Dear Kula Diaries,

It always surprises folks in the outdoor community to learn that I don’t have a trail name. Well, maybe I should say didn’t have a trail name. That changed this past week.

People had always suggested something like ‘Kula’ or ‘Pee Cloth’, but that almost felt like an advertisement. And I didn’t want to identify myself with just the product that I make. So I decided I’d just wait until a trail name came to find me, whenever that might be. I’m not a thru-hiker, so I didn’t really have a time frame in mind. I just thought maybe someday it would happen.

Last week, which was exactly one weekend after PCT Days, my husband and I drove down to the great big town of Randle, Washington (yes, I’m being sarcastic) so that we could drive a very long forest road all the way back into the Mount Adams Wilderness to meet my mom and her friend Anne for a backpacking trip.

Since my mom was still out in the area after PCT Days the previous week, we thought it would be a great time to fit in our ‘sort of’ annual backpacking trip. We hadn’t done one in a few years, and even though I was slightly regretting planning one less than a week after PCT Days, I managed to get my act together enough to pack up a backpack and head out into the wilderness.

I started Kula Cloth because of my love of hiking and backpacking, and at the peak of my backpacking and mountaineering career, while still working a full-time job, I probably went out on at least 20 to 30 trips per year, maybe more, including day hikes. Which is pretty impressive if you consider that I wasn’t a professional thru-hiker. I’ve spent more days in the wilderness than I can count, but when I first started Kula, I tried to keep that schedule up… and very quickly found myself getting extremely exhausted.

As I would soon learn, it’s difficult to burn the candle at both ends, and packing for a backpacking trip is an effort in and of itself, let alone doing the backpacking trip, coming back from the backpacking trip, unpacking, and then somehow feeling ready and rested for the week. That being said, I am definitely a backpacker at heart and love the opportunity to get away from technology and pretty much everything and hide in the woods for a few days.

People often ask me if I miss being able to hike and backpack as much as I used to. And the answer to that is no, because it feels pointless for me to resist the situation that I’m in, which is honestly a really great situation. I have a business that I love. I get to watch people out on their own adventures, and I still get to have mine. They just look a little bit different.

It’s actually funny, but because I backpack less now, it feels far more special than it used to. And I think I enjoy it and appreciate it a lot more. Back when I was backpacking almost every weekend, I can’t really say that I appreciated it. It was more that I needed it, and if I didn’t have it, I wasn’t happy.

But now it’s less of ‘needing it’ and more of simply enjoying the ability to go out and spend time in nature without any expectations, just to see what lessons it decides to bestow upon me. Having that type of relationship with backpacking far outweighs any quantity of trips that I can pack into a season and put on my resume.

And so… feeling very appreciative for the opportunity to explore the wilderness with my mom, Anne and husband… we headed out from the trailhead at 11 a.m. and began our walk up the very dusty trail.

Prior to the trip, I had made ten custom Kulas, all featuring an image of Mount Adams. We recently started a Trail Angel Ambassador Program for Kula, where we give out Kulas on trail to folks, and I decided that I wanted to do it too. So my personal goal for the trip was to give away these ten Kulas.

As we were hiking in, we came across a group of PCT hikers sitting alongside the trail. I awkwardly (yes, I am very awkward in person — ha!) told them that I had a gift for them, and I pulled my bundle of Kulas out of my pack, much to their delight.

As it turns out, all of them had been at PCT Days the week prior, and some of them had even stopped by the Kula booth. In fact, two of them that morning had been talking about if they had gotten a custom Kula at PCT Days, what would they have gotten on it?

“Well, these designs are all one in ten,” I said. “I only made ten of them to give out.”

Their happy shrieks of excitement let me know that this was a trail angel job done right.

“What’s your name?” a thru-hiker named Icarus asked me.

“Anastasia,” I said.

He looked at me with a raised eyebrow. “Is that your trail name?”

I laughed. “No, it’s my real name. I actually don’t have a trail name.”

He looked down at the Kula in his hand and looked back at me.

“One in Ten,” he said.

I gasped.

It felt like I had been given a gift, the thing I had been waiting for, for so many years of hiking. And there it was, right there… My new trail name: One in Ten.

What’s funny is that I should have said one of ten, but for some reason I had chosen to say one in ten, like they were odds. The odds of finding something wonderful. The odds of receiving a random weird Kula from the pee cloth lady who’s headed out on her single backpacking trip of the year.

