From February, 2016

Swimming Lessons

You won’t understand unless you’ve been through it, in it, under it. Dunk then emerge. Half and then whole. At six years old I had my first swimming lesson. The lakes in Minnesota, though dark and cold and rocky on the outset, are not frightening or foreboding. They are still. Drop a pebble in from…

Parenting is an extreme sport

After I graduated from high school, my mom shared that she had cried herself to sleep every night during my senior year. I was angry that we had moved away from my childhood home in Phoenix to a soulless suburb of Seattle, and I acted out in typical but relatively harmless ways—smoking cigarettes on the…

Risk: I do not think this means what you think it means

In the past five days, I broke up with my boyfriend, asked my pastor to reconsider the church’s prohibition of women in elder and pastor roles (and in a separate conversation, asked my father to consider the same), and called a collection agency to tell them I couldn’t pay my bill.  It’s been an exciting…

Worth the Risk

Mist curled around the edges of dark hills in the distance, lines and lines of vineyards flipped past like the pages in an old rolodex. I lay my head lazily to the glass of the bus window, satisfied with my choice: I had chosen to say yes to Adventure. To Unknown. To the call of…

The Way Out

I’ll tell you a story. Maybe it will sound like an exaggeration, but I’ll tell it anyways. As best as I can say it, as true as I remember it. There was a girl living in Hawai’i who tutored students a couple of mornings a week at the university academic center to buy textbooks and…

Mustering

Today I enter my studio readying myself to engage the day. My espresso assures me that Courage will be arriving shortly. I made the appointment the night before, but she is so often late. My oils, conte, watercolors, and pencils welcome me warmly. “When do we start?” They look to me eagerly. They love most…

Sock it to me

“Mamma, are these daddy’s socks?” I continue to stuff crumpled up tissue paper into the recycled gift bag, pretending like I don’t hear.  Maybe he will get distracted, and I will be spared. “MAMMA, ARE THESE DADDY’S SOCKS?!” No such luck. I sigh and turn around. I feel like a teenager who has just sneaked…