…

August 12th, 2026

Every morning, for the past week, I’ve had the same routine without realizing it. I walk out the front door with my bag over my shoulder, coffee in one hand and the car key in the other, and head straight into the same spider’s re-spun web that stretches from the tree branch to my car’s side mirror. Every morning, I forgot that the web may be there. Every morning, I did the dance one does when they are afraid a spider may be crawling on their back, and I put my hand with my keys out like a sword to ward off any more of the web. That is, until I’d worry I’d hurt the spider. Almost verbatim, each day, I’d say out loud, “I thought you’d learn and change your mind. I forgot you may be here.”

This morning, after another episode of this routine, I swore I wouldn’t forget that there may be a web tomorrow. Yet, as I got out of my car tonight, I closed the car door and walked toward the sidewalk leading up to our front desk only to be greeted by a newly spun web. This time, though, the web extended from the tree branch to the bush. Ah, it got me. It had learned. I had not.

The joke was on me.

The irony was, too.

Every time I see a spider or an ant and, without even thinking, I swat. I don’t love this fact about myself. If my swat is successful and even when it isn’t, I think to myself, “Oh, how disappointed Mary Oliver would be in me.”

August 14th, 2026

I have yet to see the actual spider.

Surely, she’d have thoughts about that.

It cues to you where my attention is not.

I’ve been frustrated by this little spider I haven’t even seen.

Doesn’t it know this car moves and leaves each morning? Doesn’t it know I have places to be and walking into a web is not one of them? Doesn’t it know we have gone through the same thing each day?

…

August 18th, 2026

This morning, I decided to walk a different route to my car. I came out the garage door and walked around the car to open the door and assess if there was a new piece of a web attached to the mirror. I also looked up to see where this spider may be. I couldn’t find it. I don’t blame the being. I too would not want to be seen.

I drove off apologetic for yet another day of detaching its web from one of its anchoring points. In this case, the apology means very little without my actions in the days to follow to change.

August 20th, 2026

I have seen the spider now, and to my surprise and delight, there are two of them! I have been parking my car farther away from the tree. They’ve been keeping their web connected solely to the tree.

Looks like we have all learned.

September 1st, 2026

My new routine is: I walk out to my front door to my car, still with my bag over my shoulder, coffee in one hand and keys in the other, and I pause and look for any webs. Then, I look specifically for my two friends. They have been pretty persistently on their web. I say “Good morning” to them as I get in my car and can’t help but smile as I close my car door and look back at them. The fear of the beings has dissipated, making much more room for awe and respect.

These creatures are remarkable.

We have found a beautiful harmony of co-existing. I’d like to imagine they say hello to me, in their own ways, when I pass by, as well.

It makes me smile even more thinking of them both wearing a top hat and lifting it a bit with a “Good day to you, Bailey.”

Likely, they just remain minding their own business, hoping I don’t walk negligently into their home or swat away at it with my keys. They likely are not the biggest fan of me.

I don’t blame them. I wouldn’t be too fond of the person who had destroyed my home for multiple days in a row.

…

These spiders and their webs have been a persistent part of my last few weeks. They’ve given me a lesson in attention and presence.

We see what we are looking for.

Now, as I walk out each morning, I am present in my body and mind rather than thinking about work or wherever my mind likes to wander. In presence, it feels nearly impossible not to see the web and the spiders in their humble abode. The web changes ever so slightly, almost daily. What a miraculous piece of art and a labor of love it is! In looking for the spiders and their web, my fear of them dissipates. I am not looking out for danger. I am looking for the delight of their presence and their resiliency in weathering another day.

…

We see what we are looking for.

Thank you, Jarrow spiders, for helping me see a bit differently these past few weeks.

Prompts & Questions:

• What have you been looking for? Has fear been the lens through which you are looking? Delight? Write out what the lenses you have been wearing are and how that has impacted what you’ve been seeing.

• What is a small detail in your week that has seemingly been persistent? A mundane moment people may not know about, but you notice it. Maybe it’s the kiss on the cheek from your partner as they get out of bed. Maybe it’s the morning stretch your baby does every time you greet them in their crib. Whatever it is, zoom in on that moment and honor it. Write a poem inspired by it.

  Leave a comment

Supporting This Newsletter:

Tuesday’s Attention is a reader-supported publication. The bi-weekly newsletter is free, but I have recently added the option for people to support my work with upgraded subscriptions.

An upgraded paid subscription will allow you to receive any additional essays I write along with my poetry and some of the processes behind my writing. Any support here goes towards my livelihood and allows me to continue to pursue writing on the side of work and graduate school.

Different subscription options:

• A $7 monthly donation

• A Pay-What-You-Can monthly donation by clicking this link

• A $70 annual donation

• A founding member donation above the annual donation cost

If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, you can open the newsletter on the internet and click on the “upgrade” button in the top right corner!

Subscribe now

Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

It is nearly impossible to leave the Mary Oliver documentary, Saved by the Beauty of This World, uninspired. The invitation you are left with upon finishing the film is to be a “bride married to amazement” and yet well acquainted with death and darkness.

There is a fragile resilience in the beauty of this world, and we, too, are part of that beauty—equal parts fragile and resilient. All of us on borrowed time.

I have always found myself most drawn to Oliver’s poems written in the later part of her life. She began confronting not only the shadows of this world, but the shadows of her own tender soul.

This morning, on my day of Sabbath, I decided to make my way over to the State Botanical Gardens. My one task: pause when you see life interacting with life.

The eastern bumblebee swimming into the flower's trumpet.

The jarro building upon its web across a bush and tree.

The squirrel carving with its teeth into the pine cone for a meal to eat.

The fresh fig and my hand reaching out to behold and perhaps join the squirrel in a bite to eat.

The hummingbirds zipping in from high up in the conifer trees to the blue porter weeds not too far in front of my feet.

The Papilio glaucus butterfly on the zinnias, drinking the nectar from the central disk of the flower head.

The faithful garden workers helping every plant around me survive in this unruly heat.

This is the world.

We were made for one another.

..

To the eastern bumblebee, the trumpet flower speaks, “

Come in, take what you need.”

To the jarro spider, a foreigner to these lands, the trees and bushes surrounding speak,

“This too is your home. Stretch out. Take up space. Let your beauty be. We are glad you are here. This land here was never ours to own.”

To the squirrel, the pine tree speaks,

“Take this seed, fallen for you.”

To my reaching hands, the fig tree speaks,

“Take this fruit and eat; my harvest is plenty.”

To the hummingbirds zipping around, the blue porter weeds call out and speak,

“It is safe here to be. We delight in your company. We were made for one another.”

To the Papilio glaucus butterfly, the zinnias sing,

“Come drink, all you who thirst. Our nectar is sweet.”

To the plants the gardeners water, their acts of care speak,

“In this brutal heat, we will keep you nourished.”

…

Giving and taking.

Loving and breaking.

Growing to fall and decompose to the fruit that will later grow.

We receive nourishment to give nourishment.

It’s not you vs. me.

It’s a humble, messy, “we.”

We each have a place in the family of things.

…

I will leave you with none other than Mary Oliver’s words for this Tuesday, the closing canto out of her poem “Flare” from her book From the Leaf and the Cloud

12.

When loneliness comes stalking, go into the fields, consider

the orderliness of the world. Notice

something you have never noticed before,

like the tambourine sound of the snow-cricket

whose pale green body is no longer than your thumb.

Stare hard at the hummingbird, in the summer rain,

shaking the water-sparks from its wings.

Let grief be your sister, she will wheter or no.

Rise up from the stump of sorrow, and be green also,

like the diligent leaves.

A lifetime isn’t long enough for the beauty of this world

and the responsibilities of your life.

