the car stops.

two legs step down.
four legs jump down.
feet (& paws) on the ground.
relief.

the leash comes off.
freedom!
nose in the air, he runs down the sandy beach,
further & further
until
she can fit him
on her index finger.

he looks different somehow.
head
higher.
back
straighter.

when he finally returns,
when panic has made her voice
hoarse,
her mind
dizzy,
she hugs him in relief.

what were you doing?

i was pretending i was my own dog.

every spring, during all the years i was away from michigan, my thoughts turned toward lilacs.

i remembered the purple lilacs by the back door, the white lilacs behind the house, and the pale violet lilacs around the neighborhood.

i remembered the lilac bouquets in the middle of the kitchen table. they were usually in a white hourglass vase with a red & yellow flower on it.

i remembered my youthful desire for a wedding bouquet of lilacs. (though i wasn’t entirely sure how to reconcile a spring flower with a fall wedding.)

i remembered the scent. it was sweet but not cloying, floral but not heady or overpowering.

to me, lilacs were spring.

when i moved to portland, i fell in love with tulips.

i loved the rainbow of colors, the waxy green leaves, the soft wide petals.

i loved their arrival – early in the year, when the grey + rain threatened to overtake me.

i loved the way the flowers drooped, slowly, over the edge of the vase, as if they were too heavy for their stems.

i loved the way the petals dropped, slowly, one by one.

even as i reveled in the tulips, i never forgot the lilacs.

to me, tulips looked like spring, but lilacs smelled like spring, and every year i missed them.

this spring, lilacs were not in my memory, but in my life.

i watched lilacs blow in the wind while wandering around the neighborhood with the pup.

i gathered lilac bouquets for the kitchen table and my bedroom and my grandparents’ house.

i watched the birds come and go from the bird feeder nestled in the lilac bush by the kitchen window.

i buried my nose in the blossoms, and closed my eyes in pleasure.

in the scent of lilacs, my past and present said hello.

it is spring.

yes, it is spring.

{i sent this to the hope floats in winter participants on wednesday. i thought i’d share it here, in case you needed a reminder of spring too.}

this morning, i told my mother that it’s official: today, this week, i am seasonally affected. i’m surprised + delighted that it took this long. because of course i am tired of winter. it’s not winter. it’s spring! even if the view from my window doesn’t reflect this.

i created {hope floats in winter} because i wanted to bring a sparkle of light to a season that can be hard for so many. permission + truth require an acknowledgement of where i am. and in the acknowledgement, i remember that sometimes, a sparkle of light is easiest to find, not in the place where you are, but in a reminder of where you are headed.

i know i will find my way to the magic of winter again. i always do. but right now, hope + possibility + wonder + magic exist in the reminder that spring will come – it always does – so i thought it might be the same for you.

may the smiling, beaming, dancing tulips remind you of the promise of spring.

on saturday, atlas turned 11, so i thought it would be fun to wander through his life in pictures.

and so it begins.

2003: i have a new puppy! this is a year that includes surgery (for me), parvo (for him), and the love + fun + adventure + growing pains of our new life together.

2004: this is a year that includes training, daily adventures, trips to sheep dung estates & san diego, and a move from sacramento to folsom.

2005: this is a year that includes more training, more daily adventures, and the pleasure + pain of both a jackrabbit chase & a squirrel catch.

2006: this is a year that includes a move to oregon, a road trip to seattle, camping, hikes, time at the oregon coast, and the beginning of an annual corn maze tradition.

2007: this is a year that includes a road trip to seattle, a road trip to michigan, an adventure in colorado, and fun dog + person classes.

2008: this is a year that includes lots of time at the oregon coast, an autumn trip to detroit lake, the first kitty-friend for a kitty-obsessed puppy, and many more daily adventures.

2009: this is a year that includes the call of the wild dog camp, lots of hiking, more fun dog + person classes, and more daily adventures.

2010: this is a year that includes a new dog-friendly work environment (meaning: i leave my job to be my own employer) and a road trip to the central oregon coast.

2011: this is a year that includes a road trip to the olympic peninsula and many many many daily adventures.

2012: this is a year that includes hikes, adventures, and three months on the couch due to a fractured puppy toe.

