. . .

I start pulling the obvious weeds.

Ripping with vigor at the thoughts that won’t leave.

I wonder if she liked to garden, on her summers off, brave soul that died protecting her classroom kids.

I plunge my hands beneath the dirt, digging up worms and grief. Refugees flood my mind, the yellow and blue of the bee and sky, Ukraine, Ukraine, Ukraine. I cry.

I tear open the seed packet, gently, as to not spill the precious starters. I’m reminded of the gentle dribble of formula that parents carefully try to keep from leaving their babes mouths. How will we feed them.

The wind blows around my skin. It’s welcome after working up a tiny sweat. It’s welcome, I appreciate it, the feeling. Instantly I am sick thinking of unwelcome : words, glances, pressure against the skin by those they trusted, leaders of church sinning outright in the most abusive way. It never has to be this way.

My tiny seeds won’t stand a chance if it’s up to me. I’ll forget to water them, the wind will blow half of them away before they even get the chance. Another quarter will be eaten by the wild. How are we different from that? We are eaten, blown around, scattered about with fear, guilt, anguish.

But I plant anyway. I plant for the granny that was just getting her groceries. I plant for the uncle who was at his place of worship, undoubtedly saying prayers of some kind. Taken, without a chance to say goodbye. A catch in my throat, tears again.

I need to know when I dig my hole, and drop in life, that hope springs forth with best effort.

I am happy with my wee progress, there is always more to do though. I grab the watering can and slowly, drench the faithful dirt. We can do it together, I say to my Creator. You bring the sun, and some rain, and I’ll remember to pray, and water too.

I notice my hands. Covered in the earth. I take a deep, long sigh, long breath in, long exhale.

I don’t have the answers.

I don’t know the right way through.

I am unsure if my garden will grow how I imagined.

I stand, brush my soggy knees a bit, and stretch to the sky.

But I tried. I planted what I could, with all I had, whispering prayers with the roly pollies who shared my haven.

I added beauty by reflecting, brainstorming. I remained grateful, while I dug. I will find places to donate my money and time. I have become more aware, I sit with the knowledge I’ve gained, yearn for more.

I remember to listen.

I return the tools I needed to garden, and I take a seat to hear to the song of the red winged blackbird, joyous and clear.

My privilege teaches me, and I must apply it. Perhaps there may be a day, a victim’s family member, or a survivor; or a child, or teacher; or refugee, may visit my garden, and may take rest here. May they have pain relieved even a sliver, or find peace, a tree frog or a monarch.

I don’t know the answers, but I’ve welcomed the sun, sought peace. I’ve prayed for healing, I’ve dug the weeds and dropped in life; watered, and am grateful. It is a tiny offering, may it be gentle enough for today.

they got it wrong


i rarely can say that my thoughts are solid, as i continue to grow, learn & unlearn based on life coming at us superspeedtrainstyle.

growing up, my parents took care to let us know we were loved always by showing up. they disciplined us with safety & love in mind. they had special traditions that were not flashy but were meaningful & special to me to this day. i knew love to be all encompassing even when i didn’t want to do the dishes (still don’t).

and we laughed. A LOT! we still do, it is probably one of my favorite DNA pickups from my family – we all enjoy laughing and a great sense of humor. 😉

we enjoyed & continue to enjoy music, sports, discussions on silly & important things each time we talk or are lucky enough to all be together.

we say we love each other now, but honestly growing up we didn’t say it all that much that i can remember (although i seem to be Dory-ish in my memory, so splash of salt water i think), but it was shown. and we practiced it always.

it wasn’t flowers, candy and pink store bought cards.

it wasn’t eating out at restaurants every year on a specific day when prices would be boosted because someone thought a weird old saint would be a profitable business idea.

it wasn’t in any way forced, or guilt stricken or make you feel bad about yourself.

it was asking about a day, paying attention to the stories of the friends you adored, showing up again and again and again at the countless practices, meets, matches & games, student conferences, awards banquets and events that we participated in.

it was sacrificing so much.

it was growing our individual faith in a love that can’t be matched.

