The Gifts of Summer

It’s been a month, it appears, since I’ve written a new blog post—my great intention to post on a weekly basis halted by summer’s fullness.  I’ve been on some lovely adventures out and about in the Pacific Northwest in some of my favorite places (the San Juan Islands, the Methow valley, and the mountains that surround us here in Western Washington); but also, I’ve been dealing with the complications of grief and the call to face parts of myself and life that I no longer wish to ignore.  I’ll share more about this in a future post…

But for now, I am preparing for a trip to Santa Fe next week, a writing workshop—my first ever!  While I’m terribly nervous, as I have virtually no experience in this kind of context, I’m seeking to embrace “beginner’s mind” and enter into the goodness of learning from those who have traveled a bit—or a lot—further down the road than me.

In light of the workshop, I thought I would share a few of the things I’ve written as of late.


Iceberg Point

The sun’s warmth kept me company
As we dispersed on the bank
Of those deep waters,
The Olympic mountains standing
Solidly in the distance—
Hardly looking like the mountains
Within view of my home.

There, on the southern tip of Lopez island,
I sat listening to water strike rock below—
Its voice like a chorus repeating.
Entranced, I remained looking, listening,
Sensing some visceral want
To speak as one with power—
But gently, so as not to frighten—
Longing to hold you in my arms,
Overflowing with love for this life
And the gift of all senses to take it in.

person holding white ceramic teacup with black coffee
Photo by on

Beyond Time

Are there people who are good at being “productive”?
If so, I am not one of them.
I checked off all the boxes today—
Well, all but a few (better than I can often say),
But what of the items that never made the list—
The time to sit and stare,
The moments in passing when greeted with tears,
Facing my own tears and fears?

None of these made the list,
Which is, perhaps, why at the end of a day,
I write.
In the blank space of the page
Come the words and moments
That want never to be checked off or crossed out,
That want always to find new ways of being—
New forms of inhabiting a life
Beyond the bounds of linear time.


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