snowy treesIt is approximately a biannual occurrence for me that I quit blogging. Usually I announce this to my best friends, those tall trees that always encircle me. Usually in a very loud voice.


When getting to a wifi signal requires sliding down a very steep and snowy hill…? SERIOUSLY. And no, we do not have these new-fangled concrete barrier things like they have on the highway. Not here. What we have here is a canyon. One side up. The other side down. Blogging is the first thing to go. Any sane person would agree.

Yet, here I am.

Why? Sanity not being of my strong points, agreed…still, why?

God knows, I’ve asked. As most of you know I lost my thread a bit this summer. I lost my voice, because I lost the center from which my voice emanates. It is very unclear, in my journey, which thing it is that throws me off my game. Too much attention, or too little? Answer: both and neither. It is any scenario in which I write for the response instead for the impulse. It is any scenario in which I get my threads crossed, and try to make the energy flow the other way.

Someone said of me recently, it’s too bad she’s so angry, because otherwise her writing is really beautiful. I’m not going to tell you that hearing things like that doesn’t make me feel something. I’m not going to tell you that hearing that doesn’t make me startle, and feel scared, just like the icy edge of the canyon flashing in my peripheral vision on the right side of the car.

I feel like maybe I’m risking everything. And how is that worth it?


All my life as a storyteller and an artist (and I ran off to join the (theater) circus when I was just 18 years old, you guys, so this really is my whole life) there has been only one thing that makes the ones that work. It is always the same one thing, and I can’t control it. It’s simply a matter of which ones are true. I don’t control what is true. I can open the door to truth, or I can close it, but I can’t control what ice or fire comes through.

This is life. The beauty and the anger. The joy and the suffering. The rightness and the wrongness. The love and the truth. This is the canyon, one side up and the other side down.

All I want is to live this life alive.

I can’t split them apart. I want so much for everyone who reads here to feel beauty. I want you all to smell and drink beauty. I want you to swim in beauty. But it doesn’t come without the other stuff, too. To feel our sisterhood with the trees is to weep for their destruction. To feel our sisterhood among the nations is to weep for centuries of brutality, acts of selfishness, lives destroyed for others’ gain. It is all the same ugly/beautiful world.

I can open the door to truth, or I can close it, but I can’t control what wild voice pours through.

And, no, I’m not quitting. There are moments, when a voice like mine is heard. There are moments of shared electricity, moments of deep faith, moments of nourishment. Always, even when it seems dry or quiet, or desert…always, there are moments.

I have tried and tried to squish myself into all the boxes. I have tried to be more appealing, and prettier. It only makes us all a little poorer.

I’m too old.

I will give what gifts I have to give. I will speak with the voice that I am given. I will lean into this faith, which is this art, which is the best that I can do…such as it is. This is what is asked of us, walking through these lives, with our consciousness, with our intelligence. To make this art. To make this faith.


This is what is asked of us: To open our hearts like doors, awake the tastebuds underneath our tongues, to feel this world. To feel how fragile, how impermanent, how stunningly beautiful, how cruel.

May it wake our hearts to one another,
may it wake our hearts to courage,
may it wake our hearts.