I’ve been teaching Wild Writing this year, and it has quickly become one of my favorite things I do.

There’s something about gathering together, listening to a poem, grabbing a jumpoff line from it, and then writing fast enough that the usual voices in our heads can’t quite keep up.

We surprise ourselves.

We write things we didn’t know we knew.

And then we read our words aloud to one another—not for critique or feedback, but simply to be witnessed.

If you’ve been curious about Wild Writing, I’d love for you to come try it for free.

FREE WILD WRITING CLASS
Wednesday, September 2
10:00–11:30am Pacific
on Zoom

You don’t need to consider yourself a writer. You don’t need to prepare anything. You don’t even need to know what Wild Writing is.

Just bring something to write with and come as you are.

SAVE MY SPOT

Also, registration is now open for my Fall Wild Writing circles.

These are small, intimate groups that meet weekly for eight weeks. We write together, read our work aloud, and practice getting underneath the polished stories and into the deeper, truer, more alive stuff.

There are three ways to join me this fall:

WEDNESDAYS
Wednesdays · 10:00 AM–11:30 AM PST
September 16th - November 11th, 2026
Join on Zoom from anywhere

FRIDAYS
Fridays · 10:00 AM –11:30 AM PST
September 18th - November 13th, 2026
Join on Zoom from anywhere

SUNDAYS - 2 spots left
Sundays · 8:30am–10am AM PST
September 20th - November 15th, 2026
Join on Zoom from anywhere

YOUR INVESTMENT

• $360 for early bird registration

• Class begins: September 2026
  All classes run for 8 weeks

Each circle is limited to just 8 writers.

If you’re not sure whether Wild Writing is for you, come to the free class first. That’s exactly what it’s for.

I’d love to write with you.

xo
Andrea

SEE THE FALL CLASSES

My friend’s father dropped his wife off at Walgreens a few days ago, and then never returned to get her. They found him four hours later, and he had no idea where he’d been.

Where am I going with this?

I’ve been dreaming about my parents again, and lost loves, and I want to believe it means something, like they’re trying to tell me how great they’re doing now, how young and vibrant, that they have moved to a new realm where they dance and smile. And my father is bigger and stronger, eyes more blue than I remember.

I have a photo of them on my fridge, my parents laughing, my father looking a bit giggly stoned, my mother holding a stylish ceramic goblet, her long, manicured nails a deep burgundy. This is when she had big, black, thick curls, before she started to dye her hair red. And this is when we lived by the beach. I think it was our happiest time.

And the last time I was there, when my sister and I had a very awkward and clumsy spreading of our parents’ ashes at the beach, we took a photo in front of the house.

Remember all the dance routines we did in this driveway? I asked.

Am I taking stock of my life? I must be.

I saw Matt yesterday, when I dropped off Nico, underneath the car, fiddling with something. We are softer toward each other now, softer than we’ve been in a long time.

Maybe that’s what happens with time. We are old enough now to know that our people won’t be here forever, that we’re all on borrowed time.

I’m not a particularly sentimental person, but it just occurred to me that maybe Ben and Nico will have a photo of me and Matt on their fridge one day, when we were younger, happier, together.

Registration is now open for my Fall Wild Writing classes!

Choose your session. Options below:

WEDNESDAYS
Wednesdays · 10:00 AM–11:30 AM PST
September 16th – November 11th, 2026
Join on Zoom from anywhere

OR…

FRIDAYS
Fridays · 10:00 AM –11:30 AM PST
September 18th – November 13th, 2026
Join on Zoom from anywhere

OR…

SUNDAYS
Sundays · 8:30am–10am AM PST
September 20th – November 15th, 2026
Join on Zoom from anywhere

YOUR INVESTMENT

• $360 for early bird registration

• Class begins: September 2026
  All classes run for 8 weeks
  

Note: You do not need to call yourself a writer to join this practice. This is a come as you are party!

Lately, the mouths that need shutting are coming from inside the house.

They are the mouths of my very own psyche, the ones that shout:

You’re not doing enough.
You’re just pretending.
You’ve got everyone fooled.
Do you even know how to love?
You’ll be alone forever, so you better start planning for that.

May they keep their mouths shut.

I know these things aren’t true. Or aren’t the whole truth. But are they not not true?

“What will become of me?” I asked the tarot reader in tears yesterday.
And then I was immediately embarrassed and laughed at myself.
“Dramatic much?” I joked.
But it was also a serious question.

When friends talk about retirement, a panic rises in me. I will likely never retire, so it’s a good thing I love this work.

What was the prompt?

Oh right.

May all the voices in my head keep their mouths shut.

May they find a better job. May they pick up a hobby. May they do one of those Tibetan mandala paintings that take forever to make and then get swept away.

Maybe I need to meditate.
Maybe I need to collaborate.
Maybe I need to dance.

Does everyone have these voices that need to shut the fuck up?

Can we put them on an island where they can knit scarves for seagulls and eat coconuts?

Can we feed them French chocolates so their mouths are too full and we can no longer hear their chocolatey nonsense?

