September is gone and I gratefully welcome the shift into Autumn. October is such a beautiful month, rippled with saturations of orange, red, yellow and brown. These are the colors I adore, the colors of earth, wood, and leaf, the colors that support the last days of brilliant cycles that serve to only begin new ones. Nature never goes quietly, does it? Not to those who pay attention…

Life in the day to day has been stressful. Adjusting to new schedules, splitting myself between to two schools, and giving myself wholly to the Volunteer mom credo, which is “offer time, give time, spend time, repeat”, has left few moments to write or create as I once did when the children were younger. And the longer I am out there offering support, the more I see how much it’s desperately needed. Our community, our families, and our schools most certainly need it. The longer I am out there, the more I yearn for that village which relies upon each of its members to see a bigger picture. We are not the lone drivers of our lives, we do need each other more than ever and I see that now. We are not one family, we are one family in a collective and I am grateful to those I’ve met who see it the same way. I would not survive this school year were it not for those who see this same way.

My husband and I learned something in late August, something that has me thinking differently about the assumed futures we (sub)consciously impose upon ourselves and our children. My little Bee has been tested to have a learning disability. And while I can be grateful that she has just as many, if not more, powerful strengths than weaknesses, I can only blame human nature for wanting to mete out those blackened seeds with my imaginary Mom powers. Life is difficult enough without the bruises we carry and the heartbreaks that wait, and I wish with all my earthly might I could save her from all the pain that has yet to unfold. My heart breaks, dammit, it breaks.

There is little room for pity, no time for sadness, and the future for this child remains clear, bright and undiscovered as it always has been. Meanwhile I will work hard for her as I always have to help her find her path, her hope, and her destiny as it simply waits for us to catch up. And she will tell me stories of the dragon and the fox, the fairies and the woods, and I will know that somehow these creatures and her brilliant imagination will help her find her way, I just know it will.


I am happy to see you go September. Take with you the restless heart and the fearful mind. Take with you the bitter bites of sadness and perimenopause! Leave the joy received from giving, from sharing, from friendships and family, and let it feed the warming embers that begin October. I am ready. We are all ready…

much love to you




I went on a hike with the kids yesterday looking for birds to watch, photograph or draw. It felt like spring here, gorgeous blue skies and people out everywhere. I picked the wrong trail to hike on though and instead of looking up for birds, we spent most of our time looking down, trying not to slip on ice, mud and slush. Treasures do still exist no matter where you look, and among the wet leaves and ash gray branches we found delicately dessicated seed pods, rusted, mint-green pipes, and abandoned birdnests clinging valiantly to bare-boned bushes. Near the end, three black-capped chickadees cheerfully crossed our path on their way to taking a slushy, mud bath. They were the only three birds we spotted on that hike.




I find so many answers by stumbling on the evidence that nature leaves behind. The stunning intrigue of hollow pods and empty nests, nothing new to nature but profound to those of us that desperately cling to what once was or what will soon be lost. Would it be any easier to say goodbye if we knew what’s on the other side was better, even transcendent? Nature tirelessly cycles season to season, from birth to death, or is it death to birth, reminding us over and over again to not be afraid, to employ the remarkable senses we’ve been given, to inhale all of it and mark our moments, knowing that we must eventually exhale and let it go before starting all over again. How often do I catch myself holding my breath, greedily trying to store what I am or what I think I know for safe keeping, too naive–or afraid to release to a higher purpose I am not suppose to understand, not yet.

I think about these things as I walk in the woods on muddy trails and dead leaves, when I think of friends fighting cancer for their beautiful and remarkable lives, when I think of an uncle who has fought the odds for years, knowing there are time bombs ticking in his head. Despite all the knowledge we’ve attained, what lies beneath everything is an inherent, instinctive will to survive. Our most essential and primary purpose. We fight for what we have, we fight for the ones we love, we fight for our lives no matter what is on the other side. We fight until we can’t anymore, until Nature rests its heavy hand on our shoulder and tells us it’s time to let go. Until then, everything thing we walk through is a passage gilded in hope, faith and courage, a bridge built by the lives we’ve spent a lifetime to create. In hollow pods and empty nests, in the crisp, cruel winters that try to knock us down, the will to carry on remains.

thinking of the umber dove, my uncle, and all those who fight,

much love to you all