On the one hand, thank goodness it’s summer and we can all work on this together, and on the other hand, it’s summer. Which means I’m also a teenager on-call emotional support, taxi, executive, playmate, cook, first responder, holder of the ‘mom where is…’ knowledge, and the litany of thought interruptions summer can bring. It’s the best of times to welcome in a new family member, it’s the worst of times for puppy duty. Both truths at once.

After years of learning to have space and time just for me, this puppy addition has been a shake up. A couple weeks in, I’m just regaining my footing and coming up out of a fog. Like a newborn, his sleep is unpredictable. He’s decently agreeable to his crate at night, doesn’t mind going in, but needs out multiple times due to the whole tiny bladder situation and then needs to tell me how unfair it is that it isn’t morning yet. This will get better, but started off fairly brutally. Suddenly I was thrown back into the up every two hour stage of life, the kind of sleep that makes you wonder if you’ll ever be ok again, if it’s possible to die from sleep deprivation, if there are sleep drugs for dogs.

And so while I didn’t give birth to this baby, and I’m not healing from the aftermath of growing another human, while actively being the sole supply of that human’s nourishment, certain elements of this time are reminding me of the tenuous beast maternal mental health is. Random memories are making their way up from the murky depths of distance, forcing me to remember the parts that are oh so hard - and often oh so invisible.

Anyway. Back before we brought this furry baby home, when I was preparing the kids about how much work a puppy is, they said that I was acting like they weren’t going to help me. Of course they were going to help me, they assured me. I smiled and nodded, but reminded them they wouldn’t be doing the 3 am shift. (for the record, I was correct, they are not on the 3 am shift)

A few days into puppy life, after watching him get the zoomies, get into anything and everything, and having to track his every move, the kids commented that taking care of him was tiring. I agreed. We looked at him in his puppy snooze, wiggling and snorting and dreaming his little puppy dreams, and I suggested he figure out how to do that at night.

“Yea, he’s awake so much at night, but naps a lot in the day,” one of them said.

To which I responded, Sleep when the baby sleeps.

“What?”

Sleep when the baby sleeps. That’s what people say to new moms. They should sleep when the baby is sleeping so they can catch up on their sleep too.

“But the only time you don’t have to watch him is when he’s sleeping, so what about all the other things you need to do when he naps?”

Mmmhmmm.

“He’s exhausting to be around all the time. I need chill time and do nothing. So when do you do nothing?”

Mmmmhmmmm.

“How are you supposed to do all those things?”

Mmmhmmmmm. Doesn’t make a ton of sense, does it?

“I mean. You can’t really get anything done when you’re supposed to be watching the puppy, so you kind of have to do it when he’s asleep, but also you’re not sleeping at night, so it’s kind of impossible.”

Mmmhmmmm. Could drive a person a bit nuts, couldn’t it?

And that’s where we left it. A little open ended question to gnaw on, but kept it light enough to be digestible. But oh boy was there more I wanted to say. There is so much I want to say that I’m finding myself stuck as to where this begins, travels, and ends here in this little essay. The topic is vast and deep, and percolates constantly inside my head, filling notebooks, notes app, dog eared and annotated pages of books, thought bubbles, and what will, someday, be my massive thesis statement (aka long form book). For now I’m focusing on this one conversation, the confusion as to when do all the things get done? How is one supposed to sleep (so she doesn’t feel crazy), pay bills, prep food, other daily have-to’s (so she doesn’t feel crazy), have space for her soul to rest - deeply rest (so she doesn’t feel crazy), and take a moment for her own spirit to feel its own creative wildness (so she doesn’t feel crazy)? How does one manage all that, indeed? Great question, kiddos.

(And for the lady, enough time and space to complete one f*ing project from start to finish?)

The timing of the return of my sleep deprived, apparently-supposed-to-be-superhuman season has aligned with a few big moments in the cultural conversation, namely Yesteryear,* the book of the summer, the Lindsey Clancy trial, and Hayden Panettiere’s death. I normally am not hip to relevant culture but all three of these have grabbed my heart and taken hold. Finally, the conversation I have with myself inside my own head is happening out in the open. Finally, the realization that maybe, just maybe, all the women do not have a disorder - but maybe, the culture and system itself is the disorder, and the reactions to it, the ‘symptoms’ are merely reasonable responses to an unreasonable set of expectations.

Mothers (women) carry too much. They have for generations. Yet until very recently, way too recently, it wasn’t spoken about, supported, or acknowledged. Postpartum depression was added to the DSM only in 1994. (And don’t even get me started at how recently it was that husbands could send their wives to institutions for being ‘hysterical.’) These struggles have gone on for years upon years, but our generation seems to be the one drawing the line in the sand. Enough. No more. No longer do we silently agree to lose our personhood inside the demands of everyone else, becoming a sort of second class citizen, holding pee, hunger, sleep, and creations until it’s convenient for others. Mothers become buried under the crushing weight of expectations, responsibility, and depletion. The collective cry is loud right now - a no more reverberating across women of a certain age.

We’re done with this model of motherhood. No one benefits from a drowning mother. Whatever your opinions about this case, this masterpiece of a novel, or a celebrity’s sudden death, they’re all shining a spotlight on the importance of these discussions, the need for mothers to be heard when they ask for help, the vital nature of life that gets erased when a person is expected to be everything for others and nothing for herself. It’s time to unearth the roots of a system that fails mothers and children time and again.

If this tidal wave of maternal heartbreak and rage doesn’t force changes in how we view, treat, and support mothers postpartum, I don’t know what will. Life starts with the mother. No one wins when she’s broken.

Unfortunately, I can’t put a tidy bow on this, call it good, and pretend the answers are easy. They’re not. These changes that need to be made are going to take time, a whole lot of voices, and people at the top who will listen to the words that come from mother’s mouths.

I do know one thing for certain. I do know the answer is not the quickly quipped, well meaning but invalidating sleep when the baby sleeps.

*Yesteryear deserves its own long form discussion at some point. I need to reread it in print (I listened the first time) and make all my little nerd notes down the sides of the pages - but woah. Once in a while a book comes around that hits the zeitgeist just right and opens up the multilayered dimensionality of a topic. And this is that book right now. And if you want a non-fiction version (with a different ending!), please read Tia Leving’s A Well Trained Wife.

**in case anyone needs a disclaimer, my husband is a wonderful human and a good supportive listener, not the vibe of the men in the books. But they’re powerful books and incredibly relevant to what’s happening in our culture right now.

In a welcome change this summer, I’m able to recognize my pattern and step out quickly - and so that’s what I did. After days of that sort of muddy middle feeling, I took myself on a long walk, throwing out a quick prayer to the universe as I started out. Show me what I need to see. Please and thank you. I knew I needed a bit of redirection, a reminder, a sign to help me stay connected as summer chaos continues.

Literally immediately, I was eye level with a dragonfly, who proceeded to circle around me as I walked up the hill. I decided to take the long route through the woods, and wouldn’t you know it, once I passed the first stretch of trees and stepped into the clearing, not one, not two, but a dozen dragonflies, zipping up, down, this way and that.

Over here! They called to me. Look at us, listen to us. Again and again, dragonflies darted directly in front of my eyes, alerting me to their presence, and then zipped off, leaving me waiting for the next flying friend.

I paused for a quick stretch, then stood and watched in awe. I let the whole scene sink in.

Dragonflies are symbols of transformation and clarity, often seen as a guide for living in the moment. For responding to life with joy. They were buzzing all around me, as if yea, you, we’re talking to you. You’re ready, let’s go.

(Ready for what, you dashing dragonflies??)

Response: The new chapter. Live it.

