop who had the great good fortune to attend a weeklong writers’ retreat with Lynda Barry, and who is herself offering a writing workshop ala Lynda within TCW. In her promo materials, she underscores the fact that Lynda wished for her teaching tools to be considered “open source,” as a way of spreading the gospel of creative practice as far and wide as possible.

Such a blessing.

(HT to Anaik for your assist with the title of this post!)

Photo credit: Lynda Barry

Who are your peeps?


Who are the folks that champion your creative work? The ones who ask what you’re working on with genuine interest, who share links and books and constructive feedback and sometimes even creative work of their own?

I’ve just found a few more of mine. I’m in a course offered by Seth Godin called The Creative’s Workshop. While headquartered in NY, this virtual workshop drew 400 creatives from all over the world who are seeking the same thing as me—the necessary watering and feeding so vital to raising their creative work to the next level.

I’m in a group with Daniel, a spirited writer out of Australia who’s working on a book about kindness–which seems to be both his muse and his method. There’s Cheryl, a California writer who counts Krista Tippett as one of her followers (Krista’s post?  “I love your blog.”). I’m exchanging ideas with a podcaster in Sweden, a professor of creativity in Shanghai, a woodworker in Pennsylvania, a painter in Washington State, one more gifted  and energized than the next and all with the mission of bringing their particular song to the world.

I’m indebted to Seth for his workshops (this is my second–The Story Skills Workshop is another winner), his daily newsletter and just his overarching generosity of spirit. All of his offerings have amplified in my own mind what’s possible in my own creative work and, in particular, The Well Within Workshop. I’m not sure it’s possible to capture the full magnitude of Seth’s creative reach and its net effect on the creative continent on this planet. I wrote to him about a year ago, to thank him for all that his bountiful work and encouragement over the distance have meant to me. I’d wanted to send him a loaf of my homemade chocolate chip banana bread (nutty as that sounds…no pun intended). Seth graciously declined the bread but underscored that the best kind of appreciation is to keep doing the work, which is what I’ll be doing.

My family and my beloved friends, professors along the way, students in the years when I was supervising and so many of my clients have all collectively informed so much of my creative work. I’m not sure it’s possible to create without the cross-pollination that comes with proximity to people who matter. I know it wouldn’t be possible for me.

Who are your peeps? Do they know the part they play in doing the creative work that matters to you?

Opening as a way of beginning

On a recent trip to northern Michigan, lying under a canopy of fragrant conifers, I spot a particularly splendid pinecone. With woody scales tightly closed and feeling surprisingly smooth to the touch, I carefully lift the cone and place it in my pocket. Walking back to the inn, I wonder about pine trees at their very beginnings—specifically, how do they seed? I assume it has something to do with the pinecone itself but I’m not exactly sure how it works. Do buried cones give birth to future trees?

Once in the room, I set the pinecone on the bureau and head straight for my laptop, but before I can type in my password, I hear a distinct tinkling sound coming from the cone, similar to that made by snowflakes hitting a warm windowpane. Thinking my new treasure must be housing an insect, I walk back to the bureau, where I now see the cone, scales fully open, surrounded by a scattering of winged ebony seeds.

. . .

Opening is perhaps the optimal first step to beginning anything and so I’m wishing you and me and everyone we know a mindset of openness as we head into the new year. Thank you for your openness to moving along with me here for another year. I’m wishing you sufficient time and space for your own making, whatever that may be, and I’m grateful for the many ways that your making supports my own.


For A New Beginning

In out-of-the-way places of the heart,
Where your thoughts never think to wander,
This beginning has been quietly forming,
Waiting until you were ready to emerge.
For a long time it has watched your desire,
Feeling the emptiness growing inside you,
Noticing how you willed yourself on,
Still unable to leave what you had outgrown.
It watched you play with the seduction of safety
And the gray promises that sameness whispered,
Heard the waves of turmoil rise and relent,
Wondered would you always live like this.
Then the delight, when your courage kindled,
And out you stepped onto new ground,
Your eyes young again with energy and dream,
A path of plenitude opening before you.
Though your destination is not yet clear
You can trust the promise of this opening;
Unfurl yourself into the grace of beginning
That is at one with your life’s desire.
Awaken your spirit to adventure;
Hold nothing back, learn to find ease in risk;
Soon you will be home in a new rhythm,
For your soul senses the world that awaits you.

                                                     ~John O’Donohue

Agency work


In a washed-out pasta sauce jar on our kitchen counter, I watch as a monarch caterpillar morphs into a chrysalis. I stand here in utter astonishment, refusing to blink for fear of missing a single second. When it’s all over, what had once been a caterpillar is now a self-contained, lime-green, acorn-shaped encasement hanging from a single silken thread. The whole process leaves me speechless and yet I’m moved to write about this mysterious, almost magical event, a literal encapsulation of one of nature’s finest feats, a miracle that in six decades on this planet I’d yet to witness with my own eyes.

But first I have to make sure that I’m spelling chrysalis correctly and so I quickly grab my phone to double-check and while I’m there I’m invited by the device to view photos I’d taken five years earlier. How can I resist, what with that one tantalizing photo icon of a shimmering sunset on Little Traverse Bay offered as a teaser?

So I find myself accepting the invitation to go down that memory lane and while there I get an urgent warning from my phone that my Google Drive is running dangerously low, that a number of my phone’s key functions will fail to operate properly unless I purchase additional memory.

