Category Archives: life lessons

The space between us

“Mommy and Daddy, are you best friends?” Our son issues the question over breakfast. I chew my Kashi cereal and shoot a glance at Jay, who’s busy draining his coffee. He raises his eyebrows over the mug and for a second, I think he’s leaving this response to me alone.

Best friends, huh?

We certainly hadn’t been acting like it. A recent dinnertime squabble had led to finishing our veggie burgers in icy silence, which led to raised voices in the kitchen and the finale: me sulking in the bedroom. What were we even fighting about that day? I cannot remember.

Bit by bit we’d built up walls — a terse comment here, tasks left undone there, feeling unseen and under-appreciated amid parenting our son.

Last Saturday, I’d gone so far as to grumble, “Why did we get married again?

I needed to remember.

//

Jay and I met sophomore year in sociology class. He, the laid-back genius, was late to class on the first day. I, the driven student, had arrived early. When he strolled into the classroom, there was one spot next to me.

He took it.

It became his permanent spot.

Jay was everything I wasn’t: low-key, low-stress, able to hang out for hours on end without accomplishing anything. He made me laugh. He was kind. He listened. When we were together, all my worries and stressors melted away.

We talked for hours into the night. Time together was one long exhale.

//

Hours led to weeks, led to 14 years “officially” together this month. Seven years married. Three years with our son.

Later that Saturday night, as we settled in to our respective sides of the bed, I put down my novel and asked him a question usually reserved for our preschooler. “What’s wrong?” And out it came — all the worries and fears and annoyances, his and mine. We talked for hours into the morning, crying, laughing, kissing. We found each other’s arms, closing the space between us. Just before sleep arrived, I sighed.

//

Are you best friends?

Our son’s question drifts the air. I swallow my cereal. Jay sets down his coffee.

My husband and I lock eyes and smile. We answer with one breath: “Yes.”

My hopes for you

Today is my son’s third birthday. We started our morning with pancakes and raspberries for breakfast, and he got to open a few presents. At school today he’ll wear a birthday hat and pass out goodies bags to his friends. When our son comes home, we’ll celebrate with tacos and cake, then surprise him with his first “big boy” bed.

Although this milestone is certainly bittersweet, the feeling I want to savor most right now is hopefulness. I’m proud of the person Jack is, and I’m excited to nurture him and watch him grow in the year ahead. This year I’m starting a new tradition of writing my son a birthday love note. I’m posting it here to share a snapshot of his life at three, and because I thought you might enjoy it.

Dear Jack,

Today you turn three! This is what Daddy and I love about you:

You are creative. You are an expert play-doh mixer and sculptor. You add depth to bedtime stories, suggesting appearances from Superman or the Paw Patrol. Your make-believe world — of pirate and rocket ships, rescue missions and birthday parties — amazes me.

You are playful. You giggle at Goofy and Olaf the snowman. You cry, “Tickle me! Tickle me!” laughing without abandon. You’ll flop into fresh snow, crunchy leaves or grainy sand, flap your arms and make an angel.

You are strong-willed. You throw tantrums when you don’t get your way. Most days, you refuse to jump in the pool and put on socks. As for mealtime, you stick to a strict rotation of your favorites — like tacos, nuggets and pizza — rather than try new foods.

You are loving. You crave our touch and attention. You call, “Play with me!” when you need a playmate and “Uppy!” when you’re “too tired” to walk. At dinner, you slip out of your chair to finish your veggie burger in my lap. At bedtime, you sit in Daddy’s lap to read stories, head snuggled close against his chest. You give the best kisses.

You are generous. You share your Hershey’s kisses and your strawberry smoothie with ease. You loved handing out goodie bags at your last birthday party. You like to “help” with the dishes.

You are thoughtful. You ask, “Who is Jesus?” and “Where is God?” You notice when I’m feeling sad and when Daddy and I are mad. You suggest hugs and time outs when you notice we’re overwhelmed.

You are sweet. You love our dog Gus, rainbows and your grandparents. Some nights you sing yourself to sleep. You like to hold our hands.

You are a wonder. You are all this and more than we can possibly imagine. You are learning and growing daily. You are our teacher.

Sweet boy, these are my hopes for you:

I hope you hold on to your sweetness. That you’ll keep feeling your big feelings — and that you’ll be unafraid to tell us about them. That, when faced with a difficult decision, you’ll choose to be brave and kind. That you’ll remember to include others.