Instant recognition, validation, confirmation to the muddy middle feeling that had been plaguing me. Yep. Something was shifting, and it was time. The next chapter is here, and I’d been feeling it. And I’m ready.

What chapter? I’m calling it The Chapter of Weird. Perhaps, more precisely, of unapologetically weird.

I’ve been told countless times by friends (and others) a variation of “You know you’re really weird/quirky, right?” Yes. Yes, I do, and I also know how much energy I’ve spent in the implementation and execution of a filter that I run everything through - the “would a normal person do/say this” filter.

In conversation, before responding, sending it through the filter: would a normal person say this? Suddenly getting the urge to throw out a little dance move because my body needs to wiggle: would a normal person do this? Excitedly telling people an idea that popped in my head: would a normal person a) think this b) share this? The list goes on. It’s been exhausting, honestly.

But suddenly, in a delightful plot twist, that filter seems to have vanished. I’m not really interested in if a normal person would act in a certain way, because, turns out, I’m not a normal person, never have been, never will be, and I’m just going to relax into that and live my life with as much gratitude, delight, wonder, and enthusiasm as I can muster.

I want to fall into bed exhausted because I’ve used up all my energy creating, loving, dancing, playing, investigating, contributing, working, noticing, all the things, even grieving or longing - not feeling depleted because I’m hiding my quirky jolts of lightning in an attempt to pass as … normal. I’ve completed that chapter, thank you very much.

I walked home, feeling refreshed. Aligned. A little bit sparklier than when I entered those woods. Life becomes simpler when everything isn’t being run through an expression-limiting filter. The question isn’t would a normal person do/say this? but is this alive in me right now?.

I’ve been back to the same spot along the same walk a few times since. Same fireweed, same ferns, same butterfly bushes. There have been birds, butterflies, spiders, squirrels, all the usual suspects. But not one dragonfly has crossed my path.

I guess they decided their message has been received.

Conversely, I had a very short soccer career, way back in the day, cut short by my propensity to run quickly to the ball only to step back, allowing the opposing player to take said ball and do with it as she pleased. I was the opposite of aggressive, and I really didn’t understand the game enough to be effective in any capacity.

I still don’t 100% understand when offsides is the appropriate call and why some fouls result in free kicks and some in penalty shots. It’s all been explained to me a thousand times, but my brain chooses not to use its storage for these facts. I am getting closer though.

These details may not be completely clear, but I do fully understand the game’s power, the draw, the beauty of this sport that links people together all across the globe.

It’s called the beautiful game for a reason. What a delight the past month has been in its celebrations. From start to finish, this World Cup felt like a magical portal into the way we’re supposed to live, connect, celebrate, and rejoice in the essence of humanity.

Since he’s been old enough to investigate, my son has taken to learning as much as his brain can store with information about countries and cultures. He’s studied locations a lot of US residents haven’t heard of, and he’s bound and determined to visit all these places someday. For as long as I can recall, he’s been talking to me about how soccer is the best sport because of its global draw. It connects all people, of all cultures, all nationalities, all religions, all beliefs. Anyone can find a ball and play in the local favela, town square, plot of grass, or the streets of Rocafonda. The rules are the same everywhere and despite the home team’s language, everyone speaks the language of the game.

I’ve always appreciated this passion of his, and I’m used to finding him awake at random hours on our sofa streaming some quasi-obscure game that would pass most people by. But there is no game considered unimportant to him, and no culture either. He is constantly teaching me something new.

All this to say, I thought I was prepared for the 2026 World Cup. I’ve followed these players for years, knew their stories, witnessed records broken, raw talent, and absolute grit and determination. Erling Haaland has been part of conversation in this house since his debut season with Man City. I knew football was the world’s biggest sport. I knew it was connection. I even knew about Lamine Yamal before it was cool to know about Lamine Yamal. Not to brag or anything, but I’ve been studying his masterful dribbling techinque for years now. (If by studying you mean having a phone in my face along with an explanation of what I’m seeing.) I was ready.

Fifteen years of soccer passion, and yet, I wasn’t prepared for what this particular World Cup would mean. How far and wide it would crack open the hearts of people who really, really, needed it. How full my heart could get seeing my boy watch all the games, soaking up everything that captured him in the first place. The radiant light spread through the streets of American cities, a communion of love for a game and the people who play it. Seattle was a vibe, and the game we attended shifted something within.

As a people, we’ve been force fed a hierarchy, a system that values certain people or attributes more than others, one that needs groups of humans to separate from each other and from their own hearts, for only a separated heart can believe that only a chosen few deserve love, respect, dignity, basic human rights.

We have “leaders” who sow division and then rally masses of people behind their hate. We, still, somehow (and this has baffled me since I was a child) live in a world where some people are able to justify some worthy of life and some dispensable. It’s been really freaking hard to be a feeling human watching the mass suffering of these times. I think we can all agree it’s been pretty dang bleak out there.

And then the World Cup arrived, and with it, on some level, a global heart awakening. Millions of people were reminded of the elusive elixir of joy. We got to touch that feeling that’s been nearly out of reach - hope.

Suddenly, with these games and the interactions humans have had with one another, a sort of spell has broken. Obviously, the world isn’t around the proverbial campfire singing kumbayah, that’s a long way off. Mass suffering remains, along with people who support it. But. And it might be a teeny, tiny, but - there also seems to be more eyes that see we’re all more alike than different. Separation is not our truth, and the crack in that story has been seeded. It’s about time.

What joy we got to witness - people of all places, beliefs, and languages dancing in the street, celebrating this beautiful game, exchanging jerseys, hugging. That’s the connective tissue of humanity. That’s the light, the spark of the divine, that lives in each of our hearts. Our hearts know that to be true. Our minds have been told to believe a slew of stories to convince us otherwise - but our hearts know. Our highest selves know unity, know we all breathe the same air, feel the same heartbeat.

For a moment in time, the feeling tone was what we know as children, with our wide open hearts and clear eyes - we’re all meant to love one another. Unity consciousness. The programs that tell us otherwise were silenced for a heartbeat. It was just a moment, but long enough to ignite a spark. A spark I hope takes root and grows as we move on from World Cup fever.

Joy is possible. Hope is here. It is possible to live in a world where love runs the show. That is the whole ‘heaven on earth’ deal. Each of us can be courageous enough to believe what our heart tells us. For a moment in time, masses of people forgot they weren’t supposed to like one another, and instead they danced. They celebrated. They shared. We got to remember who we are here to be.

In the wise words of Dani Rojas: Futbol is life. I’m hoping we can live like it more often.

As my niece recently commented, “You’re a really enthusiastic person, aren’t you?” Indeed I am. I find the world filled with interesting little tidbits and all these little tidbits somehow collect into a broader scope of life, like small stars inside a giant constellation. So many things to investigate, so much to think about.

One of my favorite investigations, one that fills me with immense amounts of joy is a good old fashioned low tide adventure. You never know what you’re going to find, but you know something interesting will transpire. Daily, I offer enormous amounts of gratitude that I get to live near the beach. One walk down a windy steep hill and there I am. Instant spirit lifter, no matter what life may be serving up on a given day.

Every low tide is a thing of beauty, but the super moon tides are especially so. The tide goes so far out that I can walk over the sand and sea grasses that are usually far under the water’s surface. At times, I realize what I’m doing and pause to let my brain consider that for a moment. The place where my feet are currently standing is usually under feet of water, fishies, seals, porpoises, and sometimes even orcas swimming over.

