Sunday, April 19, 2020


Pandemic Day 3,245. Or whatever.

In the good ole' days, in an actual school classroom:

Solid engagement/comprehension that slips into a loss of focus -> 
"Okay class, let's break into small groups and review"

Blank stares/confused expressions -> 
"Alright guys, no worries, let me back it up a bit"

Silliness and distraction -> 
"Hey everyone, stand up- let's take a movement break, and do a quick check-in"


Zoom -> "No I don't want to see your mom's's a good idea to put a shirt on...okay, friends- let's do a review of...nope, I MEANT to mute you all...let's just all try to hang in and listen super I don't know why so and so isn't here again...yes, I hope they're okay too..."



Take a wider lens. It's not too late....

Saturday, April 18, 2020

Sunlight meditation

Enjoy this children's meditation I created. May it bring you some peace and warmth.

Gifts and Chances

Truth whispered to me during dinner
Hiding inside family laughter
It rattled inside my heart and soul
And has remained with me long after

It's a gift
It's a gift
It's a gift

to behold

It's a chance
It's a chance
It's a chance

to be bold

Our stories and our shared struggles
Grief making way for smiles
Making space and time to feel
Relationships across miles

This energy fuels new lessons
Transformations and insight
Post traumatic *growth*, more common
Managing stress leads to what's bright

Consider how we view education-
Is it about tests, lessons, or now zoom?
Information dumped inside of brains
Little robots inside a classroom?

Or can we find the wider lens
To examine things we must strain to see
Inflections in tone, side glances and hugs
Regulating forces...ultimately

Invite actions that support coping right now
Take moments to grieve and to fuss
No one is perfect, that's not even fair
And extends to each one of us

But beyond this, I will not stop spreading
A message of light and of hope
Just stay in the moment and you'll find it too
When you shower, really inhale the soap

My family is slowly healing
From invisible wounds unknown
Laughter, projects, discourse, chatter
A new tapestry of love we have sewn

And I worry about the narrative
the "don't worry, it all sucks, just be lame"
and while I hesitate to share my words
I'm not sorry that I don't feel the same

There are heroes that need our honor
Medical and emergency crews
Lesser educated blue collar workers
While we sit home watching the news

Tomorrow is not a given
This pandemic is clear to point out
Today is what we have with each other
So let's flip the teachings inside out

No more lessons or chromebooks
Read stories, play and create
Be lazy and cozy and sad if you need
Then take stock of what's on your plate

Our essential being-ness is here
There is nothing more that we need
Climb out of the story you've been telling
And see you've already been freed.

It's a gift
It's a gift
It's a gift

So behold

It's a chance
It's a chance
It's a chance

So be bold

Thursday, April 16, 2020

Monday, April 13, 2020

The land of in between

There is a relational landscape
that exists in purely
The land of in between

Is the appeal of the beach
trapped inside a frame?

A photo of the sand,
a painting of the water or
a soundscape of waves crashing?


Our love of the beach
comes from our
own individual interpretations
of those things-
the interchange that occurs
when our being-ness
and the being-ness
of these things
come together and
actually meet

There is a certain magic
that is awakened within
when infinite particles of sand
Bleed into the vulnerable spaces
between our toes
inviting us to sink into
warm and uneven flooring,
Surrendering and giving
way to our feet and then minds
and we honor this exchange
as both unusual and seductive

We lean into this and decide:
"I like this"

(And in some cases,
"I dislike this",
and that's okay too)

We witness ocean waves
crashing recklessly
carelessly blending
into the shoreline aching
for contact with more,
Is it trying to access us?

Of course

And then suddenly
a conscious retreat
to rebuild and try again
Swelling and seeking connection
with everything in varying
degrees of intensity and charm

Always folding into
that which

A beginning and end
a presence
where this is simultaneously
understood and undefined

Inside of our breath,
we find the same process-
An inhalation that serves
and then yields,
giving way to that
which comes next.