I hope you fail. I hope you’ll make mistakes, get rejected or cut from the team. It’s an odd hope isn’t it? But leaning into discomfort is how we develop grit. When you, inevitably, get knocked down, I hope you’ll rise up, keep going or change course.

I hope you never doubt the power of your voice. Today you boldly declare your needs and wants. I admire that about you. I hope you’ll continue to speak up, both for yourself and for the common good, and that you learn it’s equally important to listen.

Most of all, I hope you know how deeply you are loved — by us and by your Creator. 

Happy third birthday, Jack. You light up our lives with love, joy and wonder. We are so, so grateful for you.

P.S. Those hopes for Jack are my hopes for us, too.

Beautiful

She looks in the mirror

violet crescents shadow

the delicate space below

her tired eyes

ring fingers tap cold cream

trace new wrinkles

etched in the corners

and here’s

an annoying pimple

in her reflection,

//

her eyes move to

her softened belly, 

once ballooned to carry a baby

small breasts,

once swelled to feed that baby

two arms —

she flexes twice —

her arms have never been stronger

nearly three years later

her baby still begs to be carried.

//

Once upon a time

she picked at her flesh

and prodded 

and planned

stepped on a scale

let a number dictate her 

joy

her diet 

she aimed to reign in

what she now knows is wild and free 

and maybe aging

isn’t something to 

fear like they taught us.

//

This time 

she drinks in her reflection

and calls it

evidence of

pain

evidence of

bliss

evidence of

a woman evolving.

she calls it

My 2020 intention

In 2019, I was constantly in motion. Rising early to beat the call of “Mommy!”; gulping down hot coffee; speeding to school pickup; racing through bedtime stories only to crash into bed, exhausted.

My planner — bursting with appointments, birthdays, tasks and deadlines — was my compass. I scrawled my dreams in the margins.

I poured myself into motherhood and writing. Scrimped on sleep, self-care. I wanted to do it all and do it well. I couldn’t let anyone down. At this I did not succeed, yet I kept moving.

Somewhere in the middle of all this chasing, I lost my footing. I forgot why I was running. Did I really need to run?

Weary, I slowed my pace to walk.

One day, I found myself child-free in the wilderness. Into the woods I walked. Over the mountains. Into a clearing.

Violet and indigo mountains scraped the sky and my feet kissed the edge of a frozen lake. All was quiet, save for my heart’s heavy beating. The alpine air smelled brand new.

I looked down and my feet, my tired feet and nearly jumped. Tiny cracks etched in ice echoed modern art.

How had I missed this?

I wonder what else we miss by failing to shift our perspective. By forgetting to stand still.

Hiking boots rooted to the earth, I thought of poet Mary Oliver, who urged us to

“Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.”

This year, I want to notice the beauty lingering at my feet. Matchbox cars and Legos, but also holy play and happy chaos. Tiny toes and big feelings? The gift of good health and togetherness. Cookie crumbs as sweet memories. Spilled milk as Grace abundant.

I won’t forget that moment in the wilderness. Filling up. Seeing. Letting go.

In 2020, my intention is to stop and pay attention. To the ones I love. To the world around me. To small steps on the greater journey. To the beating of my heart.

Lessons from 2019

The Cut recently informed me that although some people don’t keep a diary, most of us have inboxes that serve as a “fossil record of our lives.” In other words, ancient emails are a window into our stories. Reading this, a small chuckle escaped my lips. I’d been sifting through emails the day prior for evidence to corroborate dates for an essay I was revising. What struck me most about my old messages was their tone. My voice seemed strange yet familiar, young but not naive, kind yet scared. Who was this woman? Me but different.

On this 20th day of December in 2019, 48 hours from my 34th birthday and 12 days until New Year’s, I wonder: Who was I on the cusp of 2019? And who will I become in 2020? The whole truth lies not in emails but stories —  lessons — from the time between. 

One: Why does it ache?

Trapped with my mouth wide open and torso at a 45 degree decline, I examined vintage Chicago posters while the dentist finished cleaning my teeth.

“Well, that’s it,” he said, putting down the floss. 

“So, you’re sure there’s nothing wrong?” I asked him, craning my neck to the side.

“Your teeth look great, though you’ll probably want to start flossing more — the gaps between them grow wider with age.” With the flick of his switch, my chair whirred to eye level.