The past new moon was a super moon, and the tide sure did deliver. Dozens of moon snail egg collars, which is a phenomenon I didn’t learn about until I chaperoned a group of first grade explorers many moons ago. The moon snail lays thousands of eggs at once, inside a casing of mucus and sand. When the eggs hatch as larvae and head out to sea, the collar washes up, found along the shoreline during a low tide. I think my husband might have grown tired of me rushing from egg collar to egg collar, yelling out “another one! take another picture!” (he was my photographer that day, I didn’t have pockets on me)

As if dozens of snail egg casings weren’t enough, during our wander back to the pathway home I nearly stepped on, but stopped just in time, a remarkable little creature sticking out from the sand. Not the most attractive creature, but a Pacific Northwest culinary delight. (No harm done to this one.) The geoduck (goo-ee-duck) is a giant clam creature known for its briny taste and known to be a delicacy. I’ve only seen one a handful of times, it’s a rare find amid all the clams shooting water.

It was a good day. Quite enough to pull me out of a lil bit of a funk, to remind me that there are indeed tiny miracles everywhere, and staying curious is the spice of life.

Hope you’re off to discover something new today. Please report back when you do!

Piping Plovers have not been part of bird nerd watching experience, but luckily, I haven’t been fully plover-less.

Our local beaches host the Killdeer Plover - a bird I was first introduced to when my son was turning 5 and I found a nest of eggs underneath the park’s slide before his birthday party and had to wall off the slide area. Not great timing for active 5 year olds, but I wasn’t about to have a nest full of stepped on eggs on my watch.

I became fascinated by these guys and quickly learned the meaning behind their name. Their shrill sound tricks the ear into hearing ‘kill deer kill deer’ - it’s a sound you can’t miss or mistake for anything else. Loud and unique, for sure.

Since that time I’ve watched killdeer families each year, always nesting in a precarious location, then eventually I spy a couple of hatchlings among the rocks and shells at the beach. Their coloring camouflages them, making them a challenge to spot, but little flickers of movement are a tell tale sign. I love watching the little ones as they get more courageous, testing boundaries further and further from their parents. Their tiny legs run up and down the beach, not unlike toddlers exploring their world. They seem to remain family unit - I’ve seen both parents call back and forth to one another, then to their children until they’re all in one place. If the chicks don’t respond quickly enough, one of the parents flies over and corrals them in the direction they’re meant to be headed.

(Photo by Y S on Unsplash)

The most incredible part of all, however, is the parent bird’s “broken wing act.” It’s a genius move (as natural instincts often seem to be), a distraction in order to keep the babies safe. If an adult senses a predator approaching, they pretend to have a broken wing, playing into a fake injury, dragging along one of their wings behind them while making alarming sounds as they head in a direction far from their nest. They trick the predator into following them, hopefully about to grab an injured snack. Once the babies are safe, the adult flies off, leaving the predator still hungry.

I’ve seen it play out multiple times, and every time I find myself completely enamored by the situation. No matter the species, the parent has a trick up their sleeve to keep the babies safe. Whether bird or human, those parents will anxiously fret about until everyone is exactly where they’re supposed to be.

I can’t settle in to sleep until I know all my humans are home and my doors are locked, and the ever watchful Kill Deer Plover can’t settle until the entire family unit is in one place.

Seems reasonable to me.

I wondered if she was pregnant or nursing little ones. She had that look about her. I don’t mind when the squirrels steal the birdseed, but especially so with her. Clearly, she needs it - she’s feeding more than herself.

My suspicions were confirmed this morning when I met her baby. One of them, at least, I’m not sure how many she has squirreled away in the nest, but one has made his public debut. I witnessed a moment both simple and grand at once - Mama Squirrel teaching her little one how to jump from our deck back to their bush.

The adult squirrels almost look like they’re flying when the leap - they scurry off, suddenly in the air, landing somewhere in the bush. Baby was cautious. Baby didn’t know where to go. Instead of her usual flying leap, Mama paused at the regular launch corner. Baby came up next to her and they had a little huddle. Mama sniffed around and searched for the best option, climbed the railing, and had her little one follow her. When they reached the top, they paused and regrouped, Mama jumping first, little one gathering her courage, looking around, and then when ready, took her first jump. She looked a little wobbly, but she did it. Mama waiting in the bushes.

I’ve always been intrigued at how the world of human mothers seems to have largely separated ourselves from instinct. Alternating ‘expert’ trends dominate the narrative as to the best way to be a mom. Depending on who or when or why or whatever, the advice can range from cry it out to be attached at all costs. It’s always felt peculiar to me, that there would be one-size-fits all models for sale, and eventually the silly thing called the ‘mother wars’ where one group decided to judge and critique another. Breast is best vs. Fed is best. Crunchy vs. Type A. I don’t even know the labels attached these days, I checked out of any of those conversations a long time ago.

It always seemed to me that these advice columns geared to mothers often seemed to lose track of one massive truth. Humans are mammals. Mammals are animals. We are all part of the same system of Mother Nature. Animals have instincts. Humans have maternal instinct. Our society has force fed mothers so many stories to disconnect us from what we naturally know, and has led many of us to believe we don’t have instinct. It’s going to look different than a squirrel’s, but it’s there.

Of course we need help navigating certain situations, and we can look to mothers who have forged the path before us. But no mother has parented the exact same child, no one’s map is exactly the same. Instead of reading multiple expert opinions, I wonder what might happen if we mothers focused on honing our intuition and instinct instead. Insourcing, not outsourcing.

I’m endlessly fascinated watching the mamas of the animal world. My heart expands x 1,000 as I watch them do their thing. I’m reminded over and over again how similar we are. No hierarchy, no expert advice from either of us. Just two mothers wanting their little ones to thrive, all part of the same ecosystem, all breathing the same breath of nature.

Now after meeting one of her babies, I see something different in that photo I first took. I feel connection, two moms sharing a moment. She is looking at me with a look of “you get it, right?”

Yes, sweet one. I do know how it is. You’re tired. You’re hungry. You’ve got babies to feed, and you’ve got to show them the ropes. But don’t worry - you’ve got the instincts inside you. You’ll know just how to do it.

I was investigating interesting things at the beach when an adorable little family walked by, the toddler lagging along behind dragging a stick. She stopped and looked at me a moment, her mom, who had a tiny baby sister strapped to her chest, looked back and called to her.

“How old is your baby?” I asked. “Two months.” She replied. The toddler introduced herself. “I Harper.” I asked Harper how old she was and she repeated “I Harper.” When I suggested to I-Harper that she looked to be about two years old, she nodded and showed me her stick.

The mom laughed and said something about her not having many words yet. I said that was all good, I understood her! (speaking fluent two year old is one of my skills) And that’s when it nearly came out….the older mom well-meaning but often so off putting phrase. If not directly, something adjacent to ‘enjoy it - it goes so fast.’

It does. There’s no denying that. But we really need to stop telling young mothers this. They know. And often, telling them that can leave them feeling like a shit mom. It’s invalidating to the reality of the experience and we need to call a spade a spade here.

I caught myself and disposed of the words before they left my lips on account of two main points. Her children were two and two. Years and months. For all I know, the night before was one of those alternating awake with a needy child, all night long. I’m not there any longer, but I’m not so far off that I don’t remember what that felt like. I still wish there were a clock-out time table, an off button where I’m simply no longer needed in any capacity whatsoever. These days it’s teens who want to stay up later, or checking in about curfew or things long past my bedtime. The difference now is that I get a break in the morning - it’s not 0-60 mph at 5 am any longer. But then? Oof.

When mine were that age, nighttime could be torture. I needed a break and there wasn’t an option to simply ignore the baby who woke every 90 minutes or the newly minted ‘big’ brother who had reverted to waking in the night because he knew he was missing out and needed extra mommy cuddles. I had to show up and then be able to somehow function in the day time hours as well. I learned surrender and meditation on a whole new level.