Waves and breath
work together to
anchor us
to the awareness
of letting go into the




always the calm.

we cannot hear the ocean
we cannot feel the sand
we cannot see the patterns
we cannot smell the surf
we cannot taste the salt

We are deprived of praxis

Delving down we can tug
a bit to locate the anchor
and pulling ever so slightly
our knowing will appear

Breathing in and following
it all the way to the end
We will find on the other
side of the breath

Individual and collective
awareness, greater

The earth is meditating
for our benefit and offering
a sedimentary shift

Step into the marrow
and wade around with
what is evident

Access this inner knowing
and return to the beach
to swim, to sift, to soar,
and to shine.

It's all here. Now.

Monday, April 6, 2020

An open letter to my graduating senior

Dear Ezra,

Graduation has finally appeared on your horizon... and here we are, all inside. It's interesting that I notice a growing awareness of my womb lately. It feels heavy and full, with a low lying sense of aching as well. It resembles a kind of knowing, that includes remembering too. For this my son, is quite like how I felt mere months before you were born. It is imprinted on my heart forever, the day that 9/11 occurred, holding my large belly, wanting to keep you inside and safe forever. When suddenly love and protection did not feel enough. I recall in that aftermath, my heart giving way to profound feelings of fear and a guilty sense that I was somehow exposing you to a toxic new world. I felt irresponsible and the world felt collectively afraid. Planes were grounded, trust was elusive, and I was about to become a mother somehow...inside of it all.

And yet, I recall being struck by small things in those days too, just like now. Things I had previously taken for granted. Things that seemed to not take heed of the darkness that weighed heavy on hearts and minds and paralyzed us all. I noticed the birds and the sun and the sky, mostly. Because in spite of all that was being processed, the sun still rose and set and the birds still sang and the sky still painted pictures for us. And they were beautiful. And I believe part of my healing was allowing myself to feel into those things again. It was these small, grand things that allowed me to be whole enough to bring you forth, 42 days later. Eventually there was a connectedness that came out of that time as well, and it served as a soft landing spot for us all.

It was during this darkness that I found your light. My midwife spoke to me of "la luz" during your delivery. She coached me hard, telling me to envision pulling you up into "la luz" (the light) and to bear down into this and to really see it and feel it and imagine you seeking this too, and moving towards this...and I did. And well, this is how you came to be. You rose up strong and healthy and into great light. And in my heart I had this sense you would not only live a great life, but that you would be great. And I was not wrong.

The sunset delivers this truth and more, to me this morning as I write. Following a month of quarantine, with your senior year slipping fast and loose through your hands, you asked to go see the sunrise this morning. You told me that you created a plan with your friends, that fit within the boundaries that this new world has enforced upon you. You requested to drive, all in separate cars, to a scenic ocean spot, and side by side in your would all consume the sunrise. Together. And apart.
Of course I granted this to you. Of course.

To me, this is both heartbreaking and inspiring all in the same breath. You should be heading to school, to lacrosse practice, to awards nights, to your girlfriend's house, to the basketball court. Instead, after you finish taking in our divine mother earth, doing what she so beautifully does, you will return home. Alone, you will enter your room to turn on your chrome book and finish your school career. My heart is heavy and solemnly sad, and also incredibly proud. All at the same time.

Safe at home, not stuck at home. I have reframed this infinite times to cope in these last several days. To attempt to shape a more helpful lens through which we can all make sense of this. And it does help, usually. But today, I saw that same sunrise you made all your own and felt hopeful. I thought of the day before today too-when cloud cover made it so that there were no rays shining through to start the day. Overcast skies prevented the color palette from bleeding a water color painting onto the sky. The pinks and oranges of today, slowly curling upward, filling the sky were not the scene yesterday. But does this mean it was stuck? No. Of course not. It was still there, safely rising. Just like you.

You are not stuck. None of us are. My pride comes in your deep knowing. I see you managing and navigating this and while you have feelings, you have a knowing inside of you that understands this. Your wisdom understands that you are light. We are all light. This darkness will make way for us to rise up again, and the birds will be there to sing about it. Thank you my son, for reminding me that they are singing about it right now too.

Thank you for teaching me that we are not stuck and our sunrise will come again.