“One in Ten,” I said out loud, letting the words roll over my tongue as I nodded. “I like it.”

Icarus laughed. “Not all of my trail names stick,” he said.

“Well,” I said, “I think I’m going to keep this one. It feels really right.”

As we left Icarus, and his friends after distributing 5 Kulas, we broke out into stunning views of Mount Adams and dropped down into the Killen Creek Meadow, where we quickly found what would become very shortly a hot commodity: an actual campsite.

As the day passed and after our campsite was set up, we watched as more and more and more people arrived and headed down towards a tiny lake, even though we knew that most of the campsites were completely taken at that lake. The whole meadow quickly became packed with people starting to camp just about anywhere, and it definitely did not have the feeling of solitude, particularly when one was attempting to go to the bathroom. Just when I’d think that I found a perfect secluded spot to pee, I’d look over and see an entire group staring at me.

But that night we were delighted at our choice of campsite. We sat in the big meadow in front of our spot and watched the alpenglow on Mount Adams light up the sky.

As soon as the sun set, we headed back to our campsite for what we hoped would be a peaceful night of sleep in solitude, which is what we were having until about 9:30 p.m., when we started to hear rustling. At first, I thought my ears were deceiving me, and I assumed that maybe my mom or Anne was in their tent going through their backpack. But rather quickly, I saw my husband sit up in the tent and start to listen.

Was a bear going through our campsite?

We had hung all of our food, so I was confused until suddenly I heard Anne’s voice.

“Hey!” she yelled in a startled voice.

I heard a man’s voice, muffled, say something back to her.

“Are you camping here?” Anne asked.

Again, more muffled male voices. I could hear the fear and confusion in Anne’s voice.

Aaron was closer to the noise itself, and he turned back to me and whispered quietly, “I think someone is setting up their tent right next to us.”

We were all a little bit startled. Yes, I know that we don’t own the campsite or the land around it, but it’s also somewhat weird to have a random man showing up at your campsite at 9:30 p.m. in the dark, with no headlamp on, setting up their tent when you have absolutely no idea who this person is.

When we woke up the next morning, I was surprised to discover that this individual had set up their tent not six inches from Anne’s tent and about a foot away from Aaron and I, in the middle of our campsite. It was, to say the least… a bit awkward.

And while I understand that maybe the thru-hiker ethos is slightly different in larger group campsites, it did feel a bit strange and slightly unsettling to have a complete stranger setting up their tent six inches away from us when there was a vast area around us that they could have picked. In fact, upon waking that morning, it was obvious that other people did pick other spots to camp where they weren’t merely sleeping on top of their neighbors.

But, I didn’t want to let the incident get us down… we had a big ridge to ascend! The next day, our plan was to ascend up to a high camp location, which is a spot where many, many years ago I stayed before climbing the North Ridge of Mount Adams, a much less popular, more challenging route than the standard route, which goes up the South side of Mount Adams.

This ridge is rocky and precarious and was one of my first big volcano climbs, and the high camp before that climb always felt like a special spot to me. So I wanted to take my mom and Anne there, to a place that most people will probably never get to visit.

As we started heading up the trail, I kept recalling a very brief conversation that I had had the previous day with some folks on horseback. They had asked me if I had noticed a certain spot along the creek. I said that I hadn’t, but for some reason their conversation felt, in what I can only describe as… slightly sparkly. Like for some reason I was supposed to pay attention to this conversation because it was leading me somewhere cool. Was it possible that the ‘strange man’ incident from the night before was really a tiny bit of a nudge to go explore some areas I wouldn’t have otherwise seen?

I already knew that as soon as we got back from our day hike, I wanted to do a little bit of scouting to see if I could find a more secluded spot.

For most of my backpacking and hiking career, my personal passion has been finding off-trail scramble routes that lead to places that are not on the beaten path. And unfortunately, the PCT is exactly the opposite of off the beaten path, because it is the beaten path where everybody congregates.

It’s pretty amazing what happens, I’ve found, when you dare to venture even a tiny bit off trail. The same goes for life too, I might add. Good things are often lying just around the corner that you didn’t even know were there, because you were the one who had to discover them. And, sometimes — things that seem ‘bad’ or ‘wrong’ — are often leading you to discover even more amazing things.