They might have been coming off one of those nights. If so, the sicky sweet “enjoy every minute, you’ll never get it back” feels kind of mean. It’s an impossible ask - to enjoy every minute - and I wish young mothers were told that from the get go. Some moments will be for survival, some will be tests of courage, some will be soul strengthening, some will absolutely break you. And while appreciating them, honoring them all is valuable - enjoying them, or pretending to, or worse, being told you’re supposed to - is frustrating.

That was part one of my quick decision NOT to say the words. The invalidating assumption that a ‘good mother’ should deny the reality of the experience of toddler/baby life, slap on a smile, and nod along (yes yes I’m enjoying every moment), no matter how tired, how broken, how not-enjoying specific moments she might be feeling.

Part two is that the general vibe of motherhood advice that makes it sound like the only fun part is when they're tiny and have those cute little voices and pudgy hands and sloppy kisses. I’ll scream it from the mountain tops if I have to: This has not been my experience. Of course there are moments when I miss the tiny tot stage. Watching this sweet little family was a flood of memories of sand castles, motes, Cheeto races (don’t ask), the days spent examining every single shell and piece of sea glass (although, lets be honest, I still do that) - yes, I had a moment of wanting to play with a two year old at the beach. But in general? I don’t find motherhood now to have become any less magical. That’s a lot of pressure on a family - enjoy every moment because you won’t get it back. Spoiler alert: You’ll never get any of your moments ‘back,’ but you’ll get to make new ones, different ones.

I didn’t stop having fun when they left the little years. In fact, in many ways, I’m having more fun. I love interacting with them as their own more fully developed humans. I love hearing their perspective, I love their sense of humor, I love when they surprise me with tidbits I never knew about them, or introduce me to new books or music, or teach more more about soccer than I ever knew I’d need to know. It’s like I get to meet a great friend, every day and learn something more about them. I truly enjoy spending time with them. I like the people they’ve become and are still becoming. My heart is full and my life is busy, and most days, I don’t have the room or the time to miss who they once were. I’m enjoying who they are now.

Are teenagers always a joy? Certainly not. Sometimes I want to run away. But I also sometimes wanted to run away from babies and their nap schedules and toddlers and their propensity to do nearly everything in their very own unique, swim upriver way. We know teens aren’t easy every day, and that’s a given, and the common lexicon doesn’t ask us to ‘enjoy every moment.’ In fact, it’s a bit of the opposite - the expected response around teenagers is a groan and a hold on, it gets better, or that kind of thing.

In some ways, toddlers and teens aren’t all that different. Both are stages of blossoming independence, massive brain development, a primal need for trial and error, pushback and boundary experimentation, and a re-discovery of self. The consequences for teenager decisions are decidedly more profound, and yes, that can be a terrifying rabbit hole to enter, but by and large, they’re doing a lot of the same things. Interesting to me, then, that the language around toddler years is to enjoy every moment, but not so for teens.

It doesn’t make sense to me, and so I won’t impart any such advice on the younger generation. I'll think something a lot more realistic makes sense, both for the teens and the toddlers. Some moments feel like a volcanic explosion, some tedious, like you’ll never get out of them, some feel like pure magic, like you’re watching a miracle unfold right before your eyes. Baby, toddler, little kid, big kid, or teenager. Those rules don’t change. We get to write our own experience, no supposed to’s, shoulds, or invalidating catch-all statements involved.

I didn’t say it. I held it in. Instead I smiled, I appreciated, I remembered the days I had 2 under two. I remembered their cute little voices and my son’s first joke about a bug at the beach, and my daughter’s mermaid tail that came with us on many a beach run. And then I decided to enjoy who they are right now.

Let’s quit this pressure on the young moms. They don't need to enjoy every minute. They have plenty of minutes to enjoy as the years go by. The young moms need to be sure they’re getting their breaks, taking their rests, and moving in a way that allows them to be present with their little ones. Moms of young ones don’t need well-intentioned but sometimes off putting remarks like “you’ll never get this time back.” They need a support system that allows them to show up as a full human during those times. To have enough of a life and identity so that they can be a main character in their lives, not just the supporting role for everyone else.

Watching my oldest niece walk across her graduation stage and exit with that diploma was a massive reminder - the days are long but the years are short. There’s no denying this tricky rule of time. But the best we can do is to treat ourselves with kindness so we can show up with full hearts and mounds of patience for all the days, a capacity of presence, of embodied wisdom, of intention and hopefully, gratitude.

But we don’t have to enjoy them all. That’s impossible.

Why a random fuzzy photo of a hen and her chicks parading through a Key West bar? one) just for fun and two) a little reminder that even the chicken moms are out there trying to keep it together as their wild children run amok. I didn’t ask her if she was enjoying every moment, she was just trying to keep her brood together:)

Behold: A few bits of the bird nerd lifestyle.

A wooden birdhouse that has house many a chickadee family. And below, a bird bench for sitting and thinking and watching and listening.

There were multiple summers when the kids were young when I had them keep bird journals - drawings, observations, species, counting, very important scientific studies for toddlers. Many a day spent under this tree.

Feathers. Everywhere. There are feathers in flower arrangements, collections of seaglass and shells, stuck into pots, used as book marks, it’s a lot. I like them.

A lamp I bought about 400 years ago, a spontaneous walk through Target, and these little guys catching my eye. Of course they were coming home with me.

Ahh. More bird art. When it’s not wreath season, it’s bird season.

Can’t stop, won’t stop. My office furniture.

My first book has a bird as its front cover mascot. We knew instantly and intuitively the art would need to be a bird. A MotherBird, perhaps.

And now I have a live feed and notifications at my BirdBuddy feeder so that I can keep track of all who visit my back yard. I haven’t even shown you my hummingbird feeder helmet that allows my tiny feathered friends mere inches from my face. That will wait for another day. It’s majestic.

Birds everywhere, making me smile over and over again. For a split second I started to analyze. Why did I get these vibrant pings of joy from my bird world? What did it mean? But then, just as quickly as I had begun to analyze, I stopped.

They give me joy. The end. That’s all I need to know. Tiny moments of joy continue to make the world go round.

Joy isn’t a luxury, it’s the point. No matter what is going on, those birds keep on chirping and singing. Every time, a balm to my heart.

That’s all I’ve got today. Life is hard. Open your heart. Find your joy.

And may you hear happy bird melodies wherever you may be.

There I was, minding my own business, clipping some herbs when I spotted this tiny grasshopper on the lemon balm. The words rushed through me before I could take my next inhalation. I don't want to hurry. I don’t know if the grasshopper said it or my own consciousness spoke up, but the words hung there for my digestion.

I’ve struggled with time for as long as I can remember. Never feeling like there’s enough. Usually looking around and feeling behind, especially so, considering the amount of thoughts, feelings, and ideas that ping through me, and how long it takes me to turn them into form. Watching others seemingly able to stay on some sort of treadmill where they just keep going, keep outputting, keep moving has been one of life’s great mysteries. Doesn’t work like that for me.

My list of things to do always outweighs the amount of perceived time available. Especially because every small thing is actually a large thing inside me, and I get lost in my inner world, untangling, connecting, wondering, considering. Not to mention the Highly Sensitive/Neurocomplex nervous system needing loads of uninterrupted time just to be. There are, inherently, a bajillion things to do to keep a household humming along. I can’t change that, but I can alter my approach. I can stay aligned so that I can listen, really listen, to what is that next right thing. And let the rest go. But I forget how to stay grounded enough to what stays and what goes when I’m in a constant rush.

