iris

The unique shape of the iris is striking – three petals that stretch upward to form a crown, and three more petals that drape downward for its skirt. My father once called them “flags,” and after I laughed at him I learned that this was a somewhat old-fashioned name for an iris. Some say this is the flower after which the French fleur-de-lis is modeled.

The iris is the state flower of Tennessee. One of the state songs is When It’s Iris Time in Tennessee:

Where the Iris grows,
Where the Harpeth flows,
That is where I long to be.
There’s a picture there that lives in memory
When it’s Iris time in Tennessee.

Iris can be found in a wide range of colors, pastels and deep jewel tones, which is appropriate since they are named after the Greek goddess of the rainbow. Some are two-tone specimens. But in my mind the real, true iris is purple. That’s the color of the state flower, and that’s the signature shade of the most recognized variety.  The traditional sight of purple iris growing against an old stone wall makes my heart sing.

Growing up, our house was situated on a high riverbank, and my grandfather planted iris all along the edge of the bluff. Some were purple, some yellow, and some were white. They would bloom in stages, by color. It was quite a delightful sight, one that remained in my memory long after we moved away.  When I went back recently to visit the place where I grew up, the white iris were blooming. Yes, they were still there! Again, my heart was full.

cottonwoods

As a child I knew nothing of cottonwood trees. I didn’t recognize the triangular shape of the leaves, or the sturdiness of the trunk, or the wispy specks floating through the air. But after we married we moved into a valley that was filled with cottonwoods, and I began to look forward to the time each spring when the air would be filled with their floating cottony seeds.

I am always reminded of the old song:

I hear the cottonwoods whisp’ring above,

Ta-am-my, Ta-am-my, Tammy’s in love.

Cottonwoods really do sound like they are whispering because their shaking leaves can cause such a sound. The leaves shimmer in the sun just like poplars and aspens, to which cottonwoods are related. Cottonwoods are some of the largest trees in North America, growing up to 100 feet tall with huge trunks that can be over five feet in diameter. Pretty amazing considering that the seeds are so tiny.

These giants often grow on the edges of streams or rivers and have a very thick, cork-like bark which is often used by artists because it is soft and easy to carve. Cottonwoods are often grown for timber production near a source of water such as a river. They grow exceptionally fast, and can produce a large crop of wood in ten to thirty years. Cottonwood trees can live to be over 100 years old.

This tree reminds me of how nature is filled with fascinating plants and animals. I have learned a lot about many of these gifts through the years, and I am fortunate to live where I can see and be part of nature’s bounty every day. Yet it’s exciting to think about all the things I still don’t know about – all the wonders left to learn.

stepping stones

When I visited my parents’ old house that is now empty and for sale, the house where I grew up, my daughter and I walked all around and looked inside and outside. Much remodeling and updating has been done, yet some things were surprisingly unchanged.

As we walked from the side porch around to the back of the house, I pointed out to her that there used to be stepping stones there, and I wondered where they are now. They weren’t anything fancy, just rectangular shaped concrete, but you could tell they were old even when I was growing up because they were so thick and sturdy. Stepping stones are not made that way today.

Low and behold, at the back of the house, the stones were there. A sidewalk had been removed and the stones were in its place. I was so happy to see that they had survived all these changes, that someone else had valued them and made them useful again.

a surprising seadog

Our dog Maggie is a rescue dog. We don’t know much about her early life, and we aren’t sure why, but she is terribly frightened of new people and different places. She has come a long way since we got her, but you can still see her fear from time to time.

When we decided to take her out on our boat for the first time, we weren’t sure how she would react.  First she had to cross the gangway to the boathouse, which is high above the water. She didn’t like it, her toenails gripped the mesh as she inched along, but we got her across. Then she had to go inside the boathouse, with its unfamiliar shadows and smells, but we coaxed her into that, too.

Of course we couldn’t get her to hop into the boat, so my husband lifted her in. At first she froze, and then she sniffed from bow to stern. Starting up the motor made her tremble, and when we exited the boathouse she froze as we drifted backwards. But once we got out into the cove and started moving forward, she felt the sun’s warmth and the gentle breeze, and she wagged her tail.

The farther we went, the happier she became. She stuck her nose up into the breeze, and then she sat up on the seat with me. She loved having the wind blow in her face. When we stopped for a while she was perched on the seat, and we watched her comfortably rock with the rhythm of the water. She was quite a seaworthy dog.