2013: this is a year that includes a move to michigan, an adventure in north dakota, a hike up a mountain, encounters with deer + bear poop + foxes + partridge, an arctic-like winter, a household that always seems to have meat + gravy, and many many daily adventures.

happy birthday, atlas!

i love you more than all the stars in the sky & all the fish in the sea, and i am beyond grateful for every single one of our years together.

you cry a lot, she said.
i can’t take your tears seriously.

did i cry too much? i trusted her, so i wondered if she was right.

but whether or not they were related, the years during which i stifled my tears were followed by the years during which i struggled with what i later realized was chronic depression.

stifling my tears was not an option.

instead, i felt ashamed of them.

so many stories of being too much.

maybe you have your own stories?

i am tired of caring about being too much when, it seems, too much is a cage.

a cage designed to keep us small.
a cage that has somehow become normal and accepted.

we cage ourselves.
we cage each other.

consciously and unconsciously.

i love watching my niece and nephew; they are a beautiful example of too much.

not in the way we think of it: we’re too much and we should be less.

i mean in the way that everything spills out of them in an unrestrained exuberant expression of unapologetic & honest aliveness.

too much feels closer to enough.

i am reminded of something the mad hatter said to alice.

“You used to be much more… “muchier.” You’ve lost your muchness.”

i am writing this in celebration of too much.

here’s to too much.

here’s to liveliness & boldness & joyful abandon & joie de vivre.

here’s to grabbing life with both hands and living with gusto.

here’s to loving too much & laughing too loud & dreaming too big & shining too bright.

here’s to being too much of anything and everything.

a week ago, i had a beautiful moment of clarity, a moment in which everything i do here finally made perfect sense.

the journey to wholeness isn’t always easy & we need places of beauty where we can pause along the way.

places that water our soul.
places that nourish our spirit.
places that reflect the wonder of our own self back to us, in new & different ways.

my intention for this space is that it be one of those places for you, if and when you need it.

everything i do comes from that.

in an unexpected twist, i learned that my web hosting will expire soon & i do not have the money to continue.

for a moment, the thought made me sad. i love this space. it is full of love + care + beauty.

i am proud of the work i’ve done here, and it would be hard to say goodbye.

i was inquiring whether i would lose my years of work in the process when a friend asked whether i was accepting donations to continue.

in thinking about it, i realized something. i planned to tell you about my departure beforehand – because i didn’t want to simply disappear – but not in a way that invited you in.

i think that i should be able to do everything on my own. when i cannot, i don’t want to share. i see my not-knowing, my perceived failure, as a weakness.

the real weakness is that i am unwilling to allow myself to be vulnerable in that way, to ask for or receive help, to let people in.

when i ask for guidance lately, the answer is always: be still and know that all is well.

and so it is.

whatever life may look like on the outside, when i come home to my center, i know that all is well and everything is unfolding as it should.

there is a piece in a book called the holographic universe that i really like.

“In his general theory of relativity Einstein astounded the world when he said that space and time are not separate entities, but are smoothly linked and part of a larger whole he called the space-time continuum. Bohm takes this idea a giant step further. He says that everything in the universe is part of a continuum. Despite the apparent separateness of things at the explicate level, everything is a seamless extension of everything else, and ultimately even the implicate and explicate orders blend into each other.

Take a moment to consider this. Look at your hand. Now look at the light streaming from the lamp beside you. And at the dog resting at your feet. You are not merely made of the same things. You are the same thing. One thing. Unbroken. One enormous something that has extended its uncountable arms and appendages into all the apparent objects, atoms, restless oceans, and twinkling stars in the cosmos.”

one enormous something. yes.

you & me & atlas are each tiny pieces of the whole.

i don’t have to be here, in this place, to water your soul, to be connected.

in a way that i cannot describe or explain – but that i know deep down in my bones – we really are all one.

with that said, i would love to keep this garden in bloom & i could use your help.

here are three specific ways you can help. if you want to, of course! (i’m hoping you do.)