For a long time I thought there was something wrong with me - how much time I needed to process life, how I needed downtime between every single event. I watched friends jump from event to event, never stopping to rest, and still having energy to head out for a night of socializing. Not me. When I had young kids I’d hear other moms talk about all the things they were doing and my head would get dizzy. I’d feel anxious inside my own body and I wasn’t even doing the thing - but was feeling some kind of inner pressure that I should be.

Eventually, I found grace for myself and my understanding of time itself began to change. To heal. I gently allowed a new understanding of my worth, to let go of the misguided notion that I was lacking some essential ingredient my peers seemed to possess. I finally began to soften into my way. As Meggan Watterson said in a recent post, “We pray by waking up one morning and deciding we’re going to shower ourselves with unreasonable and unrelenting amounts of mercy, from here on out.” Unreasonable amounts of mercy saved me, and have since defined my relationship with time.

It’s been a slow moving tide, learning to see time differently. A rewriting of many scripts that our hustle bustle culture gave us. To understand I don’t have a deficit of some quality that makes other people ‘better’ or ‘more productive’ or ‘successful’ or what not. I have a plethora of wonder, enchantment, and eagle eyed awareness to notice detail. I have a soul housed in a body that has to move on its own time or, well, everything becomes a nightmare. And when I have the inevitable hustle bustle day that life often is, I make sure to schedule do-nothing time afterwards.

It’s not that days aren’t hectic. Of course they are. I’m writing this on one of those mom-math how to be in three places at once and keep the humans fed kind of days while keeping track of 147 tiny puzzle pieces that need to work together. But I (try) not to let it create a whirlwind of constant chaos inside anymore. I offer myself grace and space whenever I can. I don’t treat time like an emergency any longer. It’s not good for any of us. If I’m off kilter, my time-adverse children are too. There’s no way we can keep our ship upright through crashing waves if I’m not level on my own two feet. When I fight time, I’m a nutcase. When I flow with time, it’s a whole lot smoother.

I don’t want to hurry. Everything in life takes the time that it takes. I’ve finally learned to live with time instead of against it. When I get out of step with my own inner timing, I lose track of my own voice. And that’s when anxiety steps in. That’s when that harsh inner critic appears and tells me I’m a disappointment, tells me I should be able to handle more, tells me to Hurry. Up.

I don’t want to hurry. I don’t want to rush. I don’t want to miss the sparkle of the sun on the water.

I don’t want to miss the bees inviting me to watch their honeybee dance as I walk by. I want to listen. I want to notice. I want to feel it. Once, I was doing an energy reading for an earth-mama friend of mine, and when I tuned into her energy, suddenly a huge swarm of bees came right outside my window and started tapping it, in bee unison. They had a message for her, and when I told her, she cried. “I woke up this morning and decided I needed to start singing to the bees. I can’t believe they came to you today.” If I was a hurrier, I would have missed that. I don’t want to hurry.

I don’t want to hurry. If I were always in a rush to make it to my next fabricated deadline, I’d miss hearing the soft meow of our sweet neighborhood kitty (named Kitty, and yes, somehow she manages to wander the streets and avoid coyotes) stopping by for a cuddle. She climbs in my lap, and wonder of wonders, I’m somehow not allergic to this sweet girl, so she closes her eyes and purrs away.

I don’t want to hurry. I have a feeling my bird friends wouldn’t sit so close if I were a hurrier. That tiny boy wouldn’t have walked up to me at the store to say “Can I tell you about goats?” And I sure wouldn’t have had time to say “Please tell me about goats.”

I don't want to hurry. I’ll take my time. I’ll keep my feet grounded and my heart open. I’ll trust the passage of a day from a place of alignment. I’ll make it to the places I must go and do the things I must do by gifting myself the solitude I need in between.

As Lao Tau famously said, “Nature does not hurry, yet everything is accomplished.”

I’m nature. I’m right on time. And so are you.

Waking up exhausted wasn’t the plan - it’s a busy week and I had Monday blocked as the get ‘er done day. I found myself unusually cranky, unable to shake off this nagging feeling that there was a missing piece. Poured my coffee, sat down for a quick journaling moment, asked for guidance.

Tend to the rose garden inside your heart.

That was it. Some days, pages come through my pen, yesterday was simple and clear. Tend to my own inner garden. With that, clarity arrived. It had been a good weekend, parts of it quite relaxing, nothing that should have left me cranky. But in retrospect, when feeling into the rose garden of the heart, everything I did over the weekend had a purpose. Was for someone else or toward an end goal. And right there, in that tiny crack is where the crankiness had wiggled in. Accomplishing projects is all well and good, but sometimes a girl’s just gotta have fun. No end purpose attached.

I needed a field trip, an adventure of sorts, a moment that was mine and only mine and just because I wanted to. I rearranged my day to add moments of creativity between all the have-to’s. I cut fresh flowers and as much as possible, I tried not to think. And while my daughter was at her painting class, I took myself on my field trip. The Heron’s Helpers Club has a preserve just seven minutes from her class, so I marched my buns over there for a dose of delight.

Any remnants of the Monday stickiness lifted immediately. I found myself in awestruck mode, which is one of my favorite places to be. I was immersed in herons, their stick nests and the babies, chattering noisily among themselves. Why did this excite me so? No idea, really. But there I was, smelling the (not so delightful) stench, and hearing the cacophony of the little families, and I’m telling you, there must have been 100 nests. Suddenly I remembered I am not here to be meh. I am here to be fully alive.

Adults need field trips too. Moms need random moments of whimsy that aren’t on anyone’s schedule. Because here’s the thing, ladies. Mamas, even when you think you’re not doing anything, you are holding the frequency of the home. And that’s not nothing. It’s work to hold the emotional bandwidth it takes to meet children where they are, to see them - really see them, and be with them through all the ups and downs. You better be sure you’re filling your joy cup regularly. (And staying hydrated.)

Bonus field trip permission slips for the moms who belonged to the If I Work Hard To Make Everything As Perfect As Possible Club from a young age into motherhood - You probably forgot you were allowed to just be, that every single moment doesn’t need a purpose, an end goal, a reason for existing. You Are Allowed To Have Fun … just because it’s fun. You can’t possibly be the support system for everyone else when running on empty in your delight tank.

We’re not here to feel meh, mamas. We’re here to be fully alive. Go do your thing, whatever it is. Cold plunge in the ocean, find a meadow with butterflies, take yourself to the movies, read a fiction book DURING THE DAY (true story, I still can’t get past my own completely made up + invalid rule that nonfiction is for working hours and fiction is a treat before bed), dance wildly in your kitchen, discover a new art form, I don’t care what it is, but Do It. Shake yourself out of the meh. Take yourself on a field trip and remember to tend to the rose garden of your heart. Everyone in your home will benefit. You hold the frequency - why not add delight?

The phrase makes me want to scream - what a good mom - she’s so selfless. I move that we choose a new word, one with a more comprehensive description, not this ‘less’ business that inherently diminishes true value.

Accurate descriptions might include: Caring. Giving. Detail oriented. Magical. Creative. Inspiring. Understanding. All these words offer bits of one’s sparkle and shine, but in a regenerative fashion. Mom can be all those things and still possess something all her own. Selfless implies the self is gone, for by definition, if she is self-less, she is without self. Which would mean without the very idiosyncrasies and particular vibes that make her who she is need not apply. Self-less means her autonomy is erased. That she is empty of self and by default - filled with self that is not hers. Filled with the selves of those around her, as she disappears into the background of other people’s lives.

To be selfless is to separate from an essential nature of one’s own being. It’s disorienting, it’s depleting, it is a far cry from an authentic expression of her own wildness and nature.

It doesn’t matter, you might say, it’s just a word. But I would argue that it does matter. Etymology is important - words are constructed with particular meaning. I may be a stickler, but it’s a hill I will die on. The words we choose do matter - very much. (My children will tell you that I think too much about words and their uses. And that this is an annoying part of my-self.) Words hold intention, hold their own vibration, and from there, create a world all their own. As is often said “Words are spells - that’s why they call it spelling.”

