if it is you

Leaves float softly to the ground,

and I stand there – ankles deep

in a puddle, the breeze wrapping

its arms around my waist –

wondering if it is you,

sending me leaves

placing pools of water in my


opening my tired eyes to the

moving world around me.

if it is you,

pulling strings over my head,

breathing gently in my direction –


and thank you.


Hold Still

I’m tangled in branches, coated in dirt, wrapped in leaves that embrace parts of me I cannot see. The far-off echo of birdsong guides me to clear waters in the dark dusk of early morning; before the sun’s rays have had the chance to dance quietly upon mountain ranges or reflect hues into deep oceans and traveling rivers. I hold still – listening for the wind to carry hope to me from somewhere I have not been.

Something That’s Got to Be Remembered

November 1, 2017

Dear Papa,

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about how I want to be remembered. Not just after death, but most importantly in life.

I miss Auntie Julia more than my heart will ever be able to comprehend. But I am comforted knowing how deeply I loved her, and the way in which she loved me back. Her spirit was with her, out in the world for all to see each and every day of her life. What I remember of her in passing is what I remember of her in her days on this earth. Her legacy was a living one.

There is a quote I wrote down years ago and recently came across: “Inside each and every one of us is one true authentic swing. Something we were born with. Something that’s ours and ours alone. Something that can’t be taught to you or learned. Something that’s got to be remembered.”

How are you remembered, Papa? What is it you were born with that is your truth, that you live everyday? I’m thinking it is important to reflect on this about ourselves but also those we share our lives with. What is the point in waiting until someone is gone to start remembering them? I want to be remembered always, and I think we all do.

I remember you almost everyday. I think of you, and my love for you and all the wonderful things you’ve experienced in your journey. Your stories breathe life of travel, family, love, bravery, loss. These stories are the narratives of our lives, they shape us along the way, molding the clay of the “something” we came into this world carrying in our hearts.

Loss has shown me a lot about the world, and the world has shown me a lot of loss. Grief can be both overwhelming and clarifying. It forces you to let everything else fade and fall away, to see what is in front of you and toss aside the crap that is nothing more than distraction. If only we could experience our lives this way without having to stare into the face of loss. But then we would not be human. Time will take its course soon enough, and our hearts will not forget, but they will heal. My heart is forever changed, but I carry with me the clarity and love and the something special I came into my life with – whatever that may be.

As always, you are so very loved and thought of – missed and remembered.

I love you.


Floorboards creak under my bare feet

Inviting the past to creep up through

The cracks and crevices

Running like veins through

tarnished oak, splintered

with stories of pitter and patter

Touching the soles of soul after soul

Some desperate for the foundation

To open wide and swallow them whole


Long panels meet cornered molding

For the first time

It would seem

Unclear as to who provides the adhesive

Holding together

What can only be assumed to be


Longitude and latitude colliding

To form a perfect enclosure.

The Ordinary


I want to want what I have in my hands. Or the possibility – which is where I have always gotten lost. This is the sharp left turn that leads me to nowhere, for all things are at their best before they happen into existence.

How beautiful our expectations look in the dark. How shameful we feel when they emerge in the light of actuality. I prefer to remain in an in-between  world, one of shadows, a grayness. A passage where possibility lives in limbo, the sliver of space in the middle of what is and what could have been. I’ll choose not to walk through, lingering as the patterns in my eyes dance in the doorway.