This weekend our little collective, Moonflower Studio, is opening our doors for First Friday and an Open Studio & Art Sale, and we would absolutely love to see you! and I will be hosting and featuring our work. You can see my collection of rainbow wall hangings and Tammi’s incredible 100-day project.

Almost everything in the studio will be on sale—including original paintings, collage work from the talented , prints, oracle decks, and a few treasures that have been quietly waiting for the right home.

Friday, August 7
5–7 pm

Saturday, August 8
11 am–2 pm

Moonflower Studio
1250 Addison St. #209
Berkeley, CA

Not local, but still need color therapy? 🌈

I also filled my Etsy shop with a collection of original 12” x 12” paintings, all priced at just $99 for the weekend.

Small happy abstract pieces to add some great energy to your home. They’re little windows into joy, curiosity, and play—and I’d love for them to find new walls to live on.

Here’s a little video we took of us setting up yesterday!

Before Wild Writing class, I’ve started asking everyone to offer a check-in word for how they’re arriving.

Frazzled. Hopeful. Overwhelmed. Tired. Scattered.

Whatever is true.

Then, ninety minutes later, before we say goodbye, I ask for one more word.

Connected. Softened. Solid. Inspired. Grateful.

I’ve noticed that pretty much every time, people feel the ground underneath them by the end of our process together.

This morning I arrived with all the feels. I’d gone through a small, but painful breakup the day before and wondered if I needed to button it up before class.

Then I remembered something we say all the time in Wild Writing:

This is a come-as-you-are party.

We get to bring our messy, beautiful selves. The page can hold whatever we’ve got.

So I did just that.

I wrote my way through the sadness. I wrote my way into the realization that the grief I was feeling wasn’t just about this one ending. It was touching the vast well of grief - the one that holds all the losses.

Somewhere along the way I remembered Anne Lamott’s great line: “My mind is a bad neighborhood that I try not to go into alone.”

Mine wandered right into that neighborhood. “You’ll be alone forever!” “No one will ever love you!” the voices shouted.

But here’s the thing.

I wasn’t alone.

The writing held me.

The circle held me.

By the end of class, my check-out word was simply:

Breath.

I’m continually surprised by how sturdy this practice is. How much it can hold. How much muscle it has, being so simple.

We arrive carrying the weight of our lives.

And more often than not… we leave a little more able to breathe.

P.S. If you're curious about Wild Writing, September registration opens soon. I'd love to have you join us at our next come-as-you-are party.

When I was pregnant with Nico, I took a prenatal swim class at the YMCA. During one of our sharing circles, I discovered that another woman in the class shared my birthday. Not just the same date, but the same year. We had been born within hours of each other! And now our babies were due around the same time, too.

Since we were born under the same stars, we asked each other about our work in the world.

I told her I was an artist and a life coach. She told me she was a rabbi.

“Oh my goodness,” I said. “Whenever I imagine an alternate life path, I always say I would have become a rabbi.”

She laughed. “And I always say I would have wanted to be an artist and a coach.”

I’ve been thinking about that conversation this week because I just spent several days in Los Angeles with Laurie. We co-led a Wild Writing and SoulCollage workshop at her mother’s temple for twenty incredible women in their eighties and nineties.

We weren’t quite sure what to expect. Would they be interested in the writing? Would they embrace collage? Would they be willing to share their work aloud?

Then they began arriving.

They flowed into the room with their walkers and their fabulous outfits, their caregivers and their bright smiles. They were completely game. They wrote and shared, cut and pasted with kid scissors and glue sticks, and generally reminded us how it’s done.

The morning began with the temple’s young rabbi reading a Torah portion. He shared this beautiful quote from Abraham Joshua Heschel:

“Our goal should be to live life in radical amazement. ... Get up in the morning and look at the world in a way that takes nothing for granted. Everything is phenomenal; everything is incredible; never treat life casually. To be spiritual is to be amazed.”

From there, we talked about wonder.

We talked about how living this way doesn’t depend on our circumstances being easy or joyful. Wonder doesn’t require a perfect life. It can exist right alongside grief, uncertainty, aging, illness, and loss.

It’s a way of seeing. A way of moving through the world.

Laurie’s mom Suzy has got that. Those wonder eyes. She is easily delighted. Full of gratitude. Still curious.

She will be 90 this year.

And as we said goodbye to head back to the Bay, she waved to us from the curb, waiting for her ride to go play pickleball.

Yep, showing us the way.

I made this little poster recently and it sums up so much of what I believe to be true. And so many of my creative practices are in service to this - not missing the miracle of this life. The tiniest things that not only make life bearable, but deepen our experience of being here. That connect us to the world around us. That help us touch into reverence.

I think writing can do that.
And poetry.
And walking.
And making art.

Okay, there are a million ways to get us there.

But one of my favorite ways is do these practices in community. Where we are amplifying the wonder and the joy in the sharing.

Have you ever noticed that when you see a rainbow out in the wild, the first thing you want to do is to grab everyone around you and say, LOOK!!

