Life begins again
Beyond the stonewall of fear keeping us small.
Navigating the crack systems within our granite bodies ground down by uncertainty moving at a glacial pace.
Within those fissures snowmelt seeps slowly toward the seeds of our dormant dreams.
And again we rise dreary from winter’s sleep
To bloom like the dogwood from green to white reaching towards the clouds like a child for their kite
We sprawl out in the meadow of memory
Bathing us in a winged song of spring.
To remind us of our own voice in the symphony
Each a necessary needle sewing soul strings
together across the precipice of loneliness.
Life begins again 🌸
I have been a woman fearful of the leap. I have also been a woman ready to jump. And I am privileged to live in a time where women are redefining what is possible, what is worth the risk, and what it means to have pride in their focus.
My heart flutters as I witness lifelong pursuits realized and moments where it all comes crashing down. There is nothing more human than the pursuit of something.
We all put our boots on in the morning, and it’s up to us to decide what that really means for us. To witness a microscopic piece of an athlete’s epic journey is a voyeur’s dream. And it is also an invitation.
We can have a million excuses for not pursuing our passions. And all of those reasons are valid. But here’s the thing. We will never know a comeback if we don’t falter, we will never grow if we don’t try, and we will never remember the immense feeling of showing up if we bail.
There is beauty in the effort. Wisdom in the trials. And love on the other side, always.
A new page and nowhere to be?
Off come the layers, the expectations, the show.
If only to bask, vulnerable to an open sky
Gone is the itinerary of another’s hope,
Though filled with becoming
I slow, and I slow.
There is an ancient longing in this stillness
I thought I’d find it in the wilderness
And yet, the drumming on of feet.
‘Silly girl’ they’d say to me
There is beauty in the pressing on
To fill a lifetime of bird and river song
How could an acorn like me
Sit beneath a tree for a moment
And savor yet, each passing memory
The foxtail pine claims no difference
Whether I stall, whether I speed
But these bones crave a deference
To each of the colorfully falling leaves
And so we count the needles
Each Lodgepole an identity
The familiarity of a white bark
Woven into existence by a Clark’s nutcracker beak.
Yes, this is how I choose every home I meet
Let me be an unopened seed
Circadian sunrise taps my tent on the shoulder
Good morning wildish woman, she says.
It’s time
For the summer saunter
And silly salutations
And the strength within
Get ready
To glitter like the alpine lakes
And dance to the stars
And carry your soul into another sunset
Remember
You are never that far away
From a kiss on the cheek
Or the next scenic snack
Or Home
Because it’s all around you,
Sweet girl.
It is you.
Some paths in life will be narrow natural wonders shrouded in mystery. The kind that lead you to a reflective pool encased in stone. Curious, you look into the eye of the water and muse— how did you wander into this small inverted room of a world? A rain drop meets the surface of this mirror for a moment, and the scene is obscured in its ripples.
And so you find a nearby winding staircase hidden within the sandstone. Each step a remembrance of a path you took to get to this unseen wonder. Each step a sprouting branch or twig determining the direction your tree takes to reach the sky. A staircase reminiscent of decision, all the while leading you to where you are meant to be.
Some paths in this life may find you at a doorway woven with flora and fog. In every vine, a growing interest. In every leaf, a blooming dream. You gaze upon this impermanent portal wondering, where will this lead me?
The doorway reveals a glimmer of the other side— a peaceful path through the forest, punctuated by sunflowers and soft light filtering through the fog. You hold your hand up to the entrance, and dip your fingertips into the forest as if to take a taste of sugar. You feel the warmth of the world as it comes to greet you, filling you with a familiar energy you didn’t realize you had been looking for. And as you emerge, you find a dragonfly resting atop your index finger.
She searches your features through thousands of lenses within her eyes, her stained glass wings like a childhood friend whispering sweet secrets through the creases in your skin. And just as the dragonfly rises to return to the sanctuary of sunflowers, you hear a soft call from the forested path.
“Will you accept the grand adventure of seeking out your destiny?”
You feel revitalized by the impact of your presence in this moment— a small revival of the soul, raising up its tambourine. Looking back at the fog and stone and stairway you traveled through to get here, acceptance embraces you like the farewell hug from a loved one. And with a restored sense of purpose, you hear the familiar sound of leaves crunching beneath your boots as you turn toward the doorway and step inside.
Whenever I go I want to think…
“That was really somethin, huh?”
My friends and family gathered underneath the stars, round a blazing fire, swapping stories about the outtakes of life
And if I must make a PowerPoint out of the classroom that is human existence, let it be a blooper reel of silly moments witnessed by the people I’ve had the pleasure of meeting
Let there be a mason jar filled with memories of suffer fests and glittering jests and sunflower petals recalling the hours we spent as kids
And if I must lie there still— for once in my life— let me don the wings I spent years testing for flight. Let me wear a crown of moonlight in my final hour amongst of court of dreams
Yes, when I go I want to think…
“What a long strange trip it’s been.”
With a dance floor filled with starlight and ribbons flowing in the wind. Each held by a loved one for all the women I have been. And fire-lit lanterns holding every hug I embraced drifting towards the sky or along a smooth riverbend.
Oh if I must depart the mountains and canyons of this unspeakable Earth, let it be the most ethereal ascent to the sky. Paint me one last sunrise, before my story sets.
Legacy: The things we leave behind…
I think about my grandmother’s shaky hands, continuing to write her love into cards. She told me once she ought to stop, not knowing I kept every one.
I think about The Register in City of Rocks, where pioneers left signs in quartzite pockets. Messages of hope, charcoal on granite. The beacon is lit for those who followed.
I remember Robin Wall Kimmerer in Tending Sweetgrass- reciprocity, legacy, and the sweetness of giving. And how what we consume, feeds our surroundings.
I contemplate my own legacy and what it might mean. Will the sparkles I shed outweigh any shadow?
And what if it’s the culmination of little moments
A rock well-stacked on a life well-lived
And isn’t it just within our reach
to hold the hand of childlike wonder?
Would that be legacy enough
My heart is a sunny side beam of light
Glittering with dust from the backroads
Revealing gifts shrouded in shadow
And crafting kaleidoscopes with our eyes
My love is a cotton candy inversion
Melting over crispy summer skin
Swirling light into brittle cracks
And licking her fingertips
My grief is a lingering tendril of mist
Softening the memory of a sawtooth mind
Whispering into the bare caves of my ears
And resting her palm on my rocky spine
My hope is a bird with silver tipped wings
Glimmering in the m golden hour
Giving voice to the beauty of things
And whirling in her weightless power
I march my way up a mountain
To the place where clouds rest
To the beat of Sooty Grouse
drumming, waiting, wanting
To the cheeseburger Chickadee
chanting, chirping hungry
To the peak of Steller’s Jay Mohawk
stylin, squawking superlatives
To a summit perched in light
Amongst a valley of giants quiet
I pace my way up a misty staircase
To the place where I join the cacophony
In the misty morning light, the harbor ripples reach out to me. How many chances do we get to experience something for the first time and drink in its possibility?
So what if we follow mouse tracks into the whimsical yonder? Or drift with the sand to a neighboring dune. Or nickname the mountains like we do our friend. Or howl like a feral wolf at the moon.
