Being Here


It’s April 2, but it snowed last night. If spring is here, I can’t see it.

Same thing with my life this week – a season of crazy that made me question just how present I was. I wasn’t.

It’s been a blur of endless meetings, sudden changes, doing 100 things all at the same time. Life on automatic and over drive.

I got caught up. My only intention was to get the thing done, and move onto the next one. No reflection, no centering, no soul.

I was close, but not quite there.

I watched the snow last night though, from start to finish. It was a kind of reckoning that brought me back to “here” again.


Being Here 

Spring is almost here

Am I? Are we?

How does that happen?

What does it take?

Times when

We step forward

Open our arms

Take a breath –

Name our fear but

Trust our choice.

Times when

We allow uncertainty

Live with suspense

Welcome mystery

Depend on faith but

Act on truth.


Of Course it’s Not True…



It was June 2011. We were talking about the dreams we forget, the hope and courage it takes to see past what is and the will to dare, to try something new, to create.

She said she wished she could believe in make believe again and was surprised that every other woman in the workshop knew exactly how she felt.

We need that. That beginners mind filled with trust in the fantastic that lifts us past the everyday – reminds and reassures us there’s something more. It gives us permission to re-imagine reality, and a way to shake off the weight of rationality.

It’s not so much the belief itself, true or not; it’s the feeling it brings. We know about embodied knowledge – the facts, the mechanics, but what about embodied imagination, for its own sake? For our sake?

For all the beliefs we have from childhood that rein us in and keep us living on automatic, isn’t it possible to consciously pick a few that do exactly the opposite?

Of Course It’s Not True… 

But my grand mother

Told me

So even now

I believe it

When I need to –

When I need a

Breathing space,

When the here and now

Presses too hard,

When it walls me in and away

From the imaginings

That filled my childhood.

 My parents said she was made of steel,

But to me

She was made of clouds of Nivea cream.

I couldn’t breathe in the scent or the quiet I found in her hugs deep enough.

She loved to sit in the kitchen

And tell tales.

That day

She kept fidgeting with her elastic garters

And finally rolled them down to just behind her knees.

“These legs need to move, walk with me?” she asked.

And I did.

I held her hand, the one with the emerald ring.

“Where did you get that?”

And in the most matter of fact voice I’d ever heard she said,

“Oh, the last time I went to Oz, Dorothy gave it to me.”

I believed her- what 4 year old wouldn’t?





There was so much time once.

Now there’s only

An icy sky,

Bare hands, and

Loose pages


White fields.

Beyond our book of days

Is the book of our lives-

Un-numbered pages

Of epiphanies


Fill us with awe and a longing

For communion with

What can’t be sequenced, chapter’d

Or forced into coherence.

 I clutched my stories

That February night

Held them tight

Against my heart –

And let the snow and rain

Soak them

Till my coat was covered in ink

And I was sure every word was nearly gone.

Then I peeled the pages apart and

Threw them into the night.


I knew by morning

A stain of sepia ink on snow

Would be all that survived

Of my stories –

No titles

No signature

No legible trace.

But it didn’t matter…

Not any more.

 My stories and I

Had held each other long enough.

It was time.

There are many reasons

We hold onto our stories:

And just as many

For letting them go…