That’s what we’ll be spending the month doing in my Wonder Spotting course. Inviting each other to look. To see the world anew. To share what we love.

xo Andrea

JOIN US! $44

Hi friends!

We begin class on Monday, June 22nd - the first day of summer!

So delighted by how many of you have joined in already! The classroom is filling up nicely, people are downloading their Wonder Spotting Field Journals and sharpening their pencils.

If you missed my last email, I have a class starting this week—a community noticing practice where we catalog our daily delights, noticings, moments when we witness beauty, and share them with our fellow wonder spotters in the classroom.

By the end of the month, we will have an incredible library of what is beautiful in the world.

AND... you will have trained your attention to notice what might otherwise slip past:

• The thrum of the hummingbird’s wings just outside the kitchen window.

• The glittery dew on the clover.

• The stranger who lets you merge in traffic.

• The scent of jasmine on an evening walk.

I believe that wonder is less about finding extraordinary things and more about noticing the extraordinary hidden inside ordinary life.

And right now, when so many of us are overwhelmed by headlines, notifications, and the relentless pull of bad news, there is something deeply nourishing about gathering evidence that beauty, goodness, tenderness, delight, and awe are still here.

That’s what we’ll be doing together.

If your heart could use a little more wonder, I’d love to have you join us.
Just $44 to join in.

Love,
Andrea

JOIN US! $44

Hi friends!

I’ve been returning lately to one of my core creative practices—a practice I ended up writing an entire book about.

Looking for wonder. Noticing beauty. Paying attention to the goodness in the world.

Lately, I’ve been logging the tiniest bits of goodness: the luscious pink peonies from Trader Joe’s, the squirrel that stood on its hind legs in the middle of the street and stared at me, the chalk labyrinth I found on a walk, a ride on a steam train in Tilden Park, someone bringing me fresh mint from their garden and making me tea...

This practice has been helping me so much that I decided to create a new class around it! It’s called Wonderspotting, and at its heart is one simple question we’ll carry with us for a month:

What goodness have I noticed today?

And by goodness, I mean beauty. Wonder. Kindness. Delight. Awe.

I mean the translucent jellyfish that washed up on the beach and the stranger who smiled at me in the grocery store. I mean a roadside flower stand. An overheard conversation. An act of courage. An elderly couple holding hands. A perfectly ripe peach.

We’re not only talking about natural beauty. We’re also talking about moral beauty—the goodness we witness in other people. Small kindnesses. Generosity. Bravery.

I’ve created a downloadable Wonder Spotting Field Journal for the class (though you could just as easily carry a little notebook in your bag and jot things down there!)

Throughout the month, we’ll be sharing our field notes with one another and creating a kind of collective record of beauty—evidence of all that’s lovely, moving, surprising, and life-giving in the world, existing right alongside everything that’s difficult and heartbreaking.

We’ll talk a little bit about the neuroscience of attention and why this practice matters. But mostly I just want us to gather and share what we love. To compare notes. To widen the lens through which we see our world and our lives.

And the experiment is simple:

What happens after 30 days of looking for goodness?
How do we feel?
What is possible?
What becomes visible that wasn’t visible before?

I’d love to find out together.

We start June 22nd, the first day of Summer! Just $44 dollars ❤️

xo Andrea

MORE DETAILS HERE

Wild Writing Summer Sessions:

Wild Writing (Wednesday mornings at 10am PST)
Starts July 1st at 10am PST -11:30am PST (8 weeks)
We write together in a small group, keep the pen moving, and practice listening—to ourselves and each other—without critique.
→ A few spots still available

Wild Writing (Friday mornings at 10am PST)
Starts July 3rd at 10am PST -11:30am PST (8 weeks)
We write together in a small group, keep the pen moving, and practice listening—to ourselves and each other—without critique.
→ A few spots still available

Wild Writing (Sunday mornings at 8:30am PST)
Starts July 12th at 8:30am PST -10am PST (8 weeks)
We write together, keep the pen moving, and practice listening—to ourselves and each other—without critique.
→ One spot still available

Last weekend, I went on a first date with a man who handed me a small Moleskine notebook and a pen. He had one too.

We were standing in downtown Berkeley, just beginning our evening, when he said, “As we walk around tonight, every time we arrive at an intersection, I want you to stop and notice what question arises for you. Write it down. I’ll do the same. But we’re not going to share our questions with each other. I have a plan for that for another time.”

I was delighted. “Are we going to put all the questions together and make an exquisite corpse poem?”

He smiled at me with wide-eyed delight. “Does your brain work the same way as mine?” he asked.

And so I noticed that someone had etched their name into the cement at the first intersection. “Who is Carlos?” I wrote in my notebook.

At another intersection, I noticed an ancient black metal box that had “Police telephone” etched on it. “Is a police telephone for the public to call the police? Or for the police to call more police?” I wrote this down too.

Suddenly the world became a playground of hidden messages and riddles to be solved.