Maybe being on the water is part of her instinct.  Or perhaps this awakened some happy memories for her.  It definitely gave us some good memories, all of us, and her next trip across the gangway demonstrated eagerness instead of fear.

living in the fringes

Living in the fringes is hard work.

I spend the better part of my waking hours at work. In addition to the regular hours, I often find that I need to go in early or stay late. This gives me time to meet expectations as well as accomplish the extra things that make my teaching more effective and/or more worthwhile. And I really don’t mind.

But that leaves the rest of my life to be lived in what I call the fringes. I can either get up early to work on things with a rested mind and body, or attempt to mark things off my at-home list in the evenings, after dinner, when I am often tired mentally or physically or both.

If there’s a Bible study at church, or a class would like to take (I did watercolor last spring) I have to plan my evenings for the week ahead of time to get it all in. I don’t have children at home anymore, and now I look back and wonder how I got it all done! Buying gifts, reading a book, being on committees – all these have to be scheduled. I have done this for a long time and usually it all works out.  But on occasion, it makes me stop and think.

Last week I hosted my book club for dinner. I prepared a simple menu, my husband did the grilling, and everything turned out beautifully. But I found myself thinking how nice it would be to set the table at a decent hour, instead of 6:00 a.m. before work. Or how easy making the strawberry trifle dessert would have been the night before if I hadn’t already worked all evening (after school) preparing the other dishes.

As I said, it all turned out quite nicely. Yet I know I didn’t fully participate in the discussion because I was tired. And there were friends I didn’t spend time talking with like I usually do because my mind wasn’t really all there.

I am thankful for the fringes. It is during those times that I am able to pursue and participate in the things I choose for myself, the things I love. I just wish I had a little more time in the fringes.

recliners

I have never really liked recliners.

My dad had one that sat by the pole lamp across from the TV and had a little table that held his pipes next to it. He didn’t want anyone else to sit in it. Not a problem. It wasn’t comfortable to me.

The first recliner my husband and I had (after I finally gave in) had a big headrest that pushed back at you unless you were reclined almost horizontally. So when you sat in it you found your chin resting on your chest and you couldn’t easily look up. Ugh.

Then somehow we bought another one. It was better because you could hold your head up.  It was a dark green small stripe and we had it for about twenty years it seems. It was only in the den for about two of those years. The rest of its life with us was spent in our son’s room (beginning his manly love of recliners at an early age) and in the basement.

Now we have a leather one that is very comfortable and relatively attractive. But it is cold to sit in. That’s also OK, because it is my husband’s chair and he’s always hot so he loves it.

We also have a very sophisticated chair that reclines. I do not consider it a real recliner because it isn’t soft and mushy, and it is very stylish. But you can lean back a bit and prop up your feet in it and I often sit there to read.

My son has a recliner at college. Some friends of ours had one to give away, and you would have thought they had given him gold. He’s also in awe of the ones that have all the bells and whistles, even the camo covers. But he’s going to have to buy that for himself when he is out on his own.

We have a delightfully comfortable large sectional couch in our cabin at the lake. The trouble with it is that we can’t all fit on it when everyone in the family is there. So we decided to get some other comfortable seating. We were at a favorite furniture store one day when my husband pointed out that they were having a recliner sale.  We just happened to be in the truck, on the way to the lake. Hmmmm. One thing led to another and we ended up buying not one but two matching recliners. I chose a color that would allow them to blend in, not stand out. Did I mention that recliners are not my favorite?

So now I don’t have to fight anyone for the couch anymore. And the chairs do blend in nicely. But guess what. I always sit in that recliner when I am there, even when it is just my husband and myself.  You may not believe this, sometimes I don’t believe it either, but it is my favorite place to relax. There’s a side table of the perfect height and a great floor lamp for reading light.

I find myself wishing for it at home on days when I am tired and I can’t wait to get in from work and unwind. On our way to the lake I picture myself settling into the chair as soon as I get there. It is soft and warm, and just the right size to snuggle into and be incredibly relaxed. Oh dear… maybe I do like recliners after all.

being a teacher

I have always been a teacher…

When I was in elementary school I loved school. I loved being at school and I loved playing school at home.  I wanted to fill all my days with school things, and I pretty much did.