• pass my story club page along to anyone you know who appreciates stories of wonder + whimsy.
• share my etsy shoppe with someone who needs cards, or postcards, or creative + unique gift ideas.
• send prayers, well wishes, and love.

in case you’d like to make a donation toward my web hosting fees, here’s a handy dandy way to do so. (it’s $260 for two more years.)

your presence means the world to me.

i am so glad you are here.

i was walking on the frozen lake during golden hour when i had a vision.

i saw me: slipping something delightful, something hopeful, something wonderful into the mail for you.

i saw you: opening your mailbox and inhaling the scent of spring.

it’s true, you can find the magic in winter day after day after day.

but sometimes, you really just need a reminder that spring will always come.

won’t you let me be the one to remind you?

i love happy surprises, so that is all i am going to say.

i trust that you will know if this offer calls to you.

if it does, you know what to do!

the price: $6

i could write so much about this, and maybe someday i will, but today i simply want to tell you that the reason i am here, the reason i am really here, is to help you connect with hope & possibility & wonder, even when you are feeling overwhelmed, scared, lost, or alone.

(of course there is also a reason behind the reason, which is to reflect your beauty back to you, and there is also a reason behind the reason behind the reason, which is to share my vision of a world full of possibility & joy & wonder.)

i spend a lot of time thinking about the difference between our excellence and our genius.

i am still not entirely sure of the essence of my particular genius, but my sense is that it centers around this: the way i see the world, the way i can express my vision of the world in image and in word, and my ability to hold onto that vision no matter how hard it gets.

if there is one thing i am sure of, it is that i am not here to be a teacher or a healer.

there are so many amazing teachers and healers in this world.

because part of my work in this life is to learn to trust myself and my inherent wholeness, i am not here to be one of them.

it feels more like i am here to be a lighthouse.

i am here to shine a light of hope & possibility & wonder in a world that sometimes feels entirely too gloomy.

because even though there are moments when i cannot access hope & possibility & wonder for myself, i can always access them for you.

thinking about this reminded me of one of my ideas, which i shall playfully and temporarily title hope floats.

now seems like the perfect time to experiment with it.

this is your invitation to join me on a 30 day adventure.

hope floats is not an e-course.

i do not want to teach you anything.

i want to sit beside you while you take one breath. i want to sit beside you while you sink deeper into your body. i want to sit beside you while you feel more at home.

here is how it will work.

every day during the month of october, an image will arrive in your email.

i will invite you to look at the image while you take a single long breath.

along with the image, i will include a phrase or a quote or a question to consider. the words will be few, because i really want to take you out of language and into silence, the silence that feels like coming home.

a friend referred to this as energy prompts, a directional arrow for your mood, which i think is a lovely description.

you can think of hope floats as a compass. the arrow will always point you home.

if your heart is saying “yes”, i would love to have you along.

cost: $11

–>this offering is no longer available.

once upon a time, in a far away land known as wisconsin, a baby girl named savannah was born.

savannah was a very special baby. she was full of love & joy & fun and her family adored her.

one spring day, savannah was outside in the sunshine. her mother was taking her for a walk in her stroller. savannah was staring at the world with big eyes, taking it all in – it seemed to get bigger and bigger by the day – when a butterfly flew in front of her and paused in midair.

“hello,” said savannah. (of course, she didn’t say this out loud. she thought it, which is probably a good thing. her mother might have been a bit astonished to hear the word hello coming out of her baby daughter’s mouth. especially if she realized her daughter was saying hello to a butterfly.)

“hello,” said the butterfly. “i like you. would you like to come for a ride with me?” (you know, i don’t really know if the butterfly said this out loud or not. perhaps it only thought it. or perhaps it spoke in butterfly language – a language of fluttering dancing movement.)

regardless of how they spoke, the two understood each other perfectly.

the very next thing savannah knew, she was riding on the back of the butterfly, holding tightly to its neck, while its wings flapped and fluttered on either side of her.

{to be continued in the story club}

i thought i would highlight some things that are inspiring me lately, just in case one or more of them speak to you too.

shannon offers a free class + group coaching call every month. she (and it) is always full of smartness, usefulness & laughter.

i found sharon on redbubble this past weekend. she takes the most magically beautiful photos of water & oil drops. i am so in love with them that i feel like i am going to burst with it. today, rainbow rain is my favorite.

somehow, i stumbled across this sweet & loving essay on body image. “it is the stories and the cherishing that make us beautiful. may you catch each falling moment in your hands and kiss it as it goes.”

you need to meet maddie the coonhound. i have apologized to atlas in advance, but i am determined to take my own maddie-inspired photo.

what’s inspiring you lately? anything i should know about?