The hike up to High Camp was lovely, and I felt happy to be reunited with a spot that I had camped at so many years ago. It’s funny… these places sit for decades and welcome us back with open arms, seemingly unchanged by the passage of time, and yet so much has changed in my life since then!

At that time, I was a park ranger using mountaineering to escape from my life and the things that I didn’t want to face. And now it felt more like a friendly visit. There was nothing I needed to get: no ridge I needed to ascend, no summit I needed to tag. It was just a beautiful place to be… and to share with others.

After a lovely lunch (where I carried a literal jar of jam on our backpacking trip!) and a side quest to a high alpine glacial lake… we began our descent down the rocky ridge. Slowly, our group hiked back down from the high camp, and before we made it back to our campsite, I told my mom and Anne that I was going to go on a tiny reconnaissance mission. I had a NOTION, and that notion was that I was about to find a magical, secluded campsite that was away from the hordes of hikers. In my heart, I KNEW that I was about to find something pretty special.

I dropped my pack alongside the creek and followed what looked to me like a faint little path. Moments later, the path became more obvious, and soon it had formed itself into a tiny way trail, obviously trodden by the steps of the curious that had come here before me, wondering what was up around this secret bend.

I started to jog and pick up my pace as I ascended this trail because I didn’t want anybody to worry about me, and soon I found myself in an all-out run, excitedly navigating this hidden trail further and further up. Suddenly, it was alongside a creek meandering through thick and lush mossy grass, and as I turned around the corner, a stunning secluded meadow burst into view. I could see a grove of trees in the distance, and I knew, I just knew, it was going to be the perfect campsite, the experience that we had all wanted.

Excitedly, I scrambled back down the trail and linked up with my mom and Anne and Aaron and told them the news.

“Okay, it’s up to you,” I said. “We can stay here if you want, in which case it’s very likely that some other random person might join us tonight, or if you want a real Mount Adams wilderness experience, I think I found the perfect spot.” Within 20 minutes, we had completely broken camp, deserted our campsite, and followed my notion uphill. As this stunning hidden meadow burst into view, I looked back and could see the big smiles on my mom and Anne’s faces.

Every time I take folks on a backpacking trip, I really want it to be the type of experience that they want it to be. And maybe some people enjoy being around others and don’t mind backpacking in an area that’s crowded where it’s difficult to find a place to pee, but that’s never been my idea of backpacking.

My idea is always finding unexpected places and experiencing true wilderness and solitude. And this is what I knew I had found. Like a diamond in the rough, this meadow had been waiting for us. Sometimes the most magical places are right under our nose. We just have to be curious, creative, and brave enough to branch off and go find them.

That second evening was exactly what we had all wanted. It was just the four of us laughing, sitting around, exploring our hidden meadow, filming a ridiculous movie, which I will now embarrass my mom and Anne and Aaron by sharing here, and in general, having the type of unabridged fun that happens when you feel like you are truly in a place where you can play and let go.

I apologize (in advance) for this work of cinematic brilliance…

There’s something about being alone out in the wild that brings out the inner child in all of us. And this meadow was one of those places, a place that said, You can just be you here.

Part of the way through the evening, Anne was telling us about a book called Andrew Henry’s Meadow — a book where a boy creates little huts for his friends in a meadow, each hut designed so that it perfectly fit that person’s interests and personality. And in some way, I feel like the four of us found that little meadow for ourselves. In some way, the meadow seemed to be just perfect for all of us — quiet, secluded, and… completely magical. It felt like the place that we needed — to remind us why we venture outside.

At one point, I walked away from the group and sat down on the grass and just stopped to look around. Alone in the wilderness. Alone, sitting on ground, on our planet. When you’re alone in a place like that, sitting there under a giant volcano, you swear that you can almost feel the earth spinning.

That night we were not woken at 9:30 p.m. by somebody setting up camp six inches away from us. We were woken up by nothing, because it was just us and the sound of the creek and the wind. At 5 a.m. our alarms went off so that we could wake up, get ready, pack up, head out, and start our long five-hour drive home.

As we walked down the trail just at sunrise, we could see a thunderstorm, jagged bolts of lightning rippling across the sky in front of Mount Rainier as we watched from our patch of blue sky.