I also loved Sunday School and Vacation Bible School at church. I took art classes and swimming lessons and baton twirling classes and dance lessons and piano lessons. Learning – in any environment – was a magical way to spend my time.

In middle school I made the huge jump from being in public school with lifelong friends to attending a private all girls school with lots of classmates I had little in common with – or so it seemed at first glance anyway. But after I made the difficult transition I found out that I still loved school.

As a high school student I already knew what I wanted to be when I grew up – yes, a teacher. I had amazing teachers who taught me things I didn’t know I wanted to learn and things I have never forgotten.  From them I discovered that learning is not just for use in your daily life, but it makes your life better every day. These educators influenced my life in ways I am still discovering forty years later. I wanted to be this for someone.

In college I majored in elementary education from day one and never wavered. I loved all my classes and couldn’t wait to try out the things I did for my class projects in my own future classroom with my own students. I felt as if this is what I was supposed to be all along.

So I got my first job and I have taught for thirty-plus years and I have loved every minute. Even when I went through a bit of burn out around year fifteen, I realized that there was nothing else I wanted to do more. Now I work with teachers as well as with students, and I find I am still a teacher to them.

One day I will retire. But I hope that then I’ll find ways to help others achieve the things they want for their lives. Maybe that will be through writing, or speaking, or in ways more hands-on, or just spending time with others helping them do the things they need and want to do.

I will always be a teacher.

my mom made me

I was talking with a friend the other day about some of our thoughts and opinions on things. “You know, my mom made me,” she said.

“Well, they say all girls grow up to become their mothers,” I replied with both a smile and a shudder.

“No,” she persisted. “My mom made me who I am, not who she was. She always wanted the best for me, she encouraged me to do what I wanted, and she was proud of the things I did even when they were different from her own experiences.”

I thought about this for a minute. Then I smiled again – no shudder this time.  “You know, my mom made me, too.”  And that is so true. She didn’t make me into her own “mini-me.” She made me into me.

My mother loved to talk and talk, but she realized that I was shy and reserved and didn’t criticize me for that.  She was a seamstress beyond compare, but she was never upset with me when I couldn’t sew a straight line. She was a milliner – a hat maker – but she didn’t act too disappointed when I refused to wear hats. Mom was a stylish and fashionable lady, but she never insulted my preference for more simple and tailored attire. She loved primitive antiques and had lots of collectables, yet she always complimented the more polished furnishings I chose for my home.

My mother had me, her only child, late in her life. She loved me completely and utterly no matter what I did or didn’t do. She encouraged me to take dance lessons, baton lessons, piano lessons, and more. She raised me in church and made sure my faith was personal and meaningful. She scraped and saved and sent me to a girls’ school (which also “made” me, but that’s another story).

My mother made my wedding dress – and veil, too, of course. She wallpapered the kitchen of our new house when I was too pregnant to help. She made clothes for me all my life, even when I was an adult. She and my dad would come every year and wash the windows and make them sparkle and shine. She gave me plants and then later helped me nurse them back to health. She made watermelon pickles and damson preserves and gave them to us year after year after year. And she embarrassed me thoroughly by talking about me incessantly to her friends and anyone else who would listen.

Because of the unconditional love and support I received from my mom, I don’t worry – too much – about what other people think. I know people who seem to constantly be seeking approval for what they do, but never seem to realize that it’s most important to know deep inside that the acceptance they need most is their own.

Yes, my mom made me into me, and loved me dearly. I couldn’t have been blessed with anything better. Thank you, Mom. Wish you were here.

a big bang

I have a surprising addiction. I love “The Big Bang Theory.”

Strange because I am 55 years old and my life is quite different from what is being portrayed in the show. There is some language and there are some references that I have to overlook because they are inappropriate, but generally the show makes me smile and often laugh out loud.

I have tried to figure out what it is that clicks with me. Mostly I have reasons why it shouldn’t:

1-       Some people say you have to be smart to “get it,” but that’s not the case with me, not scientifically anyway.

2-      I do like the quick pace and the humor that is ongoing and surprising at the same time, but there has to be some substance along with the comedy for me to continue to tune in.

3-      Sometimes I am fascinated with the setting of a place, and I even find myself looking for decorating ideas in the background of shows, but the young adult apartments don’t fit that description.

4-       There are some maddening characters that drive me crazy sometimes while they annoy the other characters as well.