Scatter your flowers over the graves, and walk away.

Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.

. . .

In the glare of your mind, be modest.

And beholden to what is tactile, and thrilling.

Live with the beetle, and the wind.

This is the dark bread of the poem.

This is the dark and nourishing bread of the poem.

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Prompts & Questions:

• As Mary Oliver writes, “when loneliness stalks, go out into the fields” and see what company in the family of things you will find. Take some time to write about your company.

• Make a list on a walk this week of wherever you see life interacting with life.

• Write a poem that honors the beauty of this world and the fragility of it all too.

  Leave a comment

Supporting This Newsletter:

Tuesday’s Attention is a reader-supported publication. The bi-weekly newsletter is free, but I have recently added the option for people to support my work with upgraded subscriptions.

An upgraded paid subscription will allow you to receive any additional essays I write along with my poetry and some of the processes behind my writing. Any support here goes towards my livelihood and allows me to continue to pursue writing on the side of work and graduate school.

Different subscription options:

• A $7 monthly donation

• A Pay-What-You-Can monthly donation by clicking this link

• A $70 annual donation

• A founding member donation above the annual donation cost

If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, you can open the newsletter on the internet and click on the “upgrade” button in the top right corner!

Subscribe now

Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

This past Friday, Kenny and I were in Cambridge, in the Boston area, for one evening before flying back home after a week and a half away. We explored the area a bit, eating a picnic dinner on the Harvard lawn, grabbed drinks at a local pub, and then made a welcomed deteour in a park, on our walk to get ice cream, when we came across an eclectic group of people, many in some form of polka dots, playing songs together with their varying instruments—tubas, trumbones, trumpets, clarinets, saxaphones, drums, and more.

It turns out this group of people were all a part of a local community music school where they practice and play music together for the joy of it. And let me tell you, the joy was palpable and their energy was contagious! For 20 minutes or so, people couldn’t help but smile or dance or stop and listen whenever they walked by. It was as if all the suffering and darkness around us quieted down for a moment and everyone in that little park was beautifully unified, without any words needing to be spoken. Lines of division, for just that bit of time, ceased to exist. There was no us vs them, only a present togetherness. I can’t help but tear up thinking about it now. It’s so simple and yet, those moments can feel far and few between. I find myself just desperate for these kinds of shared communal joy these days, especially after I spend any bit of time on the internet and am inundated with just how dark and divided things can be.

Don’t we all just long for these moments of connectedness and beauty?

The four days before our little bit of time in Boston, we were in Cape Cod, where I attended the Complex Trauma Summer Institute. It is always a funny thing to tell people that you are going to a complex trauma institute. No one knows whether to say, “Oh, that’s cool” or “I am sorry…” or “Fun! Well, not fun…” or “Sounds intense.” What I love getting to tell people, after our awkward few moments of us not knowing what to say around the topic, is that it is actually a week of learning that leaves me incredibly encouraged and hopeful. The treatment of complex trauma is dynamic and long, and we are still so limited in what we know about the brain and the body and how we heal. But what we do know, thus far, is that, at the foundation of any complex trauma treatment, is first building safety, prioritizing stabilization, and developing therapeutic rapport.

Then, from there, many targeted interventions may not be what people anticipate. Talk therapy can be limited depending on what parts of people’s brains are “online” due to their nervous system state. Communication through our words is far more complex than we give it credit for, as you have to follow the rhythm of conversation, listen to what is being said, process what you’ve heard, stay attuned to the body language and non-verbal communication, think about your relationship to the person in front of you, and respond in a way where you can keep the conversation going. All of this requires us to have access to our prefrontal cortex. For those who may live in a more chronic “survival” state, this is not always going to be accessible, especially if their brain detects any sense of threat. What this means then is that we have to engage with the “bottom” parts of our brain first to regain access to our prefrontal cortex and to communicate to our whole body (brain included) that we are safe. To do this, we come back to the foundations of what soothed and regulated us in infancy before our prefrontal cortex was online at all and at the core, that is various forms of somatic input that lead to sensory processing—the touch of a loved one, deep pressure and being swaddled in a blanket to remind us of the womb, gentle music and rhythmic sounds, a calming voice, safe visual cues, rocking back and forth, the heart beat of our loved one in a regulated state and the rhythm of their heart that calls our own heart beat into syncricity, and other tactile input that reminds our system that we are safe. It is often a combination of these that brings a child out of dysregulation and into a state of calm—my friends parenting newborns know this all too well right now.

That is why music is so powerful—it is not only auditory, but rhythmic and promotes movement that often leads to rocking in some sort of way. Music can help increase our energy, or it can help us lower our energy; it is a powerful tool in modulating our nervous systems. Add in the layer of how it connects us to others, and it becomes all the more powerful.

Alongside music, there are other beautiful embodied ways of meeting our brain at its foundation to help it regulate and reconnect to other parts of the brain—we see this in yoga, sports, art and creativity, and through play (perhaps the most powerful of them all). During the second day of the Complex Trauma Institute, Dr. Spinazzalo leads clinicians through an experiential learning evening of what he calls “Trauma Drama.” Throughout the evening, Dr. Spinazzalo leads a room full of adults through various improv exercises and theater games, all of which are chosen thoughtfully and intentionally in support of engaging different parts of people’s brains, increasing their window of tolerance, and supporting people in modulating their energy. These games require vulnerability and, specifically for adults, reconnect them to the silliness and joy of play.

And friends, play is healing.

Just imagine 20+ therapists (ranging from early 20s to late 70s) on their hands and knees pretending they are barn animals, and you have a glimpse of what the room looked like. It was chaotic joy, which sometimes is the best kind.

The folks in Cambridge in the park, playing their instrument and rolling on the grass like lobsters as they played the B52s song “Rock Lobster” in front of strangers passing by for the sheer joy of music and the playfulness of it all knew a thing or two about all of this.

With all of this, I glean a sense of hopefulness from how we heal through some of our most instinctual ways of being as humans. Perhaps the beauty of the cycle of life is that, as we grow older, the goal is to reconnect with that which in childhood was our language of being—play. And the power of being in communal, inter-generational spaces is that the young will always offer to others the invitation to play and to be and, unconsciously, to heal,

…

May your week ahead be filled with moments of experiencing communal joy. May you choose to create room for play and be vulnerable enough to let your silliness be free. If you need help doing so, look to the children and look to the musicians lost in their craft, freely moving their bodies around on their stage of choice—they’ll lead you through.

Share

Prompts & Questions:

• What is your favorite form of play? Make a list of 5 ways you loved to play as a child and then 5 ways you love to play as an adult, and then choose at least one of these to do this week.

• When was the last time you witnessed a moment of communal joy? Write a brief essay on that moment and what it did for you.

• Recall a moment, as an adult, where you felt lost in “play” and paint what that felt like or looked like.

  Leave a comment

Supporting This Newsletter:

Tuesday’s Attention is a reader-supported publication. The bi-weekly newsletter is free, but I have recently added the option for people to support my work with upgraded subscriptions.

An upgraded paid subscription will allow you to receive any additional essays I write, along with my poetry and some of the processes behind my writing. Any support here goes towards my livelihood and allows me to continue to pursue writing on the side of work and graduate school.

Different subscription options:

• A $7 monthly donation

• A Pay-What-You-Can monthly donation by clicking this link

• A $70 annual donation

• A founding member donation above the annual donation cost

If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, you can open the newsletter on the internet and click on the “upgrade” button in the top right corner!

Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

To top off a lovely evening in Boston, ice cream was had to finish out the night, and Kenny made me take a picture with this cow. What a simple delight

A little over a year ago, I ventured North to the rural hillside of Virginia with a long-time dear friend, Haley. We were staying at a precious place called Benediction Farm, attending a retreat that was centered around creatively exploring the different emotions interwoven into grief. If you know me, you know that this was right up my alley. Joanne and Wade led Haley, four others, and me through this contemplative retreat. We collaged, finger-painted, used model clay, walked, rested, and shared many meals around a table together. All the art we engaged in was intuitive art, meaning the purpose was not to overthink it, but to just create. We were not creating to have a beautiful product; instead, we were creating as a tool for processing and engaging different parts of our brains.

While I was there, what intuitively kept coming up was grief around my body. I was in a season where themes of motherhood surrounded me left and right. And, as many women experience, I was asking myself many questions around motherhood— When? How? Would I even be able to get pregnant? And then one that is a bit more specific to my own circumstances, if I did get pregnant, could my kidneys and body handle it?

Much of my grief lived within the last question.

Over the years, I have been learning to lean into grief, rather than pushing it away. However, as a society and culturally, we are not quite comfortable with grief, in all of its forms. With that, I often relate to the ways Sadness in Inside Out is misunderstood.

Yet, it is through honoring grief when it is present that allows us to continue to move forward and create room for something new to enter. It is hard, and I believe, holy work. We sow in tears and wait for a harvest to arise. No tear wasted.

Sometimes, sowing our grief looks like pounding up balls of clay out of our anger and creating something new. Sometimes it looks like a run on the pavement where we release what is living in the body. Sometimes it looks like lying in the arms of a loved one, and their willingness to let their shirt be filled with puddles of tears. Sometimes it looks like baking pans upon pans of cookies. Other times, it looks like these quiet moments to ourselves in the car, when a small exhale helps us soften our shoulders a bit more, and where our sadness is safe to be.

…

A few weekends back, I made my return to Benediction Farm, this time with Kenny accompanying me. The retreat’s theme was on “Five Hopes,” and this felt beautifully fitting. All last year, Kenny and I spent a lot of time discerning the best path to parenthood and growing our family, given my health. Grief and hope were consistent companions to us. In January, after closing the door on trying to conceive naturally, we retreated to a little cabin not too far from home for space to engage with our faithful companions.

In ways, I mimicked what Joanne and Wade had led me through months prior. We collaged, we journaled, we shared meals, we walked, prayed, and created art. We started with the grief, and we ended with liturgies for our children one day: there lay our hope and us moving toward whatever beauty may lie ahead.

Fast forward to the start of July, and we are in the initial stages of our adoption journey, hoping and leaning into one another! Being back at Benediction Farm felt like holding some of the sheaves of wheat that had grown up from the last year of honoring grief when she was present.

And now, we enter into another companion of ours (mind you, a companion I do not always love): waiting. As we wait, I will continue to create. It helps me feel like my waiting does not have to be passive but can be active. This creative engagement is what we like to call in therapy, the “side door.” The side door refers to finding an entrance to our brain that isn’t fully the cognitive part or our survival brain, but instead the limbic system.

May you, dear reader, wherever you find yourself—whether in some sort of grief, hope, waiting, or a bit of all three—find some solace and peace in allowing yourself room to create in your current state. May you find what engages your “side door” and allows you to move through all that you are feeling,

May those of you who find yourself in close company with grief feel permission to be. May you know that there is no right or wrong way to grieve and no timeline on it all, too.

May you who are in a place of hope find encouragement that moves you toward more hope.

May you who are waiting be reminded of Margaret Renkl’s words, “Everything that waits is also preparing itself to move.”

Prompts & Questions:

• Do you find yourself in a season where you are closely acquainted with grief, hope, and/or waiting? If so, choose the one that feels most near and create with that word in mind. Let the creation be intuitive— do not plan, just grab some materials and do.

• Reflect back on your last few years and think about where you have sown tears of grief. Maybe even name those grievances. Then, take a moment to reflect on what beautiful things have also come about in your life in the last few years. Let the two exist together.

• Write a poem about your own relationship to grief and hope.

  Leave a comment

Supporting This Newsletter:

Tuesday’s Attention is a reader-supported publication. The bi-weekly newsletter is free, but I have recently added the option for people to support my work with upgraded subscriptions.

An upgraded paid subscription will allow you to receive any additional essays I write along with my poetry and some of the processes behind my writing. Any support here goes towards my livelihood and allows me to continue to pursue writing on the side of work and graduate school.

Different subscription options:

• A $7 monthly donation

• A Pay-What-You-Can monthly donation by clicking this link

• A $70 annual donation

• A founding member donation above the annual donation cost

If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, you can open the newsletter on the internet and click on the “upgrade” button in the top right corner!

Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

I have, within the last year, developed some stretch marks on my stomach. There is one in particular that stands out to me. I have been calling it my Harry Potter scar, as it looks quite similar to Harry’s forehead lightning bolt scar. Harry’s scar represents much in his life. Some may argue it solely represents Voldemort and the awful reality that some of his soul lives within Harry. Others may argue that it extends beyond that, representing his loss, his fear, his pain, and also his resilience. This scar was an intricate part of a character many came to know and love, and in many ways, the scar alone told a profound part of the story of his life.

My Harry Potter scar by no means is drenched in as much meaning. Yet, it has been a meaningful way for me to engage with my body when doing so feels difficult.

My Harry Potter stretch mark has become quite intricately connected to my disease. It turns red when my swelling increases. A by-product of the kidney filters being damaged is that the kidneys then spill protein out of your body that is supposed to remain within your blood. Without these proteins, fluid that should leave the body leaks out of the kidneys into surrounding tissues. Specifically, the liquid follows salt. The more salt I have, the more my body holds onto liquid, causing an ample amount of water weight. The by-product of ever-fluctuating high amounts of water weight is that my overall weight shifts often and sometimes drastically. The by-product of this shifting is stretch marks, as the skin is seeking to adapt and keep up with the changes.

As I type this, I am waiting for my diuretic to kick in to help some of the excess water leave my body. My Harry Potter scar was red when I woke up, prompting me to notice the increased swelling.

Isn’t it wild and beautiful and complex that our bodies do such a thing?

I have a hard time loving the part of my body where my Harry Potter scar has developed. Society has been a great deal of help in that arena, as it seemingly wants me to be pitted against my own body—ashamed of its fluctuations, stretch marks, wrinkles, and scars. And yet, each of these tells stories of my life. Some stories are painful, and some are deeply rich and beautiful.

The wrinkles that are ever so slightly developing are those that are lines that are connected to any memoir I may write—they tell the story of life lived and growing older and the privilege of doing so. I want to love those lines and creases as they arrive and make their home with me.

There is a scar on my elbow that has faded over the years, but it’s still there. It is from when I was in about 6th grade. I had made a dear friend on my club soccer team. She was one of the first people I felt I could be my most authentic self with. We were highly competitive females that craved outlets for this side of us. The more societally masculine parts of me, what some may refer to as tomboy, were safe with her. When we hung out, I had the most fun. One particular hangout, we were the right amount of curious, ambitious, and naive to stress any parent out, but to thrill any 6th grader hanging out with a friend. Our curiosity and energy led us to see how well we could run backwards on a treadmill. Kelsey, not so surprisingly, was pretty good. When it came to my turn, I wanted to match her skill level. However, I neglected to take into account my clumsy nature. I was always one step away from a fall, it had seemed. At least the three casts I had worn in the year prior would suggest so. With that said, as one can already imply, I had quite the wipeout on the treadmill that was running at a relatively high speed, causing it to take layers off my skin. Eventually, the scar developed into a pretty perfect triangle, and I loved everything about it because, to me, it represented an incredibly meaningful friendship in a time of life where authentic, safe friendship felt nearly impossible. It also told a funny story. AND it was a triangle shape, and as a middle schooler, that was pretty dang cool.