It’s funny to leave a backpacking trip. It used to fill me with so much anxiety. I’d feel worse and worse as I descended and as the trail slowly turned into road, into dirt road, and then eventually pavement, tents in the forest replaced by houses and buildings, and the rest of life that had continued buzzing during those days of relative stillness.

But I don’t feel that way anymore.

Instead, I’m just grateful for the time spent there, grateful for the reminder that all of it is real. All of it is a part of the meadow of life. We don’t ever leave the meadow… because life itself is the meadow. At every moment, we can decide to choose our path. We can choose to pick our own way and find peace amidst any situation. We can choose to go with where the flow of life is taking us — rather than to resist what we don’t want. We can take any situation and use it to create more curiosity, instead of less.

And we can always choose to notice that no matter where we sit and look around, there are always flowers blooming.

Sending you all so much love… this week and all weeks. Thank YOU (as always) for being here.

Love,

‘One in Ten’

(formerly known as Anastasia)

Dear Kula Diaries,

This last week was our sixth year having a booth at the PCT Days festival, and it’s also my third year in a row chronicling the experience. If you want to go back and read about past PCT Days, I’ll share those posts here:

This is the first story I wrote about PCT DAYS, back in 2024…

And here is the story I wrote last year:

And now, I will attempt to capture the chaos of the most recent event… I hope you enjoy it as much as I love to reflect on it every single year!

First, a tiny bit of history about how we ended up at this event: My dear friend Diana, who has been a huge supporter and believer in Kula Cloth since before it even existed, told me that I needed to take this product to PCT Days before I even had a product to take to PCT Days. She gave me a little map of the PCT, and I hung it on my refrigerator and promised myself that maybe someday I would have a brand that was deserving enough to have a booth at PCT Days, even though I had no idea how that was possible.

Well, in 2021, four years after launching Kula Cloth, we finally decided to take our first stab at attending the event. The problem was that I realized only about a month beforehand that I didn’t have a tent, and making a custom one isn’t something that just happens overnight. So I borrowed a tent from my friend’s parents, not realizing that the tent was quite old and sunbaked.

I had purchased a Kula Cloth banner to attach to the tent, but the problem was that the banner was too wide. If I attached it to the front of the booth, nobody would be able to see my face if I stood up because the banner was hanging down and covering it. So we ended up zip-tying the banner to the back of the tent, where barely anybody could see it.

I still remember the extreme shock of showing up at the event on Friday morning at 8 a.m. to get set up. We pulled into the grassy field, and my eyes were suddenly met with the sight of dozens and dozens of beautifully branded custom tents. Meanwhile, Aaron and I set up our sunbaked, non-branded tent with our crooked and partially obscured banner. If I’m being honest, the imposter syndrome hit pretty hard, and I felt like a complete doof for not having researched what might be expected of me before I attended this event. After all, it’s not like I didn’t know that I was going.

But we decided to make the best of it. I didn’t even have a Wi-Fi hotspot, even though my plan was to make custom Kulas. I ended up befriending Morgan from Blaze Physio, who kindly let me use their cell phone hotspot for the majority of the weekend so that I could make custom designs. Without Morgan, our entire first PCT Days would have been a complete flop.

Even though I felt a little dumb about our preparation for the event, I came out of the experience feeling rejuvenated because so many people knew what Kula Cloth was. I felt so much excitement being able to connect with people who genuinely loved the product and shared with me that it had made such a difference in their lives. It’s one thing to sit in your office all day and work away dutifully at the logistical side and back end of running a company. It’s another thing to actually see it at work in people’s lives and watch their faces light up when they talk about what a difference it’s made.

Six years into this event, we are now pretty dialed in. We have a pre-packing list that we meticulously go through as we load up the car, and when we arrive at the site itself, there is an easy flow of things that take place. We’ve learned over the years how to prepare for things that arise during PCT Days, which definitely subjects you to some natural elements as well. The wind at Cascade Locks is notoriously strong, so something like having stickers out in the open isn’t really possible because they would all blow away. Having things in small containers on your table rather than lying out in the open is learned knowledge that we’ve picked up over the years. Also, when in doubt, stake your tent down. And then stake it down again.

This is the second year in a row that we’ve actually brought along a secondary tent to put behind our first tent. Last year we did that, and it made such a big difference to have an extra storage area that wasn’t just stuff lying in a heap on a tarp on top of goose poop behind the tent.