5-      I can’t even watch the opening – I have to turn my head away or close my eyes – because the rapid flickering of pictures makes my head spin and suggests an oncoming migraine.

So… what is it that makes me look forward to this show? The best I can tell is that the characters are like real people to me. At least Sheldon and Leonard are.

We don’t see only their good side – or only their bad side either. We get to see their outstanding qualities and we know well their frustrating characteristics, too. That makes them like real people – like someone we know. We can predict what they will do, we want to warn them what bad things are ahead, and all the time they do things we wouldn’t expect.

They make me laugh and smile. And they make me think – about academic things, about language, and about relationships. I like them more each time I see them – and they make me feel good about myself, too. Just like so many people I know.

I can’t wait to see what they’ll do this week!

memory lane

My daughter and I decided to drive by the house where I grew up. I lived there from age nine until I graduated from college and got married. My parents lived there for thirty-eight years. They moved away only out of necessity and both of them died within a year of leaving this house.

There was a For Sale sign out front. “Let’s drive up there,” I said. “If someone’s home we’ll just tell them who we are.” My daughter rolled her eyes a bit but drove in. No one was home – in fact, the house was empty. So we peeked in all the windows and even made pictures of what we saw.

The house was built in 1930 as a retreat away from town, even though it is now well within the city limits. It is situated on a riverbank and has been added on to numerous times to become the rambling Cape Cod it is today.

As my daughter said, it was a trip down memory lane. Good times and happy memories came to mind. Some troubling situations came to the surface as well. But isn’t that life in its fullest? It takes the valleys to make us appreciate the mountains. And it takes family and friends to get us through the low spots.

I am thankful for everything that my parents meant to me.

Here’s a photo of the house. Can’t you see some of those stories waiting to be told?

something to ponder

I consider this my fledgling blog – this one you are reading now that I started one night at the end of February without fretting and worrying about it beforehand. (That’s why I seldom get things done quickly – I think about them too much. Too much thinking, not enough doing.) Then I jumped into the Two Writing Teachers Slice of Life Writing Challenge in March. What a wonderful stretch for me, and an invigorating experience. I have tried so hard to find just the right words that speak a thought, reflect a feeling, tell a story, or connect to others. It sure is hard sometimes, too – most times in fact.

At first I didn’t read any other posts. (I did go back and “catch up” after the first five days.) It was all so new to me and I didn’t want those other voices to be speaking in my work. But I think now I have grown enough – not a lot, but enough – to possibly reflect those words of others instead of incorporating them, and I have been so inspired by them.

As I read those other posts I am also moved and inspired by the use of images with the writing. Sometimes a picture really is worth a thousand words. So I am contemplating using pictures to accompany what I write. I like it in others’ work and I wonder if I can do that, too.

I know – more thinking. I should just do it – or try it and see what I think. Stay tuned…

after spring break

back to the routine

choosing necessary things

searching for surprise

new life begins

As I wonder what brought us to this point in time, and as I fear to think about what is ahead, I hold my husband’s hand as he lays in the emergency room.

He has had a lot of stress at work, he has had continuing and increasing knee pain which seemed to be aggravated by the doctor’s exam earlier that morning, he is prone to high blood pressure, his iPhone crashed today and we made our first trip to the other-worldly Apple store, and we foolishly went shopping for plants on an asphalt parking lot in a 90 degree April heat wave.

And then his heart started racing. It had happened before, but this time it wouldn’t stop. We came home and he lay down on the bed and it still wouldn’t stop. I left him alone to relax and it still wouldn’t stop. So I said we were going to the emergency room and we did.

They couldn’t have been more professional or more helpful here. He was seen immediately, I was well informed, and most importantly a competent young doctor did a carotid massage and brought his heart rate down without having to inject any chemicals.

At this point he is fine. The tests have come back showing absolutely no heart damage and he is feeling so much better and we are going home soon. We want to find out why this happened, we need to know what to do or not do to keep this from happening again. But for now we are safe. And so very, very thankful.

And then we hear the notes of Brahm’s Lullaby. My first thought is that it is someone’s phone ringing. But my husband is more aware than I am and he senses – he knows – that this is the hospital’s way of letting everyone know that a baby has just entered the world. New life has begun.

For the first time in this ordeal we both have tears in our eyes. The young doctor comes in to give us more positive blood test results and sees these tears and wonders if my husband is OK.