I repositioned myself and tried again: “It’s just my teeth, they were so achy.” 

For weeks they’d ached, pain fading in and out. They hurt first thing in the morning and at bedtime. They occasionally woke me up at night. They hurt whenever I switched from one activity to the next, almost as if my teeth were petulant children demanding my attention. I brushed, flossed and went back to work, ignoring them. 

Little mouths needed brushing, dishes of every size kept piling up in the sink and deadlines too were stacking up in my planner. Visiting the dentist never made it on my lengthy to-do list; it got lodged in my brain someplace between almost out of dish soap and don’t forget to file your check requests before sabbatical. 

“Right.” The dentist nodded.

I licked my teeth and tasted fluoride. “And now they’re fine,” I said. Coincidentally, the week I made the appointment, my pain disappeared.

The dentist shrugged his shoulders and stood to leave. We’d already gone over this — no evidence of grinding or gum disease. No cavities.

“Sometimes these things have a way of sorting themselves out.” He smiled and moved to the door. Conversation closed.

It bothered me that the dentist didn’t have an answer. What caused the pain? I wondered, picking up my complimentary toothbrush and toothpaste and summoning my driver. I zipped up my jacket and waved goodbye to the receptionist. Moreover, how did it heal?

Outside crisp leaves tumbled across the street and wind cut through my jacket. Fall in Chicago is a short, poignant season one must be careful not to miss. The neighborhood trees were showing off gold, crimson and burnt orange and I realized I had the entire afternoon free before my son returned from school. I could go for a run in the woods or cozy up with a good book. Maybe I’d start a chili.

Waiting for my ride it struck me: I was no longer in a hurry.

I’d replaced piles of dishes and deadlines with extra playtime and travel. After months of making appointments for my son but not myself, I had an eye exam, annual check-up and this dentist visit. I was officially on leave from work and yes, life was slow.

For now.

Eventually sabbatical would end and working motherhood would sink its claws back into me. I smiled up at the gray sky. I wanted to hold onto this feeling — hope — and carry it with me to the next season. I wanted to start paying attention to pain, and to its release.

Two: A messy dilemma

I hold two passions in my heart: one is my family, the other, my career. I’m lucky I landed my dream job as a magazine editor. I’m doubly blessed I realized my dream of becoming a wife and mother. I’m living the dream.

Yet these two dreams often seem at odds with one another, and though I believe that’s a false dichotomy, there are days I curse motherhood for crippling my career and days I blame work for my lack of presence with my family. Both are lies. Both are true.

When my son’s weeklong spring break from school approached,  I submitted my vacation days and cleared my calendar just for him. In my planner, I sketched out daily agendas: on Monday, we’d go to Cafe Little Beans, on Tuesday, we’d stay home and watch Disney movies, on Wednesday, we’d take a nature walk, and so forth.

Wednesday arrived and I loaded up my son Jack and our dog Gus into the car and drove to the forest preserve for our walk. The sky was clear and blue, pale green buds sprinkled trees, and when we approached a clearing, I let Gus off leash for a romp in the grass. Jack pointed and giggled as Gus sprinted out into the empty field. “Go on buddy,” I said, gently pushing him forward. The ground was moist and smelled of yesterday’s rain. With a little coaxing, Jack made a beeline for Gus, who appeared to be drinking out of giant mud puddle. 

“Oh no! Wait. Honey, don’t go in there,” I yelled out, waving him back. 

“Mommy! A mud puddle!” He said, stomping his feet with glee. 

Too late. In an instant, Jack’s shoes were caked with black-brown mud. Then he plopped on his bottom and the mud speckled our dog’s white fur. Safely positioned on the edge of the puddle, I sighed, thinking of the bath they would need later. This was not on my agenda.

“Mommy!” Jack cried, pushing himself back up. “Come splash with me!” 

I didn’t want to go in, but in that moment I knew I could either be the mom who played in the mud or killed the fun. I had only 10 minutes left for this walk and zero supplies for clean up. This would surely dirty my car, delay our daily agenda and screw up Jack’s nap schedule. Plus I was wearing white-soled shoes. No matter what, this was going to be a mess.

“Mommy! Mommy!” my son called again, grinning. Gus let out a little bark.

This time, I didn’t hesitate. I stepped out into the mud to play.