For anybody curious, for a brand like Kula Cloth, at the level of sponsorship that we choose, and also including table and chair rental and electricity access for our heat press and printer, having a booth at PCT Days costs around $2,000.

When you are a vendor at PCT Days, there is always the option to camp at the event itself. However, by the end of the day, I need to be as far away from large crowds as possible and sequestered in a bedroom like a dark cave in order to fully restore myself for the following day so that I can bring my creative A-game to the event. Sleep, for me, is such an important and essential part of the event, and so is the ability to recuperate a little bit from so much interaction and brain power. It’s not because I don’t love everybody and want to hang out with folks. Instead, I retreat because I do love everybody and want to hang out with folks.

On Friday, we got set up at our booth, and the event opened at noon. This year’s booth was facilitated by me doing Kula designs, my husband Aaron making custom Kulas and filling in wherever necessary, and my mom and our friend Anne working the front counter doing point-of-sale checkout, explaining the product, interacting with folks, and in general sharing their devout love of Kula Cloth.

It’s actually very adorable because even when we didn’t have customers at the booth, I often overheard my mom and Anne exchanging tips about Kula and talking about how much they love the product and how they have one on every bag and in every purse and in their car. It was like listening to them sell each other on a product that they already loved. It was very endearing, and it’s so incredible to have two people who are so passionate about the product there at the booth to explain it to folks.

Many, many people arriving know exactly what Kula Cloth is, but even six years into doing this event, we still have a lot of curious folks who’ve never heard of a pee cloth before. So a huge part of our booth is educating folks about Leave No Trace and hygiene and how those two things can work symbiotically.

Over the course of the two days, I designed many, many custom Kulas. At this point in Kula making, I consider myself a little bit of an intuitive Kula designer. And while I say that with a tiny bit of jest, I’m actually pretty serious. I will often jokingly tell folks that I am just a vessel and that I’m channeling the universe in order to make the perfect pee cloth for them.

But..ummm… I kinda mean it.

I genuinely care about making something for folks that feels special and personal and brings a smile to their face every single time they use it. This is an important personal piece of gear that is taking care of your body, which is your most important piece of gear. And so I don’t take the task of creating something unique very lightly.

Throughout the course of the event, people will send me photos, and I will take the time to ask them questions about what they might be interested in and, where it feels applicable, make some fun changes to their design in order to create something totally magical. One hiker sent me the cutest picture of them and their friend hiking on the Appalachian Trail with their legs kicked up into the air. The second I looked at that photo, I thought, no, no, friend… we cannot just use this. This needs to be more galactic…this needs to be bigger…this photo needs to go harder.

And so I designed something quite cosmic for them. When I turned the computer around to show this hiker the digital proof, the screams of laughter indicated to me that I had nailed it.

One particular hiker named Oyster showed up toward the end of day one with a photo of their cat. Originally, I was trying to put the cat into a cosmic galaxy scene, but it just wasn’t working. I promised Oyster to come back the next day and that I’d have something ready for them.

That night, we made it back to the Airbnb after an eventful dinner attempting to avoid garlic at a local eatery, and I headed outside to do my daily dance practice. As I was dancing—and I can’t explain this—I had a vision pop into my mind of Oyster’s cat in a field of fireflies.

The next morning, I got back to the booth and immediately worked on the design and presented it to them when they arrived. I looked at Oyster and just said, “I can’t explain this, but I had a vision of your cat in a field of fireflies.”

Oyster looked at me and said (and I am not making this up!), “Well, that’s perfect because I’m an entomologist.”

So, as I mentioned earlier, when I say intuitive Kula designer, everything that I create for folks is truly and genuinely coming from my heart because I care more than any person should ever care about the design of a pee cloth. And, truthfully, I think that’s what makes it so special. This isn’t just about slinging out designs — it’s about creating a special piece of gear that becomes a story. The coolest part for me is that I remember the stories. Every single time that I design a Kula Cloth, it’s like I get a tiny peak into somebody else’s life — and do you know what? I see a lot of really wonderful things out there: pets, loved ones, favorite places, friends, silly memories, delicious food, inside jokes. If you want your faith in humanity restored: create pee cloths for other humans, and you, too, will feel that spark of hope reignite in your own heart — it’s contagious! And, not only that — but every time they tell the story about their pee cloth… that love and hope ripples far and wide. When I stop to comprehend the importance of this tiny practice, I think: How lucky am I to be able to do this?