For the past several months, I’ve been working hard. Teaching. Writing. Creating. Managing the practical realities of life and business and motherhood. And somewhere along the way, I became a bit too serious. Head down, just getting it done. Slipping into bed obscenely early, getting up at 5am to do it all over again. And I wasn’t depressed, but life started to feel flat.

And then I remembered fun. And that without it, I have nothing to say! And without it, I can feel like I am just surviving my life instead of truly living it.

So I declared a season of fun! And started saying yes to invitations:

• A Friday night dance party by Lake Merritt where I danced harder than I have in years.

• An evening listening to Rebecca Solnit and Saul Williams speak.

• A full moon silent disco with my studio mates.

• A book event (with the author of Yesteryear!)

• A date with a new kindred spirit friend.

Julia Cameron has been talking about this for decades through the practice of Artist Dates. Those little solo adventures that fill the well and remind us that creativity isn’t just about making things. It’s also about experiencing things.

I’m realizing that’s exactly what this season of fun has been for me - a season of filling the well. A season of gathering new textures, conversations, ideas, images, music, stories, and experiences.

Because if we’re always creating and never taking anything in, eventually we’re trying to make something from nothing.

We need something to respond to. Something to bump up against. Something to fall in love with. Something to wonder about.

Whether you call it fun, play, adventure, or artist dates, I think the invitation is the same:

• Start a book club.

• Take a class.

• Go dancing.

• Attend a lecture.

• Visit a neighborhood you’ve never explored.

• Spend an afternoon in a museum.

• Take a long walk somewhere unfamiliar.

• Sit in a café without your laptop.

• Give wonder a chance to find you.

Because while insight sometimes arrives at our desks, I’ve noticed that wonder is often somewhere beyond them. It can be simple. Maybe it’s the conversation you overheard at the post office, or the stranger in line at the grocery store that tells you a story you will never forget.

What has been feeding your sense of wonder lately? What small adventure might be waiting just outside your front door?

I’ve been leaning into art-making more than ever these days—heading to my studio nearly every day to push paint around and create wall hangings from yarn. But it’s not just the making itself that’s nourishing. Having a place to land during the day, away from my computer, and getting to commune with my studio mates has been deeply restorative, too.

And exciting news: the wildly talented just launched our Moonflower Studio Instagram! Each week, we are featuring another Moonflower artist. There are 13 of us now.

What I’m working on:

1. Yarn wall hangings made of re-purposed yarn! I’ve been hitting the thrift shops, the East Bay Depot for Creative Reuse, and have my eyes on SCRAP in SF next.

2. Laurie Wagner and I just had two glorious weekend workshops with tables full of creative women. We made SoulCollage® cards, did a lot of Wild Writing, and listened to each others’ stories. It was simple and soulful, witnessing ourselves and one another.
   
   We are looking forward to doing even more of this in Taos in the fall and at Mar de Jade in December.

   

   My friends are making beautiful things:

   Pencil Magazine

   Issue #3 of Pencil Magazine is out now! Created by one of my forever BFF’s, Sasha Wizansky, Pencil is a print publication of art and writing made entirely in pencil.

   Its mission is to help people reconnect with attention by stepping away from devices and returning to the tactile friction of pencil on paper. Each themed issue explores the creative possibilities of the humble, unsung pencil!

The Sacred Mushroom Oracle Deck
My friend Xóchitl Ashe is a fifth-generation Afro-Indigenous Quechua Aymara medicine woman with over 30 years of ceremonial practice and lineage work. (We met 26 years ago in San Miguel de Allende and have been connected ever since) Most recently, she is the creator of the Sacred Mushroom Oracle Deck, published by Hay House.

Xóchitl is currently walking a healing journey from breast cancer, and every purchase made directly through her website at www.xochitlashe.com/sacred-mushroom-oracle supports her in a real and meaningful way. If you’re called to this deck, please order directly from her, it is one of the most tangible ways to stand with her right now.

The Wild Beneath

I met Kelly Anderson in Oaxaca this year at our Wild Wonder retreat, and I was instantly smitten by her warmth, curiosity, and incredible story — how she pivoted from being a full-time ER doctor to becoming a novelist, with her first novel coming out this August from HarperCollins.

We also had one of those truly magical moments of connection.

When she mentioned she lived in Toronto, I said the silliest thing: “Oh! I wonder if you know my cousin Gordie!” Then I immediately backtracked: “I know, dumb question. Toronto is huge.”

And she said, stunned: “No. Gordie was my boss for 15 years at the hospital.”

I’ve been savoring her novel, The Wild Beneath — a lyrical, mythical story about a young woman caught between her grounding first love, Evan, and a mysterious, wordless man who emits an otherworldly sound and pulls her into the hidden, magical depths of the ocean. A magical tale from a magical person.

Put this one on your summer reading list!

Out with Lanterns poetry by Julie Barton

I will end with a poem from my studio mate (another Moonflower!) and poet Julie Barton. I’ve been using her poetry in my Wild Writing classes and we always swoon. Here is a link to her Substack Out With Lanterns where she offers a poem a day.