Yes, he is OK and so much more. We know there is so much to live for, so many reasons to make any changes necessary to be more healthy, so many good options in the road ahead. There is new life in this room as well.

He is feeling better and we are immensely, inexpressibly grateful.

spring rain

rain and wind are gone

confetti covers the ground

petals fallen down

muskrat sighting

One day we were standing on our dock waving to our neighbors. They were making their way across the cove on their pontoon to visit. All of a sudden something – something BIG – splashed into the water near us. We jumped, then looked around for a fish or turtle. We saw nothing.

Our neighbors, who have had a place at the lake for years and years, laughed as they pulled up. “We saw you jump,” they said. “Must’ve been a muskrat.”

A muskrat, we thought? Eeek! “Do they bite?” we asked.

They chuckled and said, “Not that we know of. You hardly ever see them. They don’t like to be around people, so if you ever do see one, it won’t be for long.”

Sure enough, throughout the spring and summer, we never saw one. We kept finding traces of their presence. Fish bones, fish scales, droppings, but no muskrat sightings. And that was OK with us.

One week we stayed at the lake for several days, so we had time for afternoon boat rides that drifted into the twilight. As we climbed the boathouse steps and onto the gangway in the dusk one afternoon, we noticed something to our left.  We froze and watched. It was a muskrat, swimming though the water.

Either the animal didn’t see us or didn’t care. It swam leisurely right under where we stood, then continued on over to our right. It cut a smooth line through the water with a perfect V-shaped wake behind. Its head was up and we could barely see the shape of its tail beneath the water.  This didn’t take long, but it seemed to get dimmer every second, so we could barely see it as it reached the bank. It ducked effortlessly under some low-hanging branches, presumably into its concealed burrow. And that was that.

We have never seen another one and we probably never will. But it was a special gift that evening to be witness to what goes on frequently when humans are not usually around.

sharper senses

Writing has sharpened my senses.

More distinct vision helps me to catch sight of the everyday radiance around me. I notice things I never looked at before, and I observe them through a different lens.

Keener ears allow me to hear nature’s quiet sounds – or perhaps the words people don’t allow themselves to speak aloud.

I can now get a whiff of the scents of satisfaction in hard work, or curiosity about how things came to be, or anticipation of what’s ahead.

Often I find myself reaching out to try and touch the feelings of warm contentment, or piercing wonder, or bitter disappointment.

The taste for finding the right words is developing in me – words that roll around in your mouth and in your mind,  and feel right on your tongue and on your heart. Words that speak to me, as well as to others.

And even when I can’t find exactly what I am looking for, the being aware has made all the difference.

the final shot

Our son is a natural basketball player. He has always been tall and he has good coordination. My friend said at one of his games, “Look at him go. I mean, he’s a big boy.  I can’t believe he can get down the court that fast.” So true. He played lineman on the football team, which he loved, but basketball was his gift.

He played as a boy on a team where the coach would take him out when he was likely to score more than the coach’s son. Even then he had a shot that was a joy to watch. So smooth, so direct, so good.

In middle school he had an unfortunate experience with a bad coach. Our son played post (when he got in the game) and everything that went wrong was always his fault. Others would shake their heads and ask why the coach treated our son that way. He was definitely the coach’s whipping boy and we were so afraid that would end his days on the basketball court.

Fortunately our son was able to join a community league after the middle school season. The  school coach had told our son not to dribble, not ever, no matter what – so you could see our son hesitate every time he got the ball. This new coach drilled it into his head that is was OK to dribble, that he should dribble, that’s how basketball players move – and the first time our son did dribble, the coach jumped up and yelled “Atta boy!!” Thank goodness for his patience and his belief in our son.

During his high school career, our son was fortunate to play on the team with some talented athletes. There were many exciting games, including three wins during one season against his school’s biggest rival. When Katrina sent a player from New Orleans our way, our son knew the new guy would replace him in the post position. He turned out to be a great teammate, and his presence gave our son the opportunity to work on that beautiful three-point shot.

The rules for play-offs got changed when our son was a senior, and only one designated game against each other school would determine the rankings. Even though our son’s team had soundly defeated one of the other schools in their first game, the one game that counted came down to the wire. It had been a close back-and-forth lead changing game all night.