Another highlight of the event was when John, the intellectual property lawyer that I work with, stopped by for a visit. John just so happened to be in Cascade Locks to go hiking. He doesn’t live on the West Coast and stopped by to say hello in person for the very first time. Over the past few years, John and I have met many times over Zoom, but never in person.

Since I made the announcement a few weeks ago that our trade dress registration had been accepted for the Squircle shape of a Kula Cloth, this was such an amazing opportunity to thank John for that in person. Over the course of the weekend, I can’t begin to count the number of people who showed up at our booth saying, “Congrats on the Squircle!” Almost everybody knew about it because I’ve shared about it a few times.

With the idea and inspiration of a Kula customer, I had recently made a pattern that contained the mathematical equation for the Squircle, and I took the opportunity to present one to John in what I will forever and always call a full Squircle moment.

Last year for PCT Days, our theme was “Coffee is for closers.” This quote comes from an absolutely ridiculous scene in the movie Glengarry Glen Ross, when Alec Baldwin, a super high-pressure salesman, is using the amazing tactic of shame in an attempt to motivate some sluggish salespeople. I jokingly attempted to embody this persona as a super high-pressure pee cloth salesperson last year by telling my mom and Anne that coffee was for closers and that if they wanted coffee in the morning, they had to be ready to close.

ABC. Always be closing.

This year, because I can’t ever do anything partway, I took it to a whole new level and had our artist Amanda modify the Creepy Cat so that it was holding a cup of coffee. Then I made all of us matching shirts that we could wear on the second day.

Each year at PCT Days, I’ve always tried to discover a theme. I cast aside my inner Mark Twain and intentionally decide to find a moral in this story, because after all, it’s the moral that helps me make sense of my own little crumble of this universe and gives me a sense of purpose and belonging. Slinging a product for the sake of creating as many things as possible and selling them is, probably not surprisingly, not where I get a sense of meaning in my life.

This year’s golden nugget came in the form of a short conversation with one of my dearest friends, Miranda, from Miranda Goes Outside. We were having a brief conversation, and I can’t recall the exact words that we said, but I think I was talking about how the price point of a Kula Cloth does not make this event profitable for Kula.

At the end of the day, after spending the money on the booth, on the Airbnb—which I know is optional but is also required for my own sanity—and food and other expenses, Kula Cloth as an organization will make negative dollars from this event. So on paper, maybe it looks like it doesn’t make that much sense.

But I’ve always known that return on investment from something like this is not something that you should be measuring at the event itself. Strictly based on product sales, it’s nearly impossible to calculate or measure the amount of people that you interacted with… who then went and interacted with other people or showed off their custom Kula. Needless to say, there is a ripple of energy created by an event like this that is something that can’t be calculated in a spreadsheet.

But beyond that—and much more important—even if that didn’t happen, even if no sales ever came from PCT Days, sometimes the return on investment is love.

We live in a world that says that money is the only investment that matters, and I think that is where we’ve gotten things horribly, horribly wrong. Love is an infinite energy that is capable of doing things far beyond anything we can comprehend, capable of creating worlds and universes even. And when that becomes your focus of the event, rather than looking at your returns on a spreadsheet, you simply can’t lose.

Love has a way of trickling into everything, weaving its way through the most vast reaches of the universe, and shifting and shaping the time-space continuum itself so that more and more love can be created. Magical, unpredictable things can happen in this place. And while I can’t know what those might be, what I do know is that I feel it now.

As I walk away from this event this year, what I felt and noticed the most was the love that was shared at our tiny booth. Hugs and tears and joy and laughter and camaraderie and care and friendship.

On the very last day, our dearest friends Alberto and Sarah even arrived to visit. They had driven all the way down from Washington to attend the event and to see us and they even stayed and helped us pack up our booth along with my mom and Anne. Alberto and Sarah are our most dear friends, and without getting into too much of a long story, the entire reason that we met them was because I had an ‘impulse decision’ to give Kulas away to a restaurant a few years ago (maybe I’ll share that story someday — it’s pretty special).