Listening by Julie Barton

I rebuilt my ancestral altar.
Two nights later, two great-horned owls
stood near my front door. I knew
they were my grandparents who
lingered. They said in the next
morning’s meditation, Where we are,
masculine and feminine don’t exist.
(I heard it like an apology.)
We’re all just energy here.
(I heard: We had it so wrong.)
It’s just love.
I replied, That’s what the trees say too.
I inhaled with my still warm body, asked
for guidance. Let go, they said. Keep going.
Write with your eyes closed.

It’s Mother’s Day and I’m crying.
Which is unusual these days. I rarely cry anymore.

This morning my godmother — my soul mom — Micki texted me to wish me a happy Mother’s Day. I wrote back thanking her for all the mothering she has offered me and my boys over the years.

And then I started crying.

Maybe because she’s in her 80s now and I know she won’t be here forever.
Maybe because of all the mothering I longed for and didn’t fully receive from my own mom.
Maybe because I know how imperfect I’ve been as a mother myself.

Like many holidays, this day invites a kind of taking stock. Measuring ourselves and each other.

Was I good?
Was she good?
Am I loved?
Did anyone remember?
Does anyone care?

And then there’s the strange performance of it all — the roadside roses wrapped in plastic for ten dollars, the pastel cards with the swirly cursive script insisting on a saccharine sweetness many of us do not feel.

There were years when Mother’s Day gutted me.

During my infertility years in my 30s, I was enraged and depressed. When I saw new mothers pushing strollers down the sidewalk, they looked smug to me. Or careless with the miracle they had been handed so easily.

Women who got pregnant accidentally.
Women who conceived on the first try.

Every story like that pushed me deeper into grief.

There was so much projection in those years. So much pain.

And then somehow, during that time, I discovered photographing pregnant women.

I don’t even remember exactly how it began, only that I fell in love with seeing them through my lens. I had the chance to really look at them. To hold them in my gaze and marvel at their beauty — the newness of their bodies, the curve of their bellies, the dark line stretching from belly button to pelvis.

Something softened in me.

I stopped feeling like such a monster.

And somehow, I created something beautiful out of my grief. I could offer these women something I genuinely meant: celebration. Reverence. Witnessing.

Eventually, with the help of a few not-so-glamorous interventions at UCSF, I got pregnant too. And then Nico snuck in four years later — nearly a statistical impossibility given our history and the fact that, if memory serves, we’d had sex approximately once that entire year.

Life is wild like that.

But even now, I’m still tender around this day. Sensitive to all the weight it carries.

To all that women carry — mothers or not.

To those who lost their mothers.
Those who never got to become mothers.
Those who chose not to become mothers.
Those estranged from their children.
Those who mother everyone around them and still wonder if they are enough.
Those trying so hard to get it right.

And here’s what I really want to say to you today.

This morning, after I told Micki, “Finding you has been one of the greatest gifts of my life,” she wrote back:

“Darling, you are one of the greatest gifts.”

Maybe that’s the blessing.

Not perfection.
Not proving ourselves worthy.
Not getting the day right.

Just being reminded — by someone who truly sees us — that we are a gift.

With love, Andrea

Speaking of photography, the sun is officially back and spring has sprung in the Bay Area! And that soft golden glow in the late afternoon always makes me want to gather my camera and head outside. ❤️

And so I’m opening up my books for portrait sessions again!

🌸 Spring Portrait Sessions

For a limited time, I’m offering sessions at a special seasonal rate:

$550 (regularly $850)

• These are one-hour, natural light sessions— easy, relaxed, and sweet.

• No need to be anything other than yourself.

• My work has always been about capturing people as they really are—
  the warmth, the presence, the beauty that’s already there.

✨ Booking Your Session ✨

Just hit reply and we can chat about your shoot!

Book your session

Hi friends!

I just got back from a week at Mar de Jade, near Puerto Vallarta, where Laurie and I will be taking a group this December (registration just opened up!)

This is a brand new place for us—and our first time hosting a creative retreat by the ocean—and I’m honestly still taking it in. It is one of the most special places I’ve ever been. The food is incredible. You hear the waves all day long. There’s yoga, beautiful excursions, and so much space to simply be—to swim in the ocean, lounge by the pool, read a book, watch iguanas nibble bougainvillea.

It’s the kind of place that gently resets your whole nervous system. And apparently, I really needed that!

My neck has been hurting for months now. I assumed I’d get a massage while I was there and try to work it out physically. But something else happened. I went to a yoga class and had to leave early because the pain was too intense. I felt embarrassed and apologized to the teacher on my way out. She just smiled, put her hand softly on the back of my neck, and stayed there.

She didn’t try to fix anything. She didn’t massage or adjust me. She just stayed.
I could feel her presence so clearly that something in me melted. I started to cry. She said, “I know. I had a feeling it was emotional. Just let it move.”

And in that moment, it was so clear: I’ve been holding it together for months. Bracing. Tightening. Carrying the steady stream of grief, worry, and uncertainty that so many of us have been living inside of.