Three: Brave

What I remember most about our conversation was his attitude. Leaning over his scotch at the bar top, my friend was the definition of casual. This was the same carefree guy I knew from college and also someone entirely different. He was a pastor, after all.

So when I confessed to him over drinks I still had doubts about my faith, I couldn’t have predicted what he said next. 

“Imagine how it feels when you’re the pastor,” he said throwing back a swig of scotch.

My mouth dropped. I stirred my seltzer water and searched for the right response. “You too?”

“I mean, who hasn’t?”

What I’d wanted from him was theology. Wisdom. A Bible verse to help me grapple with why my husband got sick and my dad got sick and why people kept getting shot by angry white men with assault rifles. I wanted an antidote to doubt.

Instead of that, he offered, “Me too.” My pastor friend understood the doubts and the questions and the creeping worry that death was just the end. What I wanted wasn’t what I actually needed. What I needed was a companion in doubt.

This conversation wasn’t an anomaly. I talked to many other pastors this year who echoed similar sentiments.

On a walk in the woods, I got to know a pastor who admitted she didn’t have the best answers to age-old faith questions related to suffering. At coffee, my pastor listened to my frustrations at length and nodded with understanding, quietly holding space for me.

Over pancakes, one very important pastor I admired told me he hoped I’d write about it — my doubts. I wanted to tell him I’d been trying to write about doubt and pain all year. Instead I sat and sipped my coffee.

I often wrote in the literal darkness. Early in the morning before my family woke. Late at night when they were asleep.

Entering the darkness in words doesn’t necessarily stump me, it’s the getting out that does.

Another pastor whose writing I adore wrote this of darkness: “Those of us who should follow Christ, therefore, should expect a lot of darkness. That is where God finds us and also sends us.”

Later, when it was time to make edits to a story I wrote that seemed too sad and irreverent, I discovered a shred of Hope threaded through my prose. I set down my red editing pen.

Perhaps exploring doubt is a sign of evolving faith. I’m finding there’s beauty in the darkness. I’m learning to pay attention to my pain — and joy. I believe I’m entering 2020 a little braver than before.

I wrote this post as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series “2019.”

Jesus Christ, Advent and the grace of Christmas radio

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

The digital clock on my dresser flashes 7:55. Late, we are going to be late. I sprint across the hallway, snatch socks and deposit them at my son’s feet. “I need you to put these on now.” “Nooo! I don’t wanna,” he screeches, folding his arms. The last thing we have time for is a standoff before school. I crouch to his level and grit my teeth. “You need to try because you are a big boy now and I cannot do everything for you and we are running late.” I say this in my mom-means-business-voice.

He puffs his lip out. “Mommy, you do it!” To which I cry out, “Jesus Christ!” Not my finest parenting moment.

Then: a whirlwind of tears and apologies, a quick sock tutorial, shoes, hats, coats. My heavy sigh as I lock the door. The dashboard clock reads 8:10. Late.

It’s December, a time when moms are supposed to be merrily gift shopping, addressing holiday cards and executing traditions. Our tree’s lit and we even baked Christmas cookies, yet I can’t shake the feeling that I’m running behind. That I don’t measure up to the other moms. I don’t have enough cheer to give my kid. (He’s never met Santa; our holiday budget’s tight.) Christmastime, it’s magical and a rush. I hate rushing.

My son does too.

I turn on Christmas radio as I back out of the garage, but I’m not really listening, too busy mind mapping all the mistakes I made that morning, ways I could have been more prepared.

While the masses deck the halls and check their lists, the church observes Advent, during which we assume the posture of expectation. Advent, with its moodiness and calls for repentance, is incongruous with the holiday hustle. I like this about Advent.

At the stop sign, my son shouts, “Mommy! Mommy!” “What honey?” I answer. Light snow falls, lining the trees and streets. I hope it sticks. “It’s a Christmas song,” he says, bobbing his head.

My ears register “We Wish You A Merry Christmas.” “Oh!” I say, stunned by his sudden cheer, the mercy of fresh snow and forgiveness. “Fa-la-la,” he adds, beaming. This does not even go with the song.

Jesus Christ, I think to myself, smiling. That’s who Christmas is all about — the gift of a child, born to save us from ourselves.

Thankful

She was asleep to the beauty of her life until she left it. “Mommy play with me!” Her husband’s socks balled up and abandoned on the carpet. The never-ending cycle of laundry and “What’s for dinner?” Bottom-wiping and dog duty.