My Harry Potter scar isn’t quite as sweet. That’s why the lightning bolt feels appropriate. It tells a bit of my own “Voldemort.” There are moments when I feel like my body itself is Voldemort, but then I remember that my body is the “Harry Potter,” as it fights relentlessly for equilibrium and my health. My body desires resolve. “Voldemort” is still quite unknown, in my case, as my disease is idiopathic, meaning the exact cause of the disease was spontaneous and yet to be determined by science. There are hypotheses, but no definitive answer, which makes it all the more difficult to treat it since we do not know the underlying cause. This feels similar to when Voldemort in several Harry Potter books remains hidden. How do you attack what remains hidden and unknown?

This playful, metaphorical engagement with my own stretch marks and scars has allowed me to attempt to shift my focus off of the rising number on the scale and the ways clothes, some days, may be fitting more tightly, onto the ways my body is this complex entity constantly adapting, communicating with me, and fighting for me.

This is where my creative alchemy has been living these days.

…

May our language grow more gentle and kind with our bodies and with others’ bodies. May our “Voldemorts” not be our bodies, but the very things around us that seek to pit us against our precious bodies.

May, when the body speaks, we listen with tenderness and care. May we turn toward, not away.

Share

Prompts & Questions:

• Think of a scar or a wrinkle upon your body that tells a significant story in your life. Write about the story.

• What are some ways your body has been communicating with you and fighting for you? Write a poem that honors the ways your body is working for you, not against you.

• Write a letter to your body and the ways you want to care for it, even though it can be incredibly hard. Be gentle and nurturing with it, as you would with a precious and vulnerable being that you love.

  Leave a comment

Supporting This Newsletter:

Tuesday’s Attention is a reader-supported publication. The bi-weekly newsletter is free, but I have recently added the option for people to support my work with upgraded subscriptions.

An upgraded paid subscription will allow you to receive any additional essays I write along with my poetry and some of the processes behind my writing. Any support here goes towards my livelihood and allows me to continue to pursue writing on the side of work and graduate school.

Different subscription options:

• A $7 monthly donation

• A Pay-What-You-Can monthly donation by clicking this link

• A $70 annual donation

• A founding member donation above the annual donation cost

If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, you can open the newsletter on the internet and click on the “upgrade” button in the top right corner!

Subscribe now

Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

As I pulled up to work last week, my co-worker was outside at 8:30 am throwing a baseball with his youth male client in our parking lot. A surge of delight washed over me. I wish I could just hop in and throw the ball with them, but I knew that this simple space they had constructed was sacred and not to be disrupted.

Later that day, I received my second “lesson” on crochet from a middle school group I facilitate. I am a slow learner when it comes to learning a new craft. So far, I have found crochet quite frustrating. But, lucky for me, I have come to know that some of the most patient teachers are the ones who are between ages 8-14.

In just this week, kids have taught me how to master the crochet chain, how to begin learning about the magic circle in crochet, how to make a beaded lizard, and how to properly manage the Switch controllers in Super Smash bros. Much to my disappointment, I cannot just hold down B and hope for the best to win. Every kid has met me with gentleness and encouragement. I have been hearing phrases like:

That is not quite it, but you are doing a really great job.

Wow, Bailey! Keep going. You are really getting it!

Okay, this time, I am not going to attack you and I am going to let you try to attack me so that you have time to practice without the pressure.

Look at you! You just properly did a “smash attack” without just pressing buttons!

It has brought me back to a scene glued in my mind from my teaching days when one precious student began teaching me how to draw. I wrote about this moment in 2019 and returned to it today in the notes on my phone. What I wrote reads:

“I was at the lunch table I monitor and hang with each day. One student didn’t miss an opportunity to bring her journal with her. She is incredibly gifted with pen and paper. And watching her sketch is seeing into the fullness of freedom creativity can bring. But what was freeing for her was terrifying for me. Doodling and drawing, over the years, grew into one of those silly things I let fear keep me from. Just as climbing a tree or cooking a fun meal can also feel terrifying for me. As a kid, I drew days upon end. Then, I lost it. My imagination ran off with the craft corner that I buried beneath the work I “had” to do.

However, on this particular day, my student passed me her pen and told me to give a sketch a try. I told her. “I don’t draw. Or well, I only draw trees.” So, she told me to draw a tree. Then, she began taking me through a series of questions that called my imagination out of all the shame and fear it has been hiding underneath.

“Does the tree have leaves?”

“What is accompanying the tree?”

“Okay, why did you split the scene? Show me more of what is happening.”

“Are you wanting to express any emotions here? You can use shapes and shades as a way of doing so.”

“Keep going. What else is present?”

I felt so vulnerable in the process. I trusted her and began to trust myself again, too. It didn’t have to be anything special, just an expression. This brilliant 14-year-old was so gentle with me, but also would not let me quit. She was persistent and patient. I had much to learn from her ways of teaching.”

I believe that we all desire to feel like we have something to offer others—our kindness, our talents, our thoughts that may resonate or inspire, our areas of interest, and the list goes on.

Helping others releases the “feel good” neurochemicals that lead to an embodied response that reduces our heart rate, our stress, and promotes overall more well-being. How beautiful is that? We are wired in such a way that, through helping one another, we, ourselves, heal. In part, that is why I am often inviting youth, in the therapeutic setting, to teach me. When they get to be positioned as an expert themselves, confidence grows, anxiety decreases, and the power dynamic between adult and child softens.

I am coming to learn that the simple phrase, “teach me,” is a kindness we can offer one another.

Prompts & Questions:

• If you have a young person in your life, ask them to “teach” you something this week that they are enjoying. See what comes about during your lesson. Come back and share your experience in the comments, as I would love to read!

• Reflect on a time when someone was a patient, thoughtful teacher with you in an area that felt difficult for you. Write a poem highlighting that experience, focusing on their kindness and patience alongside your fear.

• If there is a hobby you’ve been wanting to try (i.e., painting, guitar, paddle boarding, pickleball, etc.) but feel nervous to try, spend some time looking up local classes you could sign up for and choose one lesson.

• Think about the craft or hobby you most enjoy these days. My encouragement to you is to plan a day where you get to host some loved ones and teach them what you love to do.

Leave a comment

Supporting This Newsletter:

Tuesday’s Attention is a reader-supported publication. The bi-weekly newsletter is free, but I have recently added the option for people to support my work with upgraded subscriptions.

An upgraded paid subscription will allow you to receive any additional essays I write, along with my poetry and some of the processes behind my writing. Any support here goes towards my livelihood and allows me to continue to pursue writing on the side of work and graduate school.

Different subscription options:

• A $7 monthly donation

• A Pay-What-You-Can monthly donation by clicking this link

• A $70 annual donation

• A founding member donation above the annual donation cost

If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, you can open the newsletter on the internet and click on the “upgrade” button in the top right corner!

Subscribe now

Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

In front of me lies:

• A list of “To-dos.”

• An empty bowl of cereal that has now become a part of my list of “To-dos.”

• A mug half-filled with coffee ready for its third microwave heat-up.

• An audiobook on pause because I indecisively wasn’t sure if I should listen to a book and unload the dishes or do some more computer tasks.

• 12 other tabs open besides my current Google document tab that I am writing on.

• One dog at my feet, sunbathing in the morning light.

• A cup of water that I might as well name as decor, due to coffee almost always being my drink of choice.

All of this could be summed up as:

What lies in front of me are choices. Seemingly, never-ending choices.

As humans, we tend to have a common fear of “being stuck” and feeling as if we have no choices.