I don’t want to be selfless.

When describing the endless feats of magic a mother performs, from…I don’t know…casually GROWING A BEING, to telepathically knowing what her child is communicating, to waking up, again, with a barfing child, to cultivating a home safe enough for her children to just be, to escorting spiders out of bedrooms, to responding to “what do we have to eat” for the 498th time, to tutoring subjects that don’t come easily, to listening to the innermost SELVES of her children share hopes and dreams, really, any word that asks her to lessen herself feels blatantly wrong.

In order to be a fully present and connected human being, one needs self and soul. The two are inextricably connected and must be honored as such. The self is the container for the soul. The soul shines and expresses through the self. It would be a very strange thing to compliment a mother with the counterpart - soulless. Soulful is the operative word. And at the same time, being soul-full does not require a lessening of Self. Quite the opposite. When we deny a mother her Self, we are also denying her access to her soul - her inner heart of hearts, the divine fire that burns within. A soul without a self is a leaky faucet allowing energy to pour everywhere but internally.

I believe this little play on words has not been accidental. We’ve thoroughly convinced moms that they need to sacrifice a self in order to be giving enough to their children. And when moms are convinced they should be less, they ask for less, until they often are barely surviving on the scraps they get from the falling crumbs. Exhausted, overwhelmed mothers don’t have enough energy to look up, look around, and notice there are changes to be made. She has to keep on keeping on because there’s no other way to get through the day when in constant survival mode.

BUT. A mom who is full of soul AND full of self - she has access to something no one else can ever touch. She can feel her wildness. She can trust her intuition. She can stand in the knowing of her own authenticity regardless of the tomfoolery unfolding around her. She is empowered. She makes microscopic choices that become the proverbial rippling pebble. A Self-Full, Soul-full mother is naturally recharged by her own cycles of creation, her connection to Mother Earth, and her constant conversation with all the faces of the Divine Mother. She can keep on giving, because she is nourished in a loop of infinite giving. And through this natural, sacred, nourishing loop, she creates a new reality for her children.

I would do (just about) anything for my children. Sacrifice anything.

Except my Self.

I fought too hard to claim her to ever lose her again.

So call me devoted. Call me loving. Call me crazy, I really don’t care. But don’t call me SelfLess.

None of them seem right. My guess is some of them don’t make sense anywhere else but in my head, but I know a few of them are the start of something I want to finish eventually. But I can’t. Yet.

With thoughts that won’t complete, I’ll stick to simple.

All I know for certain, in this particular present moment, is that there are a lot of feelings going around. 2026 keeps being 2026, and we keep being asked to level up, to hold more, to allow more flow, to expand our capacity for this thing called being human. Personally, I enjoy a good musical companion along the way, a support system for the rollercoaster of feelings we’re on.

With that in mind, the best thing I can share this week is some advice straight from the mouth of my 13 year old daughter. She always gives it to me directly - means what she says and says what she means. She hounded me for weeks about an album she was vibing with, I kept getting distracted by adult things and neglecting to stop and listen, and she kept at me. Mom, did you listen? A couple weeks ago, finally, when she was home sick for a bit and we had ample time together, she got through to me.

Mom. She asked. Have you listened yet?

No, not yet, just some of it.

Not some of it. She responded. You have to listen from start to finish, no skipping around. You have to. I’m telling you. This is YOUR music, you’re going to love this. You’re going to love the writing, you’re going to love the story, you’re going to love the instruments. This is so YOU. I promise.

I committed. I placed the headphones in my ears. I pressed play at the first second of the first song, and I didn’t press pause until the last second of the last song.

And if ever she was right, she was right. At one point she walked upstairs to find me in tears and asked which song are you listening to? I told her; quick knowing chuckle, Oh, yea, that’s probably going to be your favorite. (she’s right, it is.)

I’m not sure anyone gets to escape the trials of the soul of being human in 2026. I know we need all the heart connection we can get.

So take my girl’s straight talk advice.

Listen to this album and then come talk to me.

Download, purchase, or stream this album. Listen to it from top to bottom. No skipping around. If you’re not moved, if something doesn’t move through you, I don’t know what to tell you. This is my best thought this week.

RAYE: This Music May Contain Hope.

Also….she (my daughter, not RAYE) painted the picture above, so there’s that. She know’s what she’s doing. So I’d take her advice if I were you. RAYE. This Music May Contain Hope. Top to bottom.

That’s all I’ve got.

Oh, my son (who was riding in our friends’ car) said, She probably has to see about a bird. That’s what she does.

I did. I needed to see about a bird. This bright, gorgeous creature was smack in the middle of the road, primed to be squashed by the next car that zoomed by, and I needed to move him out of the way.

I checked him out, and nothing seemed out of place. His beak and wings were intact, and his legs were tucked below him as they should be. Carefully, I gathered him in my hands to move him to a safer location. I could feel he was stunned, but he didn’t seem badly injured—he just needed a rest.

I set him down gently in a soft patch of dirt and leaves, away from the road. I took his photo for research - I’d never seen this bird before! He was predominantly black with bright streaks of yellow and a reddish-orange patch on his head. He was vibrant and beautiful, and I wanted to know more about him.

Later, when we returned home, I found more information about him online. He was a Western Tanager, a bird native to Western Washington, and popular in Native American culture.

The Western Tanager is seen as a symbol of happiness and hope and as a spirit guide who can lead to new beginnings.

I’d given this sweet friend a chance to catch his breath, rest, and (I certainly hope) live another day. Now, he offered me a little wink as a thank you—follow your heart, your sensitivity, your instincts, he said, they’ll always lead to new beginnings.

If you have a teenager right now, my guess is you know ok. Probably quite well.

Ok* is used as a bit of a universal text response.

Mom: There are dragons surrounding our home.

Teen: ok

Mom: I’ll pick you up in an hour.

Teen: ok

Mom: I’ve chopped off my left big toe, I’m heading to the hospital.

Teen: ok

Mom: Tacos for dinner?

Teen: ok

I exaggerate. But not by much. Ok is used as a response for nearly every single text, even if it’s a question of either/or. These moments require a follow up question, such as “ok doesn’t answer this - please make a choice” or some such tomfoolery. And even then, the response may very well be OK.

The constant OK could be perceived as annoying. I get that. Perhaps it does aggravate some parents. That makes perfect sense. But it doesn’t bother me. In fact, I find it a little bit genius.

(If this little guy had a thought bubble right there it would be “ok.”)

On a daily basis we’re asked to react, quickly, to a myriad of stimuli. “Breaking News,” a kiddo in crisis, group text chains fired up about something or other, a constant stream of social media posts (designed for reaction), tiny pivots in a day, you name it, it’s coming at us. If we’re not careful, the constant stream of information, content, texts, requests, and all the rest could leave us unsure of who we even are at the end of the day. There has to be a way to maintain a safe distance from the immediate jolt of adrenaline to it all.

Enter: OK.

Certainly, there are times one of these stimulants invoke a visceral response, an immediate physical reaction announcing pay attention, but more often, a quick reaction arises, gets us adequately distracted from the present moment, then sends us off kilter until we find our footing once again. Over and over again. Up and down, up and down. When left unchecked, each input of external information has the potential to send us on another loop around the emotional rollercoaster of life.

With practice, information can be watched as a witness instead of ingested as a victim. An immediate Ok is the perfect response to stay in our own lanes, to discern what’s really for us, to distill the swirling waters to their minerals.