And maybe that’s the whole point. That love multiples. When you give it freely — without expectations — it arrives back in every way imaginable, and even in ways that you couldn’t imagine.

So, I leave this year’s event feeling energized by the difference that Kula makes in people’s lives, touched by the stories that people have shared, joyous through the sharing of laughter, and at peace knowing that in some small way, our tiny product and company is making a difference beyond simply existing as a piece of gear.

I’m so proud to sit behind that booth at PCT Days every year, and my gratitude for everybody who showed up knows no bounds. So, thank you for reminding me why I started what I started.

I will burn this candle of love over the next year, especially in the darker moments when the doubt or fear creep in. And I know that love will help me remember the truth.

Sending you all so much love from my tiny crumble of the universe to yours…

Dear Kula Diaries,

The thing about a river and a road is that they don’t always follow each other precisely. I learned this the hard way when I was 14 years old.

My best friend Chrissie and I had both read Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. And while we both had the immense privilege of not quite understanding some of the more sinister themes at play in those books, what we did glean from them was something very childish and simple: we wanted to go on adventures like Tom and Huck. More specifically, we wanted to build a skiff and float it down a river.

We attempted this first with a wooden pallet by attaching pieces of plywood to it. And while our shoddily made attempt at a skiff would never have floated, even if it had, I can assure you that our parents would have never in a million years let us put it in a river and try to float it downstream.

So, we did the next best thing. We pooled together our pennies, which took a few months, I might add and went to a sporting goods store and purchased an inflatable four-man raft. I still remember seeing the picture on the front of the box, in which the occupants of said four-man inflatable raft looked unbelievably comfortable and happy.

Unfortunately, the reality could not have been further from what was pictured.

There was simply no physically possible way that four men could have fit inside this inflatable raft, let alone four children. Upon first inflation, Chrissie and I realized that we barely fit inside the raft, but that didn’t dampen our enthusiasm.

As we presented the plan to our parents, we explained that we needed a ride from them, because we wanted to float our four-man inflatable boat down the Mississippi. They would be welcome to pick us up at the mouth of the river upon completion of our journey. Unfortunately for us, our parents were relatively sensible and disapproved (immediately) of that plan. However, they did agree that we could take our raft and float a small local creek in Pennsylvania, near the town where we lived, called French Creek.

And so, on a sunny summer day, my mom loaded me and Chrissie, my younger sister, and two of our friends into her minivan, along with the deflated boat, so that we could take it on its maiden voyage. And yes, if you’re doing the math, you’ve got that correct. There were five of us who were about to attempt to fit into a four-man inflatable raft that could barely fit two children.

On the side of the road, my mom plugged the inflator into her cigarette lighter and began what would be an hour-long process of children being incredibly impatient while the very, very slow inflator attempted to blow up our boat. Finally inflated, we excitedly carried the boat down the bank of the creek, where we plopped it into the water and hopped into the boat, ready to experience the thrill of floating down a creek.

And then, thunk. The boat hit bottom. It wouldn’t move.

The creek was too shallow for the weight of, shockingly, five children piled into a four-man raft. And so, for the next few hundred yards, we alternated between walking and dragging the boat downstream to meet my mom at a predetermined meeting point that wasn’t very far away.

This was decidedly different than what I had envisioned for our first rafting experience. I had envisioned the feeling of freedom, the feeling of solitude, and the feeling of adventure as we set out on the open water. Instead, we had traffic whizzing by and weren’t even floating at all. In fact, I was just dragging a couple other kids through six-inch-deep water in an inflatable raft.

When we got down to my mom, I expressed my disappointment, and we tried to come up with a plan so that we could at least have the chance to float a little bit.

Not far down the road from where my mom had parked the minivan was a bridge over French Creek. We knew that the water was slightly deeper up there, and so we thought, hey, what a great idea. We will just walk the boat upstream, meet my mom at that bridge, and then we’ll float from the bridge back down.

It seemed like a simple enough plan.

And for those of you who might be shaking your heads right now, I want you to keep in mind that this was long before smartphones and long before any of us had access to a map of what the creek actually looked like between point A and point B on that road.

Also, this was the 90s — it was a different era. An amazing era, I might add. One with no screens… just inflatable rafts and dreams. What a time to be a kid, where you could think of an adventure and go for it. It was a decidedly unbuckled era of time when my parents would let us take