It was all right there in my body. That simple moment—her hand, the permission to soften—cracked something open. And between that, and a week of ocean air, laughter, dancing, rest, and connection… I feel different. Lighter. More myself again.

And now I’m back, carrying a bit of that softness with me—and opening the doors to a few ways you can join me if you’re needing some of that, too:

✨ Upcoming offerings:

❤️ SoulCollage® Women’s Circle - Starts this Thursday!
Starts this Thursday, April 23rd at 1pm PT (6 weeks)
A gentle, creative circle where we make intuitive collage cards and listen for what they want to say.
→ A few spots still open

JOIN ME IN SOULCOLLAGE

❤️ Wild Writing (Sunday mornings at 8:30am PST)
Starts this Sunday, April 26th at 8:30am PST -10am PST (8weeks)
We write together, keep the pen moving, and practice listening—to ourselves and each other—without critique.
→ Sunday morning spot waiting for you

JOIN WILD WRITING

❤️ Spring Portrait Sessions (on sale)
If you’ve been wanting beautiful, natural-light portraits, I’m offering a limited-time spring rate.
→ I’d love to photograph you

The other day, I went looking for a package.

That’s really all it was. I was leaving town within the hour for a friend’s 60th birthday, and inside that package was a swimsuit I was hoping to bring. Not a big deal, but I didn’t have a good one, and I really wanted it. ;)

So when I pulled into my neighborhood and saw the mail truck, I did something I almost never do.

I parked the car, got out, and chased after the mailman to ask if—by any chance—he might have my package and be willing to give it to me early.

He said no.

Which, honestly, I expected.

But then, right in the middle of that very normal interaction, this beautiful puppy came out of nowhere and ran straight into my arms. Like full body joy, licking my face, completely delighted to be alive and apparently delighted to see me.

I laughed, of course. It was so sweet.

And then I looked around.

No leash. No person.

The puppy ran off.

I turned to the mailman and said, “Oh no, I think we need to go after him.” And he was like, “He’s got a collar. I’m sure he belongs to one of these houses.”

But something in me didn’t feel settled about it.

So I wandered up the street, looking for him, peeking into yards, calling out a little. I didn’t see him, so after a few minutes I came back.

And then the mailman said, “Actually, if you show me your ID, I’ll give you the package.”

So I did.

Which kept me there just a little longer.

And then, suddenly, I saw the puppy again.

He was running across the busy street at the end of the block. And a car was coming. I screamed. The car missed her by an inch.

And then I was in the street, stopping traffic, scooping her up, my heart racing.

I found the number on her collar and called it.

The owner answered.

He was in Panama.

There was a dog sitter who was supposed to be watching her, but clearly something had gone sideways. I told him what had happened—that the dog had almost been hit, that I had her, that I was trying to get her home.

Eventually, I got her safely back to the house.

And as I gathered myself, what struck me wasn’t just that I happened to be there. But how many small things had to line up for me to be there.

The package was supposed to arrive two days earlier—but didn’t.

I just happened to be leaving town that day.

I just happened to really want what was inside that package.

I just happened to see the mail truck.

I just happened to do something slightly out of character and go chasing after it.

He just happened to say no at first.

And then yes.

Which meant I stayed a little longer.

Which meant I was there when the puppy ran into the street.

Which meant I could do something.

And I keep thinking about how this is probably happening all the time.

These small, quiet orchestrations.
These small miracles.
How life just might be arranging itself in our favor all the time.

xo Andrea

The spring Wild Writing classes are almost full (!!), which makes me so happy. There are just a handful of spots remaining across the current sessions.

Choose your session! Options below:

WEDNESDAYS - 1 more spot available
Wednesdays · 10:00–11:30 AM PST
April 22 – June 10, 2026
Join on Zoom from anywhere

FRIDAYS - SOLD OUT
Fridays · 10:00–11:30 AM PST
April 24 – June 12, 2026
Join on Zoom from anywhere

SUNDAYS - 4 more spots available
Sundays · 8:30am–10am AM PST
April 26th – June 28th, 2026
(we are skipping two Sundays - May 3rd + 10th)
Join on Zoom from anywhere

YOUR INVESTMENT

Early bird: $360 until March 31

Regular price: $400 starting April 1

Class begins: April 22nd/24th/26th, 2026 - June 2026

JOIN ME!

Wild Writing (created by my dear friend Laurie Wagner) has been my quiet, steady practice for over two decades. It’s the thing that keeps me connected—to myself, to my voice, to something deeper and more honest.

It’s not about being a “good” writer.
It’s about telling the truth.
Letting the pen move.
Listening for what wants to be said.

And doing it in the company of others who are doing the same.

You can find all the details and grab one of the remaining spots here:
https://www.andreascher.com/e-courses/wild-writing/

Just register + then email me to let me know which session is your preference!

With love,
Andrea

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Hi creative friends!

As many of you know, I’ve been doing something called Wild Writing® with Laurie Wagner for 22 years now, and it’s still my core creative practice!