Ok is neutral. Ok is I acknowledge this information, I am not reacting right now. Ok is thanks for telling me, I will sit with this further. Ok is cool but this doesn’t really affect me. Ok is let’s talk about this later. Ok is Sounds good, no need for further rumination. Ok is I see you, but I cannot engage yet. Ok is concise, ok is non committal, ok is a pretty decent protective barrier to a nervous system.

The teen text Ok is a natural habit, and I’m not suggesting they’ve put much thought to it. But, from this mama’s perspective, on the macrocosm scale, OK is brilliant. It’s effective, it’s measured, it’s downright wise.

In this day and age of AI-fueled propaganda, and people spouting off every which way, OK feels like a solid response to just about anything. Ok, let me check the data. Ok, maybe that’s true, maybe that’s not. Ok, I’ll stay neutral and filter through layers of discernment before emotionally responding. OK, that can be your truth and I’ll keep mine.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Teenagers get a bad rap. They’re a lot smarter than they get credit for, they’re more self aware than public opinion wants to admit, and they often hold simple solutions for the chaos - if we choose to pay attention. Also, yes, sometimes they are the very beings causing all the chaos.

But that’s OK. Because that chaos will pass. Eventually. And hopefully, for the most part, everyone will still be

OK.

*Note: the more cutesy version, typically reserved for the daughters, kk, is also available for use.

the world I’m dreaming is structured around the well being, nourishment, and safety of all children. not some children, but all children.

the world I’m dreaming knows the power of intention, of the words we think, speak, and breathe into life.

the world I’m dreaming lives in a field of unconditional love, and all beings have access to this space through the divine portal of their hearts.

the world I’m dreaming knows magic is real and miracles abound every day. *

the world I’m dreaming is not dominated by fear, but guided by a deep well of love.

the world I’m dreaming nurtures joy as birthright, the necessary heartbeat to inspiration.

the world I’m dreaming lives within the words for every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. **

***

the world I’m dreaming honors all of life from the soil beneath our feet to the stars above our heads.

the world I’m dreaming listens to mothers, the embodied wisdom of cycles, nature, and life.

the world I’m dreaming is not impossible, but needs participation.

the world I’m dreaming is not the folly of an optimistic fool but the sincere prayer of mother tired of being told its just the way it is.

the world I’m dreaming is beckoning, calling, asking are you in or are you out?

I’m in.

(*from Maria Popova’s deck: 100 Divinations for Uncertain Days

**thank you, Walt Whitman

***pelican photo credit: my son)

They spend most of their of time watching, waiting, gathering their energies for the exact moment it’s needed. They don’t fuss about worrying about things not under their jurisdiction of control. They don’t scuttle about, interfering with extraneous problems. They remain focused inside their own energy, calmly and assuredly.

My pelican pals sit perched, higher than the action on the ground, keeping a cautious but somehow lazy eye scanning below. Their position allows them the confidence to be slightly disengaged, available when necessary, clear as to when it’s their moment. It’s a quiet presence, doesn’t require fanfare or admiration, but simply being. Being aware, being present, being focused on pelican matters.

Highly specified adaptations on the creatures of the world are a powerful reminder for me - we aren’t supposed to be all the things. We’re supposed to be our thing. And only our thing. There’s freedom there - a permission slip to be one of one, the unique expression we’re put here to be.

Pelican’s giant beak would be terrible at sipping nectar from tiny flowers like hummingbird. But her beak is peak perfection for scooping water and fish, the exact right meal for a pelican. Pelican doesn’t waste time trying to be hummingbird, and hummingbird doesn’t waste precious life force energy attempting to be pelican. Instead, peaceful alignment in what is naturally available.

I’m sprinkling more pelican medicine into my deeply worn grooves of outdated programing. The narrative that told us to constantly search for, strive for, something better. That being content was akin to laziness, that one must always be vigilant for the next best thing. The best thing is right here, right now, and I’ll be focusing right there. Staying inside my own energy, creating from my natural alignment, aligning with my inner pelican.

Pelican life is a good life.

I had plans to share a thoughtful essay about my heart exploding night with Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band this past Friday, but I haven’t been able to settle down my thoughts enough to say what I mean to say.

Instead, I offer a quick glimpse into why I continue to feel hope and choose to plant seeds for a beautiful new world in the face of the unrelenting chaos around us. I full heartedly believe glimmers matter, that inspiration will save us, and that the heart of humanity is good.

And what could be a better symbol of inspiration and possibility than tiny seedlings just burst into light from the cold dark ground?

I was lying down on my driveway soaking up some of the first truly warm rays of spring here in the PNW when I turned to my side and noticed dozens of these tiny sprouts. In the fall, this beautiful tree friend of mine drops his leaves and a multitude of tiny helicopters. Over the winter, they bury beneath the soil, and then pop out one fine day in April.

This is the parent tree here - I love this tree very much. The seedlings sit directly below this large leafy gorgeous beauty. I measure days, seasons, and years by this tree’s color and size; he’s a constant in back to school photos and other such life markers.

But this time it was those sprouts that caught my eye. And then my heart. And also my spirit. Every single big idea or masterpiece out there was once a tiny sprout of an idea. An idea that was born in the dark, tended to quietly, and then, when ready, released into the wild.

Also inspiring - eagles. The legendary eagle begins tiny too, just a little sprout of bird. These young ones hatched Easter weekend, Mother Nature delivering perfection yet again.

(This eagle family is part of Friends of Big Bear Valley - you can watch at this link. Shout out to my mom for sending me updated photos and alerting me of their arrival!)

We need more sprouts and eagle babies. We need more hope, we need more infinite possibility, we need to prioritize the babies, sprouts, and ideas that take root in our hearts.

That’s the world I’m calling in. One where infinite potential is cared for and protected, where nature and children and babies are first on the list, nurtured and nourished, so that they may dance their very own dream of life.

That’s the seed of limitless possibility I’m planting today. And I’m going to care for it with all of my heart until it bursts into the sunshine and becomes.

I recently had a beautiful experience of a marvelous few days with a magical group of women and a dazzling group of peacocks. I expected the women, not so much the peacocks. Not their presence or their teachings.

A group of peacocks, as it turns out, is referred to as an ostentation. And the female peacocks aren’t called peacocks, but peahens. They have their very own name.

The peahen. Not as well known as the peacock in appearance or name, but worthy of a contemplation. Peacocks are the star of the show, famous for their bright and colorful plumage and penchant for strutting. The peahens don’t live in the limelight but behind the scenes. They have the long feathers, they have the ability to extend those feathers into the famous peacock fan, but they aren’t bright and bold. Their famous feathers are muted greens and browns, a pale comparison to the vibrant greens and blues of their male counterpart.

The peacocks get to display their famous feathers to strut, purely for attention. I am gorgeous and you shall behold my beauty. The ladies, I learned, throw up their greenish brown for two main purposes - self defense and to protect their young. (I also learned both peacocks and peahens drop their long feathers each year, growing new ones every spring season.)

At first I wanted Lady Peahen to have some jazzier feathers, a bit of that glittery bling radiating off her body. Yes, I know. I know that numerous (most) animal species have the ever exciting male features and more subdued female hues. I understand this to be true. But in the world of the peacock, it does feel a little extra unfair. She does the same work, if not more (she protects and defends the babies) and she has little to no glory or fame.

Mama’s doing the child rearing and she can’t have even one glistening and iridescent green/blue feather? Her neck doesn’t sparkle in the sun’s rays, and the crown atop her head smaller and less noticeable. And most people, dare I say, don’t know she’s called a peahen and not a peacock. She doesn’t even get the correct name.