Our son had been playing a good game and the coach decided to set up the last play so that our son would have the final shot to win the game. The teams moved down the court toward the goal, everyone was in their place for the chosen play, no fouls were called, and the ball was passed to our son, standing at the baseline just outside the three point line. He dribbled, he set, he was swarmed by the other team, he released it. It was a beautiful shot, with just the right arch, closer, coming in, almost there…

The ball did not go into the basket. The buzzer sounded. The game was over.  Our team lost. Our son was devastated. He hung his head as he walked off the court.

Our son didn’t get to be the hero of the game that night.  In fact he felt about as low as anyone can in a situation such as this. He didn’t want to talk about it then, and he hasn’t said much about it in the years since.

But he learned an awful lot, the proverbial hard way. He understood what it feels like to give your all and still come up short. He discovered that others can be either kind or cruel when you let them down. He realized that his coach, who was usually all gruff and critical, had a heart for his players that did their best. He learned that life does go on even after a great disappointment.

No, he didn’t make that shot. But he did make the best of a bad situation – and he has made us very proud.

spring fireworks

There is a sort of

fireworks show

in the air this spring.

I have never thought of

blooming trees and flowers

like fireworks.

Spring is usually much

quieter and more peaceful.

Most years

the tiny shoots of buttercups

push slowly

through the soil

and they are (usually)

one of our first signs

that Winter

is thinking about leaving.

Then slowly

(normally)

other things start to appear –

a swollen bud on a branch here,

a warmer breeze rustling bare branches there.

But this year –

Spring has come so quickly,

one blooming season

has bumped into

and overlapped with

the next

so we had plants and trees flowering together

that are usually

weeks apart.

The maple and oak trees

are in full leaf now

and many of the blossoms

from the flowering cherries

are gone.

The redbuds were in-and-out-in-a-flash

and the dogwoods are

already starting to fade.

It has been beautiful

and breathtaking

and glorious.

Like the finale

of a fireworks display,

almost too much

to take in

at one time.

 

carpe diem

CARPE DIEM

I’ve seen these words in a variety of settings, including at the top of those notes pads that are long and thin and look to me like a great pad of paper on which to make a to-do list. But putting these words at the top of a checklist is so wrong…

carpe diem?

We know this, but how often do we really do it? We plan, we prepare, we work, we play, we talk, we rush, we rest, we do all kinds of things, but how often are we totally there –physically and mentally – in whatever we are doing? Or do our minds wander to what comes next?

carpe diem- no way!

It almost seems irresponsible to let go of the things that bind us and hold us. There are events we have committed to, parts we have to play, and routines we need to follow. There are things we must do, things others are counting on us for, things that really do make a difference if we do them – or if we don’t.

carpe diem – yes?

The story of Martha and Mary in the Bible comes to mind.  I tend to be Martha, because I know someone had to clean the house and cook the food or no one could have eaten that day, yet I long to be more like Mary and celebrate the precious moment.

carpe diem!

And yet, we must attend most to what is at hand. We must be completely present in the moment to be a good listener, to breathe in the cleansing breaths we need, to move ahead with what is most important.

carpe diem…

I know all the things that would suffer if I do not meet responsibilities.

But do I understand what I am missing when I fail to fully participate?

I believe I need a new thing on my to-do list:

seize the day

continuing the challenge

The March Slice of Life Writing Challenge is over and somehow I made it. I started this blog in response to the Two Writing Teachers site that encourages writers to create a Slice of Life each day for the month of March. Some days the writing came easily, other days it was like pulling nails from my head. I am pleased with some of the results, and other pieces I know still need work. But I learned that if I am ever to be a writer I have to start by doing one thing: write.

I will forever be grateful to Ruth and Stacey, the two writing teachers, for offering this opportunity. It continues through the year every Tuesday, and I hope to meet that challenge as well. I also hope to post something most days here on fireflytrails. Just so I can write. Because I have learned that you can think about writing, you can plan your writing, you can talk about what you will write, and you can collect favorite words or phrases from others, but it never is your writing unless you write. And often when you sit down to write, the inspiration does come.

And for sure if you don’t sit down to write, it doesn’t.

I never thought the comments from others would mean so much, but they do. I am grateful for everyone who took the time to read what I wrote and then took even more time to write back. The community this creates, with people who are sight unseen and often nameless, pushes you forward and makes you accountable. And it is incredibly encouraging to know that your words have “spoken” to someone else.

Thank you all for reading and for your support. And as I said in my last post, this adventure is to be continued…