“…You’ve walked those streets a thousand times and still
you end up here. Regret none of it, not one
of the wasted days you wanted to know nothing,
when the lights from the carnival rides
were the only stars you believed in, loving them
for their uselessness, not wanting to be saved.
You’ve traveled this far on the back of every mistake,
ridden in dark-eyed and morose but calm as a house
after the TV set has been pitched out the window.
Harmless as a broken ax. Emptied of expectation.
Relax. Don’t bother remembering any of it. Let’s stop here,
under the lit sign on the corner, and watch all the people walk by.”

Excerpt From: Laux, Dorianne. “The Book of Men.” WW Norton, 2011. iBooks.

not really plagiarism

I suppose I should just send you all to Sarah’s blog at and shut this one down, since I just keep “stealing” her posts and putting them up here.

But this was just too perfect to pass up.

Thanks, Sarah.

In the beginning, spirituality is a seeking practice. We seek peace, we seek joy, we seek wisdom, we seek awakening, we seek self betterment. Farther down the road, the realization comes that we already are the peace and joy and wisdom and awakening and self betterment that we seek. At that point, spirituality becomes what it is… Not a practice of seeking anything. But a practice of uncovering what was there inside you all along. You already are the light at the end of the tunnel. You already are the wisdom, you already are the peace, you already are the joy. You already are awakened, you already are perfect. All that’s left is for you to discover that you are.

– Teal Scott

I am?


Maybe it is, actually, enough just to be looking.

(Beatific smile)

Don’t google your name.

Sarah’s back.

She always knows just what to say.

Don’t google your name. Ever.
Don’t “search” for yourself
on anything that glows in the dark.
Don’t let your beauty
be something anyone can turn off.
Don’t edit your ugly out of your bio.
Let your light come from the fire.
Let your pain be the spark,
but not the timber.
Remember, you didn’t come here
to write your heart out.
You came to write it in.

– Andrea Gibson

choose happiness

Let’s say you’re walking along this winding path, and the path narrows to pass between two cliffs.

Blocking the path is a fairy/troll/genie/wizard, and he and/or she offers you passage.

But to pass you have to select one of two things to carry with you.

The first is a really large, heavy, ugly, dirty rock

"Stupid crap" includes all of the painful stuff that has happened to you that still makes you mad/sad/bitter/resentful and that you can't seem to let go of.

“Stupid crap” includes all of the painful stuff that has happened to you that still makes you mad/sad/bitter/resentful and that you can’t seem to let go of.

The other is a basket full of good things

You can't see it all but the basket contains champagne and chocolate and good books and sunshine and blue skies and happiness and love.

You can’t see it all but the basket contains champagne and chocolate and good books and sunshine and blue skies and happiness and love.

This seems like a stupid question, I mean, Chuh! but which one would you carry?

and which one were you carrying up until about two minutes ago when you realized how absolutely ridiculous it was?

You can’t hold on to all the crap, and happiness, at the same time.

You choose.

We be jammin’

There’s a little boy at “my” church who loves the piano.

He’s “plunked” the keys a few times in the middle of services — once as I was heading around the back to direct the bell choir, once on his way back from communion, but dad intercepted so he didn’t actually get any notes down.

And today.

I finished the Prelude. The opening announcements are made. The pastor stands to begin the service and I hear this little voice from behind me say, with joy and wonder, “Piano!” and then plunk. All ten little fingers on the lowest keys. Everyone turns to look, the Pastor raises his eyebrows, I lift my hands in apology and say “It wasn’t me!”

We all laughed for a bit; I laughed to myself for about 10 minutes.

This boy is a whirlwind.

I imagine his parents are exhausted. He never sits still. Never.

But that wonder and joy. I doubt any of my students approach the instrument in quite the same way.




I don’t know about you, but I was holding my breath by the end.

(and an interesting juxtaposition between her grace, concentration, and calm and the judge whose biggest achievement that day was in her virtuosic wielding of a can of hairspray)

i didn’t think it would be this difficult. . .

You know how there are days where you feel like you are practically falling over beautiful poetry; encountering kind, generous people in line at the grocery store; hearing “Lacrimosa” on the radio; and you are just overcome by the possibility that there might just be peace, joy, contentment, unspeakable beauty, waiting around every corner if you can just bother to open your eyes and look for it?

Yeah, I know.

Not so much.

But there are SOME days where this happens.

Only Daughter has now recovered from her 3rd fever episode in 16 days. I came to the realization (ha!) last night that I’m a really great mom as long as everyone’s healthy, doing their homework, and cleaning up after themselves. Otherwise I’m reluctantly patient, at best.

OD had a colossal bloody nose yesterday, blood just POURing out of both nostrils (and, despite what those of you who know me pretty well might be thinking at this moment, I’M NOT MAKING THIS UP). She gasps in horror, I sigh epically. What an inconVENience.

I suck.

Husband claims that we all feel like this. I think he’s being kind, generous, or maybe it’s just the two of us, and the rest of the world is full of fantastic parents who are happy to prepare meals with vegetables which no one wants to eat, mop up vomit from the hallway and staunch bleeding with their best white silk blouse or the $100 bills they find just lying around in their purse.

Anyway, she managed to “overcome” her fever for long enough to participate in her ballet performance on Sunday. Her one dance was pretty short, and she looked quite serious while she spun around in circles (considering that taking a shower that day made her dizzy, this was quite a feat), and it took 20 minutes to find her after the concert was over, but she did it.

I was very proud.

She’s brave and strong and smart and kind and beautiful.

I’m very proud.

One of the pieces the older dancers performed to was Lacrimosa. That helped.

I don’t think Mozart spent a lot of time feeling peace, joy, contentment. I try to tell myself that a general dissatisfaction with life is what drives people towards creativity and greatness.

There are some days where this sounds just about right.



stumbling around in the dark

It’s funny (strange, not Ha!) how dark the world can get
sometimes; not a soft gentle cloak that envelops and
comforts, but jagged and hard
like those medieval walls with pointy shards of metal
closing in.

I find myself stumbling around there now
and again hearing the voices of the people I love
but somehow unable to answer
hearing but not hearing, being touched
but not reached.

And then the world turns a little bit green
and the sun comes out the sky a painful blue
and a gentle breeze chimes the wind chimes and rustles
the capiz shells of the lamp they
laughed at me for buying

and I find myself in the light again.

I’m going to go out, now, to
water the hollyhocks and clematii
and spray the deer repellent around the lawn
and then I’m going to read in the chair
on the front porch;
Dexter the dumb dog on my lap;
watching the light.