It’s writing, but it’s also so much more than that. Wild Writing is a healing practice disguised as a writing practice. It strengthens the muscle of telling the truth and invites the creative unconscious to lead the way. Over time it makes us better writers, but it also makes us better humans. It deepens the waters of our lives and our relationships.

I’ve been practicing it quietly in the background of my life for all these years, and I’m excited to begin sharing it more fully in my teaching. My intention has always been to help women become more creative, more brave, and more connected—to themselves and to each other—and Wild Writing goes straight to the heart of that.

Also, a little secret: if you’ve ever wondered how I’ve managed to keep blogging so consistently for all these years (since 2002—back in the dinosaur days of blogging!), Wild Writing has been my secret sauce all along.

I’ve been training with Laurie this year (in addition to all of my decades with her) and finally opening the door and offering Wild Writing classes of my own!

It’s simple and powerful:
💫 a place to keep the pen moving,
💫 a place to say yes to what arrives,
💫 and a circle where our stories can be written and witnessed.

JOIN WILD WRITING

What Our Time Together Will Look Like

Each time we gather, we’ll begin with a poem. From that poem we’ll choose a single line—a jump-off line, a little doorway into the unknown.

From there we write quickly, pen never leaving the page, letting the words come without trying to make them perfect. Our only job is to say yes to what arrives—the images, memories, and stories that rise up from the creative unconscious.

After writing, we read our pieces aloud to one another. There is no critique or feedback. Instead, we practice the art of deep listening, witnessing each other’s stories with presence and care.

Again and again, people discover that something surprising happens in this simple structure: the words begin to flow, stories surface that we didn’t know were waiting, and a beautiful sense of connection begins to grow in the circle.

🌈 8-week Wild Writing circle
You can join on Zoom online from anywhere.

Online (Zoom)
Wednesdays: 10:00–11:30 AM PST
April 22nd – June 10, 2026
Join from anywhere

OR…

Online (Zoom)
Fridays: 10:00–11:30 AM PST
April 24th – June 12th, 2026
Join from anywhere

YOUR INVESTMENT

Early bird: $360 until March 31st
Regular price: $400 starting April 1st
Class begins: April 22nd or 24th, 2026
(depending on which session you sign up for)

Note: If you’d like to participate, but the timing doesn’t work for you, hit reply! I plan to add another Zoom cohort but haven’t decided on the day!

JOIN WILD WRITING

Today in my SoulCollage class we were making intuitive cards. I didn’t know what I was making when I began, but I kept gravitating toward furry animal things.

What emerged was this: two cats, some open palms reaching outward, and petroglyphs (of cats?) in the background.

As I worked, a line from Mary Oliver kept drifting through my mind: the soft animal of my body.

And suddenly I understood what the card was about.

(Though actually… I think I had already been noticing it.)

Like when I go to the chiropractor and she adjusts my back and I think, Oh my God that feels great. Someone’s hands on my back.

Or when I’m at the dentist and the hygienist is gently brushing my teeth, and even that feels strangely comforting.

And that’s when I realized:

The card was speaking for the part of me that is starved for touch.

And I wonder how many of us are walking around carrying this quietly, moving through the world without enough touch—without enough of that simple, bodily nourishment.

People often laugh when I say I go to the dog park even though I don’t have a dog.

But there are two reasons.

One is the oxytocin—which I now call dogcytocin (a T-shirt may be forthcoming).

The other is that it’s one of the few places in my life where I get snuggles! Golden retrievers leaning into my legs. A happy mutt pressing against me for scratches.
The warm weight of a dog’s head resting on my knee for a moment before they run off again.

And get this - It turns out there’s actually a name for this feeling: skin hunger.

I had never heard that phrase before, but the moment I did, I knew exactly what it meant. Skin hunger is what researchers call the physical and emotional ache that comes from not having enough touch in our lives.

Which suddenly made my dog park habit make perfect sense!

No big conclusion here, I just wanted to let you know I see you.

This one’s for the touch starved.
For the skin hungry.
For the soft animals that we are.

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“What am I gonna do, take them with me?” she asked.

This is my neighbor, Barbara.

My friend Mati and I met her one day while walking through the neighborhood. As we passed her house, we got to talking, and when she learned that we were both painters, her face lit up. I’m a painter too, she said, and before we knew it, she was inviting us inside.

Inside her house were stacks and stacks of the most beautiful paintings—leaning against walls, on shelves, behind shelves, in secret compartments, everywhere! We both left that day with a painting under our arm. Mati chose a large California landscape. I chose something a little more abstract. It was such a generous offering, and we were both so moved by it.

More recently, I walked by her house again on my morning walk. There she was—maybe not quite remembering me this time—and once again she invited me in. This time, I got to see the paintings hanging on her walls in the upstairs bedrooms, which I imagined were her favorites.

One caught my eye: an ocean scene with rocks, maybe a cliff, maybe the Mendocino coast. I felt a hesitation rise in me—if I commented on it, I worried she might try to give it to me, and I didn’t want to take advantage of her generosity. But I also genuinely wanted to tell her how much I loved her work.