By this point I’m frankly trying to remember what it was that I was doing before all this photo-teasing and fear-mongering began.

Our moments and our days and really much of our lives are governed in large measure by the agency we bring to our existence— that volitional energy that’s driven and propelled by our own wants, needs, interests, longings and desires. Yet we find ourselves inundated like never before by ever-expanding, multi-tiered marketing efforts in which time is money and therefore the more of our time that a phone (a site, a social-media post, etc.) is successful in procuring, the weaker our own personal agency becomes.

At the present time it appears that agency is in need of increasing amounts of muscularity if it is to do its job at directing our lives in the manner in which we ourselves choose, so that we’re able to devote our time and attention to activities and purposes that feel meaningful—be it a white paper, a work of art, a community garden, a blog post or a pleasant disposition following a self-permitted nap. Perhaps the muscle that agency needs will only come from resistance. Similar to resistance machines at the gym, we strengthen our agency by resisting the pings, pangs, pops, dazzling distractions and disproportionate warnings delivered by our devices while remaining grounded as much as possible in the real world, with living creatures, the no-legged, two-legged, four-legged and beyond.

In How to Do Nothing: Resisting the Attention Economy, artist, writer and Stanford University professor Jenny Odell offers this:

In the long meantime, as I sit in the deep bowl of the Rose Garden, surrounded by various human and nonhuman bodies, inhabiting a reality interwoven by myriad bodily sensitivities besides my own—indeed, the very boundaries of my own body overcome by the smell of jasmine and just-ripening blackberry—I look down at my phone and wonder if it isn’t its own kind of sensory-deprivation chamber. That tiny, glowing world of metrics cannot compare to this one, which speaks to me instead in breezes, light and shadow, and the unruly, indescribable detail of the real.


As for muscular agency in the real world, this lovely creature shows me how it’s done. I watch as she clings to the stick that lifts her out of the jar. With unwavering determination she begins to move her wings, tentatively at first and then with fuller motion and momentum. She falls to the ground more than once but continues onward, eventually gaining lift-off in her first few low-altitude flights, then a few more and now full throttle into the neighbor’s yard and then with remarkably insufficient fanfare she’s gone. I’ve been video recording all the while but I eventually come to my senses and put down my phone.

Some memories are better in analog.

A seemingly-purposeless activity

There are times in the studio when I’m able to just let myself play. I’m not intending to produce beautiful art, not freighting the process with the expectation of delivering something frame-worthy. I’m just moving the brush wherever it wants to go and I follow along. Sometimes when I’m working like this I like to experiment, dropping this color into that one just to see how they play together. If I don’t like it, who cares? Why don’t I work like this more often? I ask myself. It feels so energizing, psychologically and even physically, to work in this way, fostering a palpable vitality that I can feel in a physical way, an openness of sorts, that fills me with a delightful sense of possibility. It tends to leave me feeling really happy.


I was working like this not too long ago, just playing and making marks as the impulse moved me, “taking a line for a walk” as Saul Steinberg once described it. I didn’t produce anything spectacular, though I did experience an undeniable spike in energy along with a solid sense of flow.




Sometime shortly thereafter, I was in the studio with no particular ideas in mind when this came out:


And this:


Many followed:




It’s a year and a half later and they’re still showing up. I had no idea these were floating around in there and I’d never produced anything that even remotely resembles this work and yet I’m convinced that it was that initial playing around practice that loosened them up.



Dr. Stuart Brown, founder of The National Institute of Play, suggests that humans are hard-wired for play and that we foreclose on this seemingly-purposeless activity at our own peril. In his 2007 interview with Krista Tippett, Dr. Brown noted:

At least for the last 200,000 years or so, our capacity as a species to adapt, whether we’re in the Arctic or the tropics, the desert or a rain forest, appears to me to be related significantly to our capacity as developing creatures, to play. If you look more closely, you find that the human being is biologically designed to play throughout the life cycle. From my standpoint as a clinician, when one doesn’t play at all or very little in adulthood, there are consequences: rigidities, depression, lack of adaptability, no irony — you know, things that are pretty important, that enable us to cope in a world of many demands.

Too many demands leave two of our natural resources—time and attention— in need of protection. Play, with all its seeming uselessness, can be a useful antidote.


When Death Comes


When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox

when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.

When it’s over, I want to say all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

When it’s over, I don’t want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.

I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

                                                                ~ Mary Oliver

R.I.P.  …  I miss her already.



It’s about time


The Art of Disappearing

When they say Don’t I know you?
say no.

When they invite you to the party
remember what parties are like
before answering.
Someone telling you in a loud voice
they once wrote a poem.
Greasy sausage balls on a paper plate.
Then reply.

If they say We should get together
say why?

It’s not that you don’t love them anymore.
You’re trying to remember something
too important to forget.
Trees. The monastery bell at twilight.
Tell them you have a new project.
It will never be finished.

When someone recognizes you in a grocery store
nod briefly and become a cabbage.
When someone you haven’t seen in ten years
appears at the door,
don’t start singing him all your new songs.
You will never catch up.

Walk around feeling like a leaf.
Know you could tumble any second.
Then decide what to do with your time

~ Naomi Shihab Nye


There are 86,400 seconds in each and every day. May the new year bring countless opportunities to spend your time in ways that creatively fuel, nurture, and sustain you, with manageable challenges, ceaseless learning, and abiding delight. Thank you for another year of your readership. It means so much to me.