On the other hand, though, many of us, if not all, commonly get overwhelmed by too many choices. In the latter, we fear being stuck in indecisiveness. Or, maybe it is less about being stuck with our choices and more about being afraid of being stuck with having made a wrong choice—the consequences.

Either way, I do believe that none of us are strangers to these fears. I am reminded of this daily in my work as a counselor.

Research suggests that, on average, we make 35,000 choices a day, consciously and subconsciously. On top of this, I think about how much input we are constantly receiving regarding our choices. For any woman who has become a new mom, the internet and world seemingly inundate you with choices and “the best,” “most important,” and “necessary” things for your child.

No wonder we all have some form of decision fatigue and fears around the decisions we make.

There may not be much we can all agree upon as humans these days, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we could all agree on this:

Being a human is hard.

…

The other day, one of our dogs was at the base of the stairs pawing at the dog gate at 4:00 a.m. He needed to go out and, much to my dismay, after 10 minutes, I made the decision to go down and let him out. A few minutes later, I found myself back in bed, wide awake, with a choice: either I continue to lie here and try to go back to sleep for however long it takes, or I get up and enjoy the quiet beauty of dawn. I chose the latter. By 4:30 am, I was sitting out on our back porch, beneath the stars, with a cup of coffee in hand, blanket over my lap, and the quiet hum of cars in the far-off distance. I stayed there for the next two hours.

Slowly, but surely, morning chose to rise. She was gentle and quiet, at first. Little by little, my eyes adjusted to the lighting; the aperture of my eyes was in flux throughout the morning. The leaves of my cheery tomato plant went from hunter green to a forest green. The wood of the deck went from resembling a shadow to in focus. My ears too were adjusting. At first, I could just hear the cars in the distance. There were no creatures rumbling in leaves, and the birds seemed to be in a silent sleep. However, at one point, morning rose, and I began hearing small bird peeps. Suddenly, though, as if nature was in agreement that it was time to rise in full glory, a holy choir of backyard birds sang!! My Merlin Bird ID app could not keep up.

In that moment, what lay in front of me was my container garden and the trees. I felt as if I was transported to a morning of camping where you are presented with two choices:

Continue trying to stay on the bed of rocks you are lying in and get terrible sleep, or step outside of the tent and be with the morning, in all your exhaustion and achy back pains.

When people ask those who enjoy camping how they could enjoy sleepless, uncomfortable nights in the woods, I believe it is because your choices get more narrow—you can either be absolutely miserable, or you can be miserable, but attuned to the beauty around you and away from the never-ending noise of our day-to-day “To-Do” lists.

Maybe, just maybe, attuning to the beauty of the natural world around us makes this whole “being human” thing a bit softer of a task.

In our 35,000 choices we will be presented with today, may the beauty of spring becoming summer beckon each of us to choose to see what lies beyond our screens and “To-dos.” May we learn from the toddlers among us and the ways they walk at the pace of a snail to enjoy every little beautiful thing they see—the rock, the clover, the weed, the bird, the bee, the curb to balance upon, and the fallen seed. May we step outside of our front doors and find solace in the natural world surrounding us in communal company. May we never grow numb from the miracle of a new day dawning—and holy disruptions waking us up to experience it. May the clouds remind us of imaginative whimsy. May the greens of the trees remind us that winter is never wasted. May the blades of grass invite us to sit for a while, maybe even lie.

Sometimes, the dishes can wait.

Share

Prompts & Questions:

• Reflect on a time when you were woken up far earlier than you had hoped, but there was unexpected beauty in the quiet of dawn. Spend some time creating out of what comes up in your reflections.

• The to-do lists are necessary; however, we also need moments where it is less about doing and more about being. Create a list of moments in the last week where you felt like you could just be— and where you experienced beauty.

• Write a poem that contrasts the never-ending choices and to-do lists mixed in with the moments where being present feels like the only choice to make.

  Leave a comment

Supporting This Newsletter:

Tuesday’s Attention is a reader-supported publication. The bi-weekly newsletter is free, but I have recently added the option for people to support my work with upgraded subscriptions.

An upgraded paid subscription will allow you to receive any additional essays I write along with my poetry and some of the processes behind my writing. Any support here goes towards my livelihood and allows me to continue to pursue writing on the side of work and graduate school.

Different subscription options:

• A $7 monthly donation

• A Pay-What-You-Can monthly donation by clicking this link

• A $70 annual donation

• A founding member donation above the annual donation cost

If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, you can open the newsletter on the internet and click on the “upgrade” button in the top right corner!

Subscribe now

Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

Recently, I watched the early morning moments of a farmer’s market coming to life. I watched from a distance while waiting for a friend to arrive for our walk. There was a sort of dance occurring as beloved goods were unloaded from cars, tents were set up, and slowly but surely, table by table was filled. While watching, it felt as if I was witnessing worker bees hum with collective care, bringing their hive to life to produce something more precious than gold.

I really do believe farmers’ markets are holy places. People show up, weekend after weekend, after a week’s worth of labor, in hopes that their labor of love will find its way into their neighbor’s home. Our large world, in these spaces, becomes small. We, again, become people who are connected to our neighborhoods. We, too, are like the worker bees or the ants in their own colonies, bread on our backs from down the street, ready to feed the loved ones in our proximity.

Beyond the ways these markets provide farmed fresh produce and beloved goods, the event itself creates a rhythm of communal gathering. Whether you buy something or not, you’re welcome to come and be. There will always be flowers to see, people to meet, vendors who kindly greet, and delights available for anyone to see. In Athens, you’re also always free to dance to the local artist performing, if you so please. I always rejoice in seeing the toddlers take the lead with their pit-pattering feet.

On weeks that feel more exhausting and lonely, I make a point to be at the market on Saturday. Sometimes, I don’t have the energy for the greetings and mingling. So, I make my way to a table tucked behind the market, crack open a book or a journal, and find rest in the company of the humdrum of the morning. I feel less alone when I can hear the saxophone singing, chit-chattering echoing, kids riding on their bikes on the sidewalk across from me, and my neighbors finding the nearby picnic table to enjoy their market coffee and treats.

There’s much that plagues us as a species these days—political division, not yet cured diseases, violence, and so on. We are more aware of what’s happening from sea to sea on our planet than ever before—more globalized than ever before. And yet, within it all, I think what continues to connect us most (and arguably plagues us the most, too) is how none of us is immune to the epidemic of loneliness.

When I started this newsletter, back in December of 2021, I selfishly needed to create a space where I could connect with others when my immunosuppressed body did not afford me the privilege of being at most social gatherings. I went from interacting with 100+ students and my colleagues on any given day of the week, to practically couch-ridden, interacting with my roommates when they were home from work or with a friend in a mask when they came to visit. I missed weddings I was a bridesmaid in, concerts I had tickets to, and many other gatherings. The gatherings I did make usually came with a cost of being sick for weeks.

I needed to be socially distant; yet, as we all experienced during the pandemic, I also desperately needed people and connection. What an impossible dichotomy that the immunosuppressed community knows all too well. To be safe, one needs to be physically distant from others. But, to survive, truly survive, one needs proximity to others and great amounts of connectivity. This is why we read others’ words, listen to music, and find ourselves captivated by stories on our screens—they create at least some sense of connection. But more than that, we need hands to hold, bread to be baked from one home to end up on the table of another’s, and communal gatherings that are rhymes in our weeks—physical moments of seeing, maybe I am not as alone as I think.

