What’s that? I ask. Don barely looks up from his newspaper as he answers. “I don’t know. This house is making all kinds of noise lately.” Sunday mornings are normally quiet. The rustle of newspaper pages and a gurgling coffee pot are the only sounds we hear. On this Sunday morning, an unfamiliar knocking grabs […]
I sit at my desk. I wonder. “Can I?” Unbreakable, the title of my new book, challenges me. Writing always does. Yet, this book presents a unique test. It’s impossible for me to write about our unbreakable core without exploring my own brokenness. That is my stopping place. Do I have the courage to be
My once lovingly decorated therapy office is empty except for the circle of folding chairs that we now sit upon. Don sits to my right. Colleagues of mine fill the other chairs. We gather to formally close my psychotherapy practice. Each participant has been part of my journey from an undergrad classmate of twenty years
“I’m 10. And I Want Girls to Raise Their Hands,” writes Alice Tapper in her New York Times editorial. This is how she recounts her experience on a recent field trip.. “I noticed that all the boys stood in the front and raised their hands while most of the girls politely stayed in the back
4:25 AM. Darkness surrounds me. Don’s sound asleep upstairs. I’m nestled in the living room window seat. A favorite place to perch for the ten years this house was ours in Ouray, Colorado. Now we rent this mountain home from its new owners. Outside my window stars spill across an indigo predawn sky. Bold outlines
I am ready to receive! This declaration begins the gift giving ceremony in the December women’s circles. We don’t exchange bubble bath, candy or gift cards with each other. We give words — words from our hearts. This is not easy. It takes deep inner listening and dropping into our experience of one another to
We are grieving. Recently, we lost Don’s mother and father. They died sixty-five days apart and just missed celebrating their seventy-sixth-wedding anniversary. They had rich full lives. This was not a tragic loss. And yet their deaths have left holes in our hearts and lives. Grieving is an art. Like any art it’s a skill
Goldfinch’s color is changing ever so slightly as he moves from summer’s bright yellow to flaxen in autumn. By the time the snow falls, he’ll be olive-gray. That same toning down starts to happen to me as hoodies come out of the closet and firewood is stacked by the backdoor. Subtle changes are obvious in
It started with a rainbow. Well, that’s not quite right. What is the starting point in any event that you have experienced? Was it a childhood dream? An idea that flashed through your young girl mind? Or did it start in the Costco parking lot in Manitou Springs, Colorado. There, in an SUV filled with
Don is in the basement working on his model railroad layout. I just awoke from a midday nap. The house is still. Outside the distant rumble of a jet lets me know life continues to have deadlines, boarding passes and schedules. Not me. A soft overstuffed chair hugs me. A summer blanket warms me. We