She craved adventure; this wasn’t enough.

She hatched a plan and escaped.

//

Miles away from home, she woke in an unfamiliar bed, hungry for her family. She relished her journey. Not only did it feed her soul, it depleted her heart. And that was a good thing, she decided, because she needed to remember just how much she needs the ones she cares for. How their love fills her up.

Please don’t let me forget this, she wrote in her notebook. These extraordinary blessings — people to miss, a cozy home, clothes to wear, nourishing food, meaningful work. When she was back in their embrace she prayed, thank you. Please don’t let me forget.

How I spent my three-month sabbatical

On Dec. 2, I’ll step back into my workplace of over six years after a three-month sabbatical. Undoubtedly one of the first questions on my colleagues’ minds regarding this time away will be “So, how was it?”

To which question I’m struggling to find a succinct answer.

If pressed to sum it up in adjectives, I’d offer “restful,” “transformative” or simply: “necessary.” Alternatively, I could say “just what I needed.” (This is the most likely answer I’ll share.)

Such descriptors cannot adequately express what it feels like to step away from demanding work in an always-on capitalist culture that values achievement over rest. Or what happens in the heart of a 33-year-old person whose last similar break was the summer she was 15. I worked every summer after I turned 16; my first full-time job started two weeks after college graduation. Oh sure I had a maternity leave – any mother will tell you maternity leave is NOT a break from work. But I digress. 

Many will be satisfied by a short answer, ready to move on with their day. Those who are wanting more may then ask, “So, what did you do?”

Short answer: “Rest. Travel. Write. Spent time with family and friends.”

Longer: In September, my husband, son and I visited my grandma and extended family in Louisiana, saw my girlfriends from college and celebrated my sister-in-law’s wedding. I finished an essay that ended up figuring into the theme of my book project.

In October, our family went apple-picking, celebrated a dear friend’s wedding and enjoyed Halloween festivities. I read and wrote.

In November, I took my first solo writing trip to Holden Village and hosted both sides of the family for Thanksgiving. By the month’s end, I completed three rough chapters for my book proposal and had others in the works.  

These highlights are only half the story. In the spirit of authenticity and transparency, here are some things I wouldn’t share in casual conversation: 

In September, I went to a number of doctors for overdue appointments. I then found myself having unexpected crying fits and feeling general listlessness. Enter: Writer’s block. I returned to church after a long hiatus. 

In October, I pressed pause on all freelance writing work and returned to therapy. I also turned down two potential job opportunities. I realized the book I originally wanted to write is not the book I need to write right now. (Yikes!) Exit: Writer’s block. 

In November, while traveling, I had a number of breakthroughs for the book. I met incredible people at Holden Village and witnessed the Pacific Northwest in all its fall glory. I returned home to receive good news about my father’s health. I waited for news about mine. 

Still this is not the whole story.

It should be noted that in addition to writing, I read voraciously during my sabbatical. I finished:

  • Still by Lauren Winner (I cried reading the introduction, this book is so relatable and honest)
  • Tell Me More by Kelly Corrigan (I laugh-cry all the way through)
  • Educated by Tara Westover (I read this twice because it’s so good)
  • Half of a Yellow Sun by Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie (cannot stop thinking about this)
  • The Atomic Weight of Love by Elizabeth J. Church (beautiful, challenging)
  • The Water Dancer by Ta-Nehisi Coates (phenomenal, sobbed through this one)
  • Twirl by Callie Feyen (read for the second time, this book and its author are a gift)
  • Lit by Mary Karr (exquisite prose and storytelling)
  • A Book of Uncommon Prayer by Brian Doyle (hilarious and heartfelt)
  • Homegoing by Yaa Gyasi (powerful, must-read)
  • Where’d you go Bernadette? by Maria Semple (inventive story, strong satire)
  • On Writing by Stephen King (excellent straight talk on writing)
  • Tell It Slant by Brenda Miller and Suzanne Paola (excellent slant talk on writing ;))
  • The Dutch House by Ann Patchett (touching, well-written page-turner)

Each of these books shaped my inner growth and influenced me as a writer. I’d highly recommend any of them to you, if you are looking for a good read. (I left five other books from my reading list unfinished, though reading multiple books at once is typical for me.)

And speaking of unfinished, if you’re reading this blog post and wondering where are all the stories from your time away? I usually write scenes and stories when I post on this blog. Here’s the answer: I’m hoarding them.