In that year of extended social distancing for me, I was reading a lot, as I was hungry for any words that would help me feel seen in the wake of my grief. One of the books I read in those months was Tiny Beautiful Things by Cheryl Strayed, which compiled together letters she had written for a column in response to strangers and their questions. There was one letter in particular that stuck with me. Cheryl was writing in response to one’s heartbreaking loss and grief. I don’t remember much of the letter, but what I do remember is how she closed it out. She wrote,

“You go on as you never have before.”

It felt as if she was writing directly to me.

I now have that quote typed up from my typewriter and in a frame in my therapy office. These words echo in the back of my mind often. When grief strikes and changes everything as we knew it, we have no choice but to go on as we never have before; our choice, though, lies in how we take steps to go on and pave the uncharted territory. As I’ve quoted Sulieka Jaouad and her beloved Jon Batiste before (and I’ll quote them 100 times again), “Survival is a creative act.” Perhaps the most creative. We do not get to choose when, if, or how an illness may show up in our body. Nor do we get to choose how our bodies respond to treatment. We do not get to choose much of the grief that finds us throughout our lifetime, and it will find us. However, we do get to choose how we respond to the grievances themselves, and there lies our power and an invitation toward creativity.

…

Over four years ago, out of my own survival necessities, I chose to create a rhythm of connection with others in my weeks by sharing my writing. I started sharing bits of myself, through words, in hopes that others, too, may resonate with something I’ve been paying attention to in my days or experiencing. And essay by essay, month after month, I’ve been reminded that there is power in hearing someone respond to what we have shared with a:

“Hey, me too.”

The circumstances and experiences may not be the same, but the sentiment can resonate. In small, seemingly simple exchanges, the loneliness quiets and connection prevails.

Maybe, just maybe, we are not as alone as we think.

…

The heartbeat behind this newsletter comes from Mary Oliver’s words in one of her poems, “Sometimes.”

Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

Paying attention grounds us and keeps us awake. Telling about it, though, and having someone on the other end who listens, and listening to others tell of what they’ve seen, is what keeps us alive.

…

Here’s to 100 Tuesdays together. Thank you for allowing my words to show up on your screen and for taking the time to read and connect with me. It means the absolute world to me.

…

May we be awake enough to the beauty around us to continue to be astonished. May we notice the hum and dancing of our neighborhoods, and may we know our neighbors. May we notice the labors of love around us and be vulnerable and brave enough to share our own labors of love with those we encounter. May we creatively survive through unthinkable circumstances and make art in the midst of it. When we grow weary and alone, may we look to the birds and the bees and even the ants in their little communal colonies. May we hear the bird songs and allow ourselves the safety and joy of singing unabashedly. May we take note of the bees pollinating and working together to produce some of the world’s sweetest of treasures, honey. May we see the ants throw the crumb onto their back and march their way home to provide for their community. May we see that we, too, are tiny, precious communal species that create beauty that was meant to be shared and beholden by one another.

Prompts & Questions:

• Think of your rhythms in your week that connect you to communal gatherings. Write about one of those communal spaces. It could be the grocery store, the tennis courts, a baseball field, etc. Whatever it is, put into words some of the magic of the place and the connectivity it can bring.

• Take Cheryl Strayed’s words: “You must go on as you never have before,” and reflect back on the ways you have done so since the pandemic. Name the ways you are proud of yourself.

• Find a farmers’ market in your own local community and pay attention to the small delights that you see.

  Leave a comment

Supporting This Newsletter:

Tuesday’s Attention is a reader-supported publication. The bi-weekly newsletter is free, but I have recently added the option for people to support my work with upgraded subscriptions.

An upgraded paid subscription will allow you to receive any additional essays I write, along with my poetry and some of the processes behind my writing. Any support here goes towards my livelihood and allows me to continue to pursue writing on the side of work and graduate school.

Different subscription options:

• A $7 monthly donation

• A Pay-What-You-Can monthly donation by clicking this link

• A $70 annual donation

• A founding member donation above the annual donation cost

If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, you can open the newsletter on the internet and click on the “upgrade” button in the top right corner!

Subscribe now

Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

I am not a big homework therapist. People are never leaving my office with worksheets in hand. However, you will see them leave my office with a book of poetry in hand, or a picture book, or a little yellow note that has their reminder and assignment of sorts written down on it. The notes may read:

• Look for beauty- notice it and name it.

• Play. Whatever you do this week, allow yourself to play.

• Allow yourself room to create.

I guess the English teacher in me is still alive and well (and is likely never going anywhere).

Last May, I attended a spiritual retreat connected to creativity and healing led by three tender, wise souls. They had us finger-painting, collaging, using air-dry clay, and connected to art crafts and materials we would have utilized as a young child. The goal was never about the product, but about the embodied process and the play. After we finished our art pieces, we only provided feedback to one another through our noticings. I notice the bright colors and the whimsy. I notice the movement. I notice the blues. This noticing, rather than critique, was a welcome joy. We were holding witness to one another’s processes and play. The end product was never the point; merely a part of the process.

On Saturday night of the retreat, there was an optional hot chocolate and story time. No one dared to miss out on story-time and home-made hot chocolate with mini marshmallows and all. I had the honor of picking the Winnie-the-Pooh chapter that was read by Wade, one of the owners of the home in which the retreat was housed. Wade is in his 60s. The man on my left, on the shared sunk-in couch, was also in his 60s. He was cross-cross apple sauced, hot chocolate in hand, and delighted to listen to Wade’s Tiger and Pooh voices. That night, I’m certain something in each of us healed.

Whenever I was in the throes of high-dose steroid side effects and the early days of processing my diagnosis, my roommate at the time, Carson, began reading out loud to us The Wing Feather Saga by Andrew Peterson. Weak British accents were utilized, and every day, there was a moment of lightness and playfulness I could look forward to amidst the dark cloud that seemingly filled my mind. Healing was taking place.

There is something profoundly simple and beautiful about being a grown adult, being read out loud to by a safe, loved one. Or, choosing to read a book written for kids, for yourself.

…

Yes, we heal through getting down to the roots of our pain and insecurities and bravely confronting them all. But, we also heal through beauty, play, safe relationships, and creativity. We heal through presence when it is safe to be present. This is why the only “homework” I assign to clients surrounds beauty, play, and creativity. I may task them with going to a park and going on a walk where their main role is to look for their favorite color around them—to notice the blue irises, the sky, the kid in a blue shirt running with their kite, the color of the dog that seems to be living the best day of its life. All of this brings us out of our heads, into our bodies, and perhaps most importantly, into our here-and-now.

…

This weekend, I had the joy of celebrating one of my best friends during her bachelorette weekend. The friend I was celebrating, Katie, teaches me much about connection to beauty and delight. We are the kind of people who send poems to one another and seek to name our delights in the ways Ross Gay did in his Book of Delights. On my bachelorette weekend, I had her lead everyone in writing poems and blessings. We are both deep feelers and lovers of all things art, beauty, and friendship.

It was only fitting that while I was celebrating Katie, I’d be collecting a list of delights across the weekend. The note on my phone reads:

Things That Healed My Soul A Bit This Weekend:

• Long car rides with long-distance best friends; time like this feels so ridiculously precious.

• The joy of dressing up as characters from a beloved movie—the beauty of getting to be silly.

• A blue Karaoke mic is a staple of meal times.

• Meryl Streep, in all her glory, in Mamma Mia. I think she had the time of her life.

• Three best friends walking past me in the morning, laughing on their morning beach walk. Female friendship will never not bring me delight.

• I am unsure if I have ever seen a being happier than the dog that I just watched fetch their ball over and over again on the beach. Oh, and they plopped into the water and didn’t move a bit as a wave crashed into them. It was sheer bliss on their face.

• A large doodle named Tax just made himself at home in my lap, wet and covered in sand, sharing the dirty joy with me during my morning beach coffee.