So I said, simply, I really love that painting of the rocks and the ocean.

She immediately picked it up and handed it to me.

I protested. No, no, it’s okay. I just wanted you to know I liked it.

That’s when she said it.

I’m 90 years old. What am I gonna do, take it with me?

Now it hangs on my wall, and I admire it every single day.

And I know exactly what she means.

We can’t take any of this with us. Not the paintings, not the objects, not the things we’ve made or collected or held onto. As an artist, I know I’d much rather have a piece of my work on someone’s wall—being lived with, being loved—than stacked quietly in a closet.

We can’t take it with us.

Just a few days ago, I walked by her house and it was teeming with construction and workers. I walked up and asked, “Is Barbara here?” They looked confused. “No one lives here anymore, ma’am. We’re preparing it for sale.” And I realized Barbara was gone. Maybe living with relatives? Maybe in a home? Maybe gone gone?

Her paintings are hanging in my room. I don't know where Barbara is now. But I think about her every day. And maybe by giving it away, she took it with her after all.

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Hey everybody!

It’s been a while since Laurie Wagner and I have run a workshop in the Bay Area, but we have a special one happening this spring and we wanted to invite you before all your weekends are booked!

The workshop will run over the weekend of May 2nd and 3rd, 2026 at Laurie’s home in Alameda, CA. It’s an exceptional place to lose yourself in the creative process. We’ll work under the trees and relax around the fire pit, alternating between Wild Writing and SoulCollage® —the intuitive collage process that I have been leading at our creative retreats over the past year.

These two practices are both deeply intuitive, restorative and loose. You don’t have to be a writer or an artist to join us, just someone who wants to connect with yourself, and with others in a creative and juicy way.

Here are the details:

• Location: 27 Powers Ct. Alameda, CA.

• Dates: Saturday, May 2nd & May 3rd, 2026

• Times: 9:30-4:30pm each day

• Price: $395 for the weekend

  NOTE: This workshop already sold out! Please email me if you’d like to be on the waitlist. Email: andrea@andreascher.com

Hoping to gather with you in 2026!
Andrea

Gather colors. Gather words. Gather your favorite people.

Gather the smell of jasmine on your walk and cut a tiny sprig of daphne and put it in a cup of water. Gather vegetables, maybe the ones you’ve never tried before, like sunchokes or bok choy or those long chinese broccoli you can order at dimsum.

Gather your friends and people who like to make things or write things. Read to each other. Tell each other stories. Remember you are not alone. Remember our fates are tied. That we are all in this together.

Gather yourself. And when I say gather yourself, I don’t mean to say buck up and look good and get ready to face the world. I mean assemble yourself, put together the disparate parts of you by putting a hand on your heart and saying, I’ve got you. I’ve got all of you.

Gather the dust bunnies from under the bed and the crumbs from the couch cushions. Gather a sunset by the water where everyone walks their dog and then gather some kisses from a doodle or a rescue pup named Rosie. Let them knock you over in their exuberance. Let them lean on you. Let them get your cute pants dirty.

Gather because that’s what we have. Gather because we are stronger this way. Gather because it feels right and good and sometimes all we can do. Gather in the name of joy. Gather in the name of goodness. Gather in the name of we’ve got each other.

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I was writing a blog post in my mind while I was in yoga yesterday morning.

I was doing a seated twist, and the yoga teacher came over to adjust me—to support me in taking a deep breath and relaxing even further into the pose. With each exhale, I was surprised to discover there was more I could do. With each breath, another inch I was able to rotate into.

“So much potential!” I said to the teacher, marveling at how far I could go—where I thought my limits were, and where they actually seemed to be.

At first, this was going to be one of those inspirational posts. About how we have so much more in us than we think. About how we upper-limit ourselves, and how with a little support and a deep exhale, we can go further than we imagined.

But that’s not what happened.

By afternoon, my lower back started to ache. By evening, all the muscles involved in that twisting were so tender I couldn’t lie down comfortably in bed. And this morning, it’s clear there will be no yoga for me for a while. It hurts to do just about everything.

What I’m realizing now is that I went too far in my excitement. I’m noticing the parts of me that wanted to impress my teacher, that felt special being singled out in a crowded class. The parts of me that want to be seen as capable, flexible, special. The parts that override quieter signals in favor of approval.

And here’s where I’m feeling my way toward the real lesson.

It’s both.

We do have tremendous potential. We do upper-limit ourselves. It’s important to remember that we’re capable of more than we sometimes believe.

And it’s also important to attune to ourselves—to not bypass the wise, steady parts of us that know where the real limits are, especially when the temptation to impress someone else is in the room.

As I put the tiniest toe back into the dating world, this is a good lesson for me to put in my pocket. When do I bypass the wisest part of me in favor of the other?

So maybe the lesson isn’t how far we can go, but how we listen while we’re going there.
That growth doesn’t only come from expansion, but from discernment.
From knowing when to deepen—and when to stop.
From trusting the body, the breath, the quiet inner voice that isn’t interested in impressing anyone at all.

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