I would love to tell you more about my visit to Holden and someday I will. But those sacred, raw stories are in a special notebook that I’m slowly transferring to computer screen. The changes that took place inside me this past season? I’m saving for my book as well. I’m eager to share them. 

This is hard for me. I would love to share them right now as they are. However, when I decided earlier this year to write a book proposal I didn’t realize I’d be sacrificing the outward facing writing that is so satisfying to complete – freelance bylines and blog posts and micro essays – for the hard, behind-the-scenes work of building chapters and story arcs and investigating my life and turning it into art. In order to make space for this larger project in earnest, I must do less.  

As I mentioned earlier, I also thought I was writing a completely different book than the one I started. But if I look back at the arc of this year and reflect on the pain I’d only partially dealt with and had been so doggedly avoiding I realize how could I not write this story? 

And what, you might ask, is your book about? 

It’s about a girl hungry for love and for answers. This girl believed she had to be perfect in order to earn love. She believed in God. Along the way, she battled an addiction and had a baby. Then someone she loved got sick. Then someone else. A kernel of doubt lodged itself in her heart. It kept growing and growing. She found herself in crisis. 

The book is about how she moved forward.   

Writing a book is intimidating, grueling, holy work that is feeding my soul. I’m creating a precious gift. For others. For myself. (By the way I do plan to write my original book idea, which was a devotional. It’s also in the works, but on the back burner for the moment.)

So it’s been pretty quiet over here and will continue to be for some months as I chip away at chapters of my story. I’m opting out of social conversations, pitching less and posting less because I’m channeling all my creativity toward one of my heart’s greatest desires – to put a book in the world. I do not think this will be easy. I do not know if I will succeed.

I do know I have to try.

Every time I get distracted by the seeming pressure of endless “content-creation” (can we agree that this term “content” is just the worst?), I try to remind myself: I’m in this in the long haul.

It takes time to craft something brave and beautiful. I’m in the thick of it now and there’s no turning back.

So, here’s how I spent my three-month sabbatical — I breathed energy into another chapter of my life.

A prayer of thanksgiving

For a little boy who celebrates fresh flakes with spontaneous snow angels,

For his bear hugs & sloppy kisses,

For the sweet taste of his remaining Halloween candy, freely given (seems like all our talk of generosity is sinking in, eh?),

For building towers & bedtime stories, 

For every blessed time he utters, “I love you too, Mommy!”

Thank you, Jesus.

Also. Help me remember this feeling when this same child throws a tantrum after I cut his hot dog the “wrong way” & myriad other sins that shall go unnamed. 

Help me, Jesus.

And so, Amen. 

How to take a writing retreat

First things first, you pack your hiking boots, your books, your laptop and your notebook. Make that two notebooks. Plenty of pens, six pairs of socks, underwear, toothpaste and a toothbrush. Two sweaters, four long-sleeve shirts, four pairs of pants. The readings for your workshop, hot off the printer. Cash you forgot to get cash (you will get that at the airport). You tuck away your fear — fear of dying, fear of heights, fear of rape — in the side pocket, next to your hairbrush. Your unearth your winter hat and gloves, and just in case a pair of snow pants. Add courage alongside your laptop in your carry-on backpack. Make sure you have your chargers. Your suitcase is too heavy; you extract three books.

Last but not least “photo of your family” is on the list and you realize you don’t have an updated one in print. You decide the photos on your phone will suffice. (Note to self: Do *not* lose your phone.) You look at your packing list, most items checked off and a few abandoned (you have a tendency to overpack), and wonder if there is anything else you can take to prepare yourself for the journey. This your first pilgrimage to a destination you’ve dreamed of visiting since you were 20.

You’re traveling solo.

Heading into the dark to meet your airport taxi, you worry that maybe you should have brought your son and husband. You think this as you set your suitcase on the security belt, settle into your window seat, step off the bus in an unfamiliar city.

A day later you’ve arrived. No one knows you (yet), and unpacking your boots, books, laptop and notebooks, you feel the chill of sweat down your spine. You question whether you have the capacity to summon the story inside you. To enter the wilderness on your own.

In the library you find a book of poetry by Christine Valters Paintner. You flip to the middle, her words ring out sharp and strong: “This is a voyage best made alone.” You know what you need to do. You pick up the pen and begin.