Dark stillness encourages problems to expand until they fill the emptiness of night. It’s 2:32 AM. I’m tossing and turning. Twisted covers lay at my feet. Anxieties about my children, grandchildren, Don, or a friend vex me. Sunshine will dissipate some of my worries, but for now I can’t shake them. I’m concerned about a […]

You might recognize the bench shown here.  It sits outside Uncommon Grounds Café in Saugatuck, Michigan.  Twice a year, spring and fall, I guide women’s retreats in this charming town.  Creativity flourishes in this artist’s community. Chattering minds drop away.  Hearts crack open.  Writing deepens. All is aided by the surrounding natural beauty of Saugatuck

Mystery lives in petal rich places like the heart of a rose. Chopping veggies in the ashram kitchen was my favorite job.  The sous chef would put a piece of potato in front of me and say, “This is your model, replicate it.”  Then for hours I’d stand chopping and measuring until I re-created hundreds

Compassion is my intention for 2014. This is the quality of being deeply connected to the struggles of others. Each January women, in the circles I guide, select an intention to use as a touchstone. Intentions don’t always rarely take us where we expect to go. This year is no exception. Compassion stirs images of the Dalai

Dorothy discovered, in the Land of Oz, that we can return home at any moment. It is an act of remembering. Home: shelter during storms, a spot that welcomes our untamed voices, a nurturing nest where we are known and loved just the way we are.  Spring storms come out of nowhere in Toledo, Spain. 

Broken hearts. Broken contracts. Broken health. Broken vows. Broken dreams. Broken families. Broken friendships. Broken homes. Broken promises. Life cracks us open. No one escapes the chance to find value in brokenness. In each of these situations something that’s invisible splinters—our self-image.We are not the friend, employee, or wife we thought we were.We’re not as

Birds and Nests are my new obsession. “The Invention of Wings” by Sue Monk Kidd, “When Women Were Birds” by Terry Tempest Williams, “The Goldfinch” by Donna Tratt, “Imperfect Birds” and “Bird by Bird” by Annie Lamont are just some titles that now populate my bookshelves.  My Journals increasingly include observations and quotes about our feathered

Snowy branches greet us through every window. Don looks out and says, “It’s a Colorado morning.”  I agree. Snowfalls would often continue for hours there. Our response? We would hunker down and enjoy it. That is just what we are doing. Yummy aromas fill the house as a pot of homemade soup simmers in the

Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. Red, yellow and orange leaves crackle under my feet like giant cornflakes. Colors dance and delight me on this early morning fall walk. A concrete Foo Dog sits among leaves and grasses. Usually spotted in pairs, its partner is nowhere to be seen. Two Foo Dogs guard the entrance at the Temple

Mother Earth’s belly will soon be the resting place for my garden. As the cold season comes plants seek her protection. I will miss my garden’s exuberant summer self. But, I can easily re-create it in my mind’s eye. Well, the surface of it, that is. Its underground life is a mystery to me. I