A few days into our time together, the ostentation revealed that they sleep in trees. They startled us, mid-dinner, flapping wildly (having just escaped the neighbors pen) and perching their large bodies into the nearest tree. This was the same tree outside my bedroom window and so I was able to confirm that they do sleep in trees, all night long.

Ostentations, peahens, annually regrowing feathers, sleeping in trees. New things to learn every day.

My most surprising discovery, however, was probably how quickly I found myself more interested in her than in him.

The essence of her heart seeps its way through the muted feathers. She radiates a generally sweet disposition (unless provoked) along with gentle curiosity. Her heart is the invitation for admiration, her natural hues comforting, though not ostentatious.

What I didn’t know but quickly felt was that Lady Peahen doesn’t require fan fare. She’s beauty in her own right.

I left our time together with abundant gratitude for the peahen. I live for being delighted by the surprises in life and she gave me that.

I expected to be disappointed that peahen didn’t get shiny colors. But I was not. Her presence itself was magic enough. She didn’t need the bells and whistles. Her frequency was enough. Her embodied knowing was enough. Owning her vibe was enough.

“I am what I am” and that’s enough.

Thanks, peahen. You’re pretty rad.

I inhaled nourishment, exhaled relief. This specific spring breath happens every year when mud memory floods my being.

It’s a sacred stillpoint breath - the in-between when the cold dark grip of winter has begun its thaw but hasn’t quite blossomed into full bloom of spring. Light is coming, undeniably so, but still more to garner from the precipice point. This smell, for me, speaks promise.

Way back in the olden days when I was in college in Boston, this smell used to save me from winter despair. Right when I was about to decide I was finished and leaving and never having another creative thought again and wondering who was I and why was I there anyway, I would get a whiff of mud among the wanting-to-bud-but-couldn’t-quite-do-it-yet cherry blossoms and daffodils, a call beckoning me, and without hesitation, I would answer.

Run down the dorm stairs I would go, fly out onto the grass, rip off my shoes, free my feet, and allow them to sink into that luscious mud. If you’ve never allowed your toes to be caressed by the newly softened mud of a March morning, then you’re truly missing out. I can’t describe the exhilaration of the feeling. Toes sinking. Mother Earth reminding you “I’m here! I’m here! I’ve just been dormant for a while!” That scent, that feeling, that promise that beauty would return was liberation for me.

Nowadays when I come upon that spring smell, I’m flooded with memory and re-opened to hope. At that time, while the masses were proclaiming “college is the best time of your life” I had an incessant internal prayer…please, no, do not let that be true. I was constantly overstimulated, always overwhelmed, desperately searching for silence and space. It’s hard to be carefree when your nervous system’s baseline is one drop away from meltdown. I knew then, if that was the best time of my life, I was doomed.

But like clockwork, every spring there was a reprieve and I would remember to let the light back in. That there was boundless inspiration awaiting, if I could just let my body feel freedom and I could breathe the rich nourishing air. That when connected to the holy ground I knew the oneness of all beings and in the oneness I was safe. I’d remember that winter was part of a cycle and that the slow thaw was necessary for the spring magic.

The robins also celebrate the return of the mud. Which is why I stumbled upon them last week bouncing along, chirping at each other, poking the mud for snacks, delighting in the freedom that March mud brings. I chatted with the ladies, complimented them on their splendid red robin tummies and then stood directly in the sun, if just for a moment, to smell, to feel, to remember that age old truth.

The spring comes back. Every dang year. Light does return. Natural cycles of wintering and blossoming, of darkness to light. And if we let it, the sacred space of the inbetween can nourish us. The wintering can settle, the nutrients release into the soil, and the smell can reinvigorate our senses, become a sudden portal to possibility.

For me, the stillpoint breath of almost-spring is a surrender to the present moment. It can’t be rushed. It won’t be forced. The composting of the old must finish before the new growth can emerge. And while inside the in-between, as one season gives way to the next, all those yet to be known blessings are tucked inside their underground cocoon of mud.

(Photo by Shayna Douglas on Unsplash)

When the air smells of earthy goodness, and the robins chirp louder - when their bellies get fuller, when they prance and dance among the ground, my soul is replenished with the promise of light. Of a new dawn, of the sacred breath we share with all of creation. I celebrate this moment in its fullness. And I stand, feet firmly entwined with the earth, mud oozing between my toes, knowing the best is yet to come.

I’ve borrowed this declaration from one of the poets I’m a wee bit obsessed with, Lucas Jones. (The other two, in case you’re also longing for more poetry, Daragh Fleming and David Gate.) I Still Believe In Miracles is the title of Lucas Jones’s latest book, and probably, if I had to choose, the forever soundtrack to my life. No matter what is going on, no matter how bleak the world can seem, I still believe in miracles.

I have to. It’s innate within me, part of my genetic make up. It’s the healing balm, the special sauce of the highly sensitive nervous system. Is it hard to be on alert constantly, yes, but with massive reprogramming and energy care, the highly sensitive alert system becomes magical. When finely tuned and deeply aware, miraculous moments show up everywhere. I no longer question my intuitive guidance nor am I shocked anymore when synchronicity happens. Magic in the mundane is natural to life - even when the external world feels chaotic and distorted.

While I’m no longer surprised by miracles, it’s still a breathtaking, heart expanding experience to stumble upon them. Always a welcome reminder to keep listening to the stillness within, to continue to trust the flow of life within me.

And this is where my owl comes in.

I dropped my daughter off at her painting lesson and went to the local park for a woodsy walk. I had something prepped for listening as I walked, but the moment I stepped onto the grass I heard from inside no listening, silence. I followed the instructions. Looked out in front of me to decide which path to take. Not the usual one the voice said. So I stepped onto the alternate path. As I walked I worked out the last bits of an idea I was trying to untangle, jotting notes into my phone one by one. I was typing when the voice returned. Look up. As I moved my eyes from the screen to the sky an eagle soared by. Continued walking, decided to take the longer path around to the car instead of the cut through. Which is when I noticed a tiny opening in the bushes that lined the path. At first glance I saw the opening, said ‘that looks cool but I need to get going’ to myself and kept my feet moving. Which is when the voice came in, louder than before. Stop. Turn around. Go into the opening. Immediately as I stepped into the small grove of cedar trees I had full body goosebumps. I felt like I was being wrapped in the warm embrace of the divine mother. It had been an intense few days and I knew something was being released, transmitted, alchemized. The voice whispered hug the tree and so I found myself reverently embracing a cedar tree as far as my arms would go. Inhaling her scent and then exhaling fully, tears of gratitude announced regulation within my being.

Which is when I got the tingly sensation that I was being watched. Not in the frightening way but a calm and comfortable knowing - someone is watching me.

I took a small step back from the cedar and looked up only to lock eyes with my watcher - a regal, gorgeous, mystical Barred Owl. He was perched not too far above me, talons visible, eyes boring right into me. Our eye contact remained for what was probably an only few minutes, but felt like a download of wisdom from another dimension. Eventually I heard finished and I stepped away.

Forever grateful, I backed away and reentered my life.

I had walked into the forest with an aching heart, I walked out with a soul soothed by a winged harbinger of magic.

I still believe in miracles.

I believe in miracles not because it’s insane but because it keeps me sane.

I believe in miracles not because this world is easy to navigate but because it isn’t.

I believe in miracles so that I can keep my heart open, keep my heart’s love faucet on full blast.

I believe in miracles so that I can bear to send my children out into a world that refers to dead children and their left-behind families as collateral damage.

I believe in miracles not because I ignore heartbreak but so it can move me toward deeper and truer love.

Tiny daily miracles for me, are natural as breath, and without them I suffocate.

I believe in miracles because the voice inside tells me to and she has yet to lead me astray.

I believe in miracles so that I don’t lose myself.

I still believe in miracles.