• A woman on a run and in full stride, only to pump the brakes to look at the shells that caught her eyes, and then continuing her run with the giant conch shells in her hands.

• Katie reading words from her book on soul friendship while sitting in a room full of her nearest and dearest. There was not a dry eye in the room. How thankful and lucky we all are to consider Katie one of our soul friends.

• A waiter pointing out the dolphins to us at dinner!

• Stories of old being shared over tables—friendships filled with a decade worth of love and life.

• Two older women just took pictures of one another; they were“holding” the sun with their pincher fingers on the beach. Pure delight.

• The ways tears can fall, and laughter can rise across the span of minutes when dear friends are with one another.

• Hugs that communicate what words cannot.

---

One of the sentences Katie shared with us this weekend read from the book Anam Cara: A Book of Celtic Wisdom by John O’Donohue:

“In the work of soul, our false urgency can utterly mislead us. We do not need to go out to find love; rather, we need to be still and let love discover us.”

The only bit I would add onto that is that we must be willing to notice when and how love is discovering us. It will discover you. It already is.

May we be attentive enough to see and humble enough to receive.

This is how we heal.

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Prompts & Questions:

• Take yourself to a park nearby and go on “I Spy…” walk, looking for your color of choice. Maybe even make a list of what you see. Notice when delight comes, and love discovers you. Maybe even take pictures of what you see and send them to a friend.

• Reflect back on your last week and recall where love discovered you—create a poem that honors these moments.

• Take yourself to a local bookstore and go to the children’s section. Find a picture book that draws you in, one with beautiful artwork and words, and read the book. Maybe even buy it! Come back to said book when darkness feels high.

• Whip put the finger paints. If you do not have some, ask a friend to go and get some with you and plan a fingerpainting night.

• Return back to a beloved book from your youth and begin reading it out loud.

  Leave a comment

Supporting This Newsletter:

Tuesday’s Attention is a reader-supported publication. The bi-weekly newsletter is free, but I have recently added the option for people to support my work with upgraded subscriptions.

An upgraded paid subscription will allow you to receive any additional essays I write, along with my poetry and some of the processes behind my writing. Any support here goes towards my livelihood and allows me to continue to pursue writing on the side of work and graduate school.

Different subscription options:

• A $7 monthly donation

• A Pay-What-You-Can monthly donation by clicking this link

• A $70 annual donation

• A founding member donation above the annual donation cost

If you are already subscribed to the newsletter, you can open the newsletter on the internet and click on the “upgrade” button in the top right corner!

Subscribe now

Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

A hobby and skill that I have not quite dabbled in (yet), but have been thinking about over the last two weeks is sewing. More specifically, quilting. Stitch by stitch, patch by patch, many different parts become a greater whole—a story. Quilting has been figuratively and literally woven into history. It has served many different roles and spanned across cultures. It has been functional, ceremonial, political, a means of survival, a domestic craft, a high art form, a storyboard, and a symbol of care.

There are people, right now, as I write, at a sewing machine or with a needle in their hand, slowly but surely creating a tapestry of love that they will one day drape over themselves or another, in comfort and care. This fact alone reminds me how beautiful humanity can be.

Across the last few weeks, I have been sewing together a metaphorical quilt that is holding me in comfort as I write. I’ve been collecting scraps of kindness and grace and ensuring not to let them go to waste. The words, “It’s on us,” as one hands me a cup of coffee. Wendell Berry’s words, “...a winter scrawl in blossoming spring, lifting up its perches to the birds, while the season performs newly its old work.” Learning the song of the Carolina Wren and the Cardinal, and how beautiful the two sound as a choir. A visit from a Lunar Moth on our front porch. Purchasing the plant known as “the purple heart” and taking a snipping from it to begin propagating another, all the while remembering my great uncle Jack and the Purple Heart he was honored with from his service in WWII, and his utter resilience and will to survive as a POW throughout the War. My great uncle, in his final years of life, honored my older brother, who was a middle schooler at the time, with his Purple Heart. As an adult, I think of this moment often and how we were too young to recognize the magnitude of this gesture.

My great uncle Jack was my Papa’s older brother, my mom’s dad. My name, Bailey, comes from my mom’s maiden name. Often, I think about how grateful I am to know my name connects me to the legacy of Jack and Bill Bailey, and also to my mom and grandma, the women I have adored beyond end, throughout my life. I am a Bailey. I am a Frederking. I am a Serrano. Three histories woven together into the history of my own life that continues unfolding. There is no me without them. I am a patch woven into a much greater whole.

Last week, my grandma took her final breath. I miss her terribly. It has been within my grief that I have needed to piece together this metaphorical quilt to drape across my shoulders. I’ve been grieving most often with my hands in the dirt. It brings me peace tending to new life as I honor the precious life of my grandma. I have also broken out the kitchen aid and baked a bit. The day before my grandma passed, I was hanging our frames in our new home. The two frames that went up that night were intricately connected to my grandma. One is her recipe for German Chocolate cake in her handwriting, and the other is a piece of art that my ever-so-talented and thoughtful sister-in-law, Alex, made for me. On the last Christmas we got to spend in my grandma’s home with her, Alex gifted my grandma, my mom, and me each a watercolor piece that was inspired by one of my poems, “The Wellspring of Your History.”

“The Wellspring of Your History”

Soon,

The fog will fade.

But,

While you wait,

For the light

To again invade,

Receive

The ink

To

Make a way

For the seeds.

For you cannot (yet)

Write your way through.

The soil is not fertile.

The air is not clear.

The seeds are not prepared.

But, one day,

The fog will fade

And,

The light will make a way.

For the soil to welcome

The seeds,

Laid by your hands

And the ink

It once,

In the waiting,

Had received.

For one day,

The words

Will rise

To tell the story.

Yes,

They will rise,

In due time.

You are sowing

Something beautiful

In your waiting

And

In your grief

Alex broke this poem up into three portions. My grandma’s art was inspired by the first portion of the poem, my mom’s the middle, and mine the last stanza. Alex wrote out each portion of the poem on the back of our artwork. I re-read my portion of the poem before hanging it up the night before my grandma died.

I did not know we were going to be losing her the next morning. I’ve been coming back to these words often since then. Isn’t it funny how our own words, years later, can minister to us. These words have taken on new life and layers of meaning for me right now. I’ve been literally sowing seeds in our yard for Kenny and me to watch grow for all the years to come that we will abide in our home.

Figuratively, Kenny and I are sowing many seeds surrounding the life and love we hope to one day pour into our children; we are in a time of much waiting and preparing, and, at times, we have also been grieving through the ways my health influences family planning. And now, I am grieving that my children will never get to meet their great-grandma Ann. Yet, I rejoice in knowing that they will, without a doubt, encounter her through her offspring—her wellspring of her history of love. I will drape them in metaphorical quilts of her love and history and allow stories of her to live on for generations to come. They will encounter her as we dance, and as wit and laughter fill a room, most often flowing between their grandma Laura and uncle Daniel. They will encounter her in my mom’s fudge that came from her mom’s fudge. They will encounter her around the Thanksgiving table. They will encounter her in music and in their uncle Austin’s singing. They will encounter her in my extroverted side, which is always looking to connect with others and delights in a neighborhood gathering. They will know her through our love that has grown out of her love.

And maybe, one day, they will know her through my own skill of sewing, which takes after her sewing. They will hear stories of how she sewed together my mom’s prom dress, Halloween costumes for her kids, and generally how she was quite a seamstress. Until I can bring a literal quilt to life that tells of some of the stories of her and her love, I will keep gathering patches, piecing them together in my mind, draping them over my shoulders in comfort and peace when the chill of grief takes over me.

