Purple asters and bronze-colored mums dot my garden. Crimson leaves have begun to cover the burning bush. Hosta leaves are outlined in a crispy brown. Chilly air, less sunlight, the aroma of cinnamon and the appearance of pumpkins on porches are sure signs that autumn has arrived. Quiet settles over me. It whispers. “Listen, it […]
When we slow down and begin to listen, we can become aware of a deeper longing. Maybe some place inside of you wants to… Create a play Meditate more Change jobs Write a book Retire Or? Our Guest Blogger, Maureen Glass, wrote this piece last week while attending the Taos Retreat. She touches on how
A blur of jump rope passes by my eyes and then slaps the pavement. The girls holding the ends of the rope start the counting rhyme. “Down in the valley where the green grass grows, there sat Nancy sweet as a rose, along came Johnny and kissed her on the cheek. How many kisses did
Steam rises as my iron glides back-and-forth on the blue napkin. The scent of damp cotton warmed by the iron’s heat floats up in a stream of steam along with childhood memories of watching my mother iron. She taught me. I was eager to learn. Pillowcases and napkins were the easiest to manage so that
Bags of food and supplies gather in the kitchen as I pack up for the spring retreat. There is a gathering energy in me also. Visions of entering a sacred space with a handful of women fill me. I wonder, “What are they feeling as they ready themselves for this journey?” We will move deeper
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