it was showing us hard work pays off, sometimes perfectly planned plans will crumble, and the best way to deal with that is together, tears, laughter, perhaps an old sailor word (Creator made me spicy sometimes, what can i say 😉). maybe even a spaghetti pie or a hot cup of tiger tea. (don’t even get me started on homemade popcorn & Grandma F’s bread). red pop anyone? 🙌

what i am saying is this:

if today, this overly simplistic version of red, pink, chocolate covered fluff doesn’t sit with your heart in a way that reminds you of the real love you feel the rest of the year from your family, friends, pets & gamer studs: it’s because ‘Big Business Profit off of Merchandising’ got it wrong. they might as well call this version lov3.

because it isn’t the real thing.

no one can sell you love.

you can’t quantify it with material goods.

dinners or dates or chocolates are nice.

but the story of you being a fully beloved human, breathing, being, soul is actually love. full stop.

no one other person will fulfill that.

no one singular day will reflect that.

no wilted, thorny bouquet will so eloquently state what our Creator knows and is always telling us:

you are loved.

each second.

each breath.

each moment of your life, and beyond.

it’s being shown love when you don’t expect it, think somehow you don’t deserve it (spoiler alert: you always do), or can’t imagine that it’s out there in real time.

it’s neighbor helping neighbor helping neighbor. it’s really hearing someone, really seeing someone or something for what they need, no matter if they are your patient, your parrot, or your preacher.

it’s reaching out even when you are hurting because connection is the real medicine.

so, don’t you for one second think, that pink paper, or pink centered steak served on a specific day (oh, i know this one may be controversial 😂) is the real deal.

i promise you i am not certain on much in this life, but the big push for the commercialization of love?

they got it wrong.

its all around you, if you look for it. plus! i love you. no strings attached, the whole stinking year (even those weird leap years! one extra day to love).

peace to you my friends, and all the REAL love beyond your wildest cotton candy cloud dreams.

catalystic flight


hope may be feathers found

wind felt

sing songs enjoyed.

it could be juicy nectar delights

dribbling, drabbling right round.

soft cracks in the shell of spring

sure to delight.

for the bats darling…

clear galaxies of catalystic flight.

lessons breaking free from passage

to raw growth

(much anticipated)

or cobbled bits after grief has wrought you


we return, different. not whole; not better

necessarily, but stronger. we can still rise,


a mosaic of colors, light allowed in to

warm our weariness.

yes hope is helpful, necessitating


but do note : : :

hope can only get us so far,

for hearts beckon back to courage.

our showing up for living requires fuel

lo, most importantly faith –

i hope only because my heart is with my


no wrestling of my mind is ever in vain

because of this.

hope is helpful, but faith is forever.

it’s a warm, and it’s a healing Hallelujah!

osmosis: prelude to the thrum

img_5692i have found God in the thrum, thrum, thrum of a bass guitar,

on the hill of the dry side of a beach,

with a band from across

the pond,

singing through their doubts of faith.

it made me weep.

He: Creator, God of ALL, Light of Every Being –  evaporated goodness

from their efforts,

& osmosed into my song.

that band’s questions became my own.

our answers all sounded different because

our ears have travelled, produced, edited, rehearsed –  their own melodic lives.

but! we understood each other.

and that was enough to convince me.

i am made of notes, lyrics, masterpieces of guessing – trying the sharps, rolling into the

flats, strung up on the grind that becomes the elevator pitchi-ness

ink blotting off the page.

each curiosity

solved through emotional performances of love.

i’d think that at some point, someone would want to hear this riff, this banger – my jam!

but even if i’ve wondered forever, i’ve practiced, preluded;

snuck my Beethoven-ed way

to convince more than my tiny audience of:

fame – can you imagine?!? not the goal of the music, nor even the rehearsal,

it’s a concert that i want, perhaps just a ticket – – – – –

if i can’t hear the music though, how are the notes to know where they go?

if we; even though; i am


if we leave out or exclude, because they aren’t blood. 

i am thankful to be learning about 100% inclusion. 

if we shame or scold because they aren’t saved. 

i am thankful that maybe the peace i receive from my relationship with my Creator could help someone else experience peace too: even if, even though.

if we back down or stay silent because we don’t want to rock anything even if the side of love is tipping it all in the way of safety.

i am thankful that there is an anchor for all of it, always.

if we forget to say it, if we want to leave it behind, and step fully into wholeness of healing, but waves of fear keep us timid. 

i am thankful for healing, in all ways, in all its own timing, in all days.

i we have more than enough but our plans get spoiled by the inconvenience. 

i am thankful for abundance and leaning into the uncomfortable ways in which i can learn to give more always.

if we experience differently by the sheer truth that our cells do not rage with pain- unfelt because of the side of history, unaware of inequalities, no fear because we have been sheltered from it. 

i am thankful that my ignorance is being shattered. i am thankful to unlearn my viewpoint, and relearn that my privilege isn’t something i can dismiss without causing pain to those i love. 

if we feel we are less, have less, deserve more, expect more because it isn’t fair. 

i am thankful that my brain is seeking, still seeking to notice this narrative and distrust it with every ounce of equality i can muster. i am thankful that the bitter is softened with the sweet. i am thankful for the seasons, the changing of the skies, to show me that we are always moving. i am thankful that i believe we can live them, these seasons, together, going forward, with compromise, hard work, and shared pieces of apple pie. i am thankful that even if this holiday is sweet and hard, i have hope that we see each other, reach out, teach more: of sharing, of past sacrifices, of past pains that need to be healed still, and that most importantly, we can eat together. ONE table, ONE shared meal of grateful grace, even with its flaws, even with, even because of : if we, even if, 

i am thankful. 

The sticky wonks


If your love comes in the form of a pie, bake it.

If it comes in the form of a craft, make it.

If it comes in a song, or a picture, or a walk along a shore, sing it, snap it, take it.

Whatever it is that keeps that love streaming from your soul, the thing that lights others lips with glee, the one that shows them they mean it all to you: keep at it.

We need the kite flyers, and the bakers, the tinkerers, and the makers.

We need the whole bits, and the crooked nails, the sticky wonks, and the wavy tails.

We need it all to make this project move where it is supposed to go: all in.

All of us.

Every bit and bobble and weave.

Every shade and note and ducted together with string.

We build the masterpiece with each other, because everyone has their parts, and isn’t it all just a sum of those?

Yes my darlings, the intricacy of our mosaic love is held together by our pieces and our peace.

Let’s get making! 

quietly helping



That right there is a good looking cup of coffee, right? Thanks sis for the jealousy I feel toward your coffee delight. 🙂

I’d love to further this page, these words within me, and this movement of equal love for all that I feel so strongly about. I don’t have any sponsors on my blog, or have ever made a penny from my words (in fact it costs me money to keep my site up), but I’d love to earn a few bucks toward attending writers conferences, and for free writing/coffee shop adventures for myself, so I can write for you all. 🙂

One way you could show your support is by purchasing any oils or products through Young Living, by buying them directly through me. I don’t know nearly enough yet, but have quietly been using them on my family (and when I say quietly, have been enjoying more restful sleep because of the oils I put on my husband’s big toes to help ease his snoring… it helps, I swear!), and if you’ve heard about this stuff, then you have maybe wondered if any of it helps? I know you know I am a hippy, but I am also a skeptic. 🙂 My mind is slowly being eased about these products, each time I find some relief, or some peace. We can talk privately if it’s weird I’m even bringing it up here. BUT, I have a dream of a writers conference in November in North Carolina, so, I will at least ask. 🙂 And I LOVE these oils homies. 🙂

Anywhoo, THANKS for your support ALWAYS, I love you all.



My Enroller ID # is: 2253556


or, you can link to the starter kit signup here:



**Picture credits to C.G.& A.G.

the crooked symphony

IMG_4661each flower is not perfect and yet we do not point out their flaws.

and each tree does not grow straight –


we curl up in their shade not caring their species but just that they give us respite

why therefore do we nominate certain people or places or things,

to become the center of our worlds?

when in fact

we all

they all

each of us

have petals and bark, roots and stems, leaves and shade

for all to appreciate :: enjoy :: care for – just the same?

our forest is lush with variety, our fields ripe with individualism

sustaining wonderful sounds

producing healing scents

magnificent landscapes

for us ALL.

let us enjoy that symphony

that color show

that splendor!

the world would be a blank, boring canvas without each flower and tree

(each/us) just as we were made.

not just some but ALL

no matter your roots, the shade of your leaves, not what makes you come alive, whether your petals stand straight or sway toward the sunlight –

will ever separate you from our shared wild love here on earth

we are each a masterpiece

let us love as one symphony of roots, petals, buds, leaves.

let us

be revered as equals

no exceptions.

much love wild ones,


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