Prompts & Questions:

• What would fill your own quilt squares at the moment, to symbolize love and beauty? Make a list or draw it out. If you are a sewer, maybe even sew it out.

• If you’ve grieved the loss of a loved one, you’ve learned that grief does not necesarilly have a time line, as missing our loved ones never quite ends. With whoever you are missing right now, take some time to create in honor of them and their love. Maybe you paint their favorite flower, write a poem of a memory, or write down a story about them.

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Words for Your Week:

As you carry on into this week, may your days be filled with words that encourage you, laughter that heals you, and moments of beauty that pull your attention in and bring you to slow down.

May you know that you, yourself, are worth paying attention to.

The link to the Google form can also be found here: The Backyard Atelier Interest Form

Thank you for supporting me through the years!! There are a few things that give me more delight than connecting with others through words and creativity.

On Friday, I made several drives back and forth between the house we have been renting for years and the house we just bought, as we were in the thick of moving. On my drives, I have felt a deep sense of gratitude and, to probably no one’s surprise, a lot of reflective sentimentality. On the drive from Normaltown to the East Side of Athens, I pass by every street in Athens I have ever lived on across the last decade: Baxter, Lumpkin, Springdale, The Plaza, and Hardin. Each street is home to a building that is a chapter of my life and a footnote of my healing and growing. Scattered across those streets are: trees I came to love, that now stand as landmarks of hope and delight for me; benches and gardens that held me on days when I could not hold myself; and little free libraries that have reminded me to always look out for communal connection surrounding me.

By my Sophomore year of college, I told many friends that I knew I wanted to build my life in Ath…

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On Friday, Kenny and I close on our first home, and over the course of the next few weeks, we will be moving across town to our new home. The days and weeks have been full for us; most downtime becomes dedicated packing time. As soon as we knew we’d be moving, I started taking a few frames off the walls. Something I have learned about myself, since college, is that I need transitions to be just that—a transition. I am not a “rip-the-band-aid-off” kind of girl when it comes to change that I know about. I prefer the “slow-and-steady” approach; it feels important for me to pay homage to whatever I am leaving before fully embracing what I am walking into. I was always the roommate who wanted a whole night dedicated to us recalling every story and moment we shared in the home before the first one moved out. I am not a person of Irish goodbyes; instead, I relish in a goodbye or a see you later; it is why, although my energy may be low, I tend to be one of the last to …

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In September of 2022, I attended a Brandi Carlile concert with one of my best friends, Kelly, and her husband, Alex. We learned later that one of our other best friends, Katie, was driving in from North Carolina with her girlfriend, Monica. This didn’t surprise me, since it was Kelly and Katie who first introduced me to Brandi and thus began my own fandom. We all went to dinner before the concert, and though we had bought our tickets separately, months apart, our seats were placed right next to one another in the Fox Theater.

That moment when we realized we were seated next to each other, out of 4,678 seats in the Fox Theater, remains one of my favorite moments of my life. The ending of that concert remains another (I wrote about it in Tuesday’s Attention #45).

At the end of the concert, Brandi shared with the crowd that she wanted to send us off with a blessing of sorts. She sang her song “Stay Gentle” that led into her singing “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” as…

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In the last two weeks, one phrase has shown up across my texts, emails, and at the end of most conversations:

Stay warm.

It is a simple exchange. Yet, I’ve been finding a tenderness within these two words that gives me hope around our collective care for one another. It feels like the “passing of peace” that occurs in more traditional churches:

Peace to you.

Peace also to you.

As two hands shake and bodies shuffle to their left and to their right within the pews, offering their neighbor a blessing of peace, whether they know one another’s names or not. Sometimes I think this is all a church service needs to be: a moment of pause, genuine connection between a few, and hoping for one another that their day and lives are filled with peace, despite our differences in backgrounds and beliefs.

This same sort of offering occurs in most AA meetings. For brief moments of time, strangers extend their hands to be held by their neighbor, and they speak words that ground one another together …

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Every now and then, I enter a building space that feels alive with its history; a palpable sense of the labor of love that has kept it standing and filled with people across generations, and in some cases, across centuries. Perhaps it is why I love Dondero’s Kitchen in Athens so much. It is a precious breakfast and lunch restaurant that lives in an old historic Athen’s home. The ceilings are high, the walls are patterned with brown patches where paint has worn, and you can see the original lining of the wall. The windows flood the rooms with gorgeous natural light. Pottery made by the chef’s daughter lines the bookshelves alongside The National Geographic magazines that are dated back throughout the 90’s. There’s a heartbeat to this business that, for me, is felt between the walls of the old historic home that has been standing since 1910. I feel connected to the people who currently keep the building running and somehow a part of the history that the building …

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When you work with youth in any capacity, you tend to learn what is trending amongst them culturally, especially around the vernacular they use. The vernacular of the young is always evolving, and slang that grows popular tends to have a short shelf life due to the speed at which pop culture is shared through social media these days. As someone who is married to a 6th-grade teacher and whose caseload for counseling is half youth, our home stays in the know around the latest and greatest, and also the most obscure words and phrases kids are loving any given month. Kenny, I am sure, is fluent in brain rot at this point. I am sure most parents of pre-teens are as well. While often these words and phrases remain insulated within the environments youth most frequently inhabit (i.e., schools, youth groups, kids’ homes, sports teams, etc.), some find a way to infiltrate their way into every public space. In 2012, it was “yolo” and “hashtag.” I doubt most adu…

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A few months back, a dear friend of mine, Alex Bumgarner, shared that she wanted to host a holiday market at her house in Atlanta and was looking for people who would be open to being vendors. This year happened to be a year I spent a lot of time making art with my hands, and so our guest bedroom had become filled with pottery, paintings, and embroidered pieces. When I saw Alex’s post, I thought that setting up a table with what I had been making felt like an invitation for creative play. So, I filled out her interest form and began dreaming:

What is the name of my booth going to be?! How can I bring together a theme with all that I have been creating?! What do I want people to feel when they approach my booth?! What colors should the table be to connect with my pottery and the frames of my embroidered pieces?! Ohh, I want to give people a little card for them take with them with a drawing and a thank you from me! What should that be?!

I began calling the whole process m…

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On Thanksgiving day, my siblings, our partners, and my precious niece flew out to California to make it to Ivy Park, in order to share a table and break bread with my mom, uncle, and grandma. Hours were added to our day as we landed in California, and we made it around a table just in time for it to be 8:30 pm Eastern time. Everyone’s eyes were heavy, stomachs were hungry, but hearts were full. I am a firm believer that long days of travel are always worth it when what’s on the other side of the travel is loved ones and some bread. In the days that followed Thanksgiving, we would return back to Ivy Park and gather around a multitude of tables simply to be together.

Ivy Park is an assisted living home where my grandma lives in their memory care facility. It is a beautiful facility, with so many kind people, but there is nothing glamorous about memory care. It is an environment that may take some adjustment if you’re new to it, as you have to learn how to meet e…

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Last fall, I spent many days sitting or lying on a child-sized patient table within a colorful animal-themed room at Emory on one of their pediatric clinical trial floors. I was not a pediatric patient, but the physician running the clinical trial I was in was a pediatric nephrologist. Being a patient in a clinical trial for a medication designed with a rare disease in mind is very different than any other medical experience I have had. There is no check-in, no long wait in a waiting room, and you often leave the appointment being paid rather than paying. Appointments are frequent, more vitals and blood work than normal are checked for data collection, and there is a lot of unknown. The specific trial I was in was a Phase 2 drug, and I was a part of the cohort of the first “sick” patients receiving the drug. They had ideas of what the side effects and general effects of the medication were, but the whole point of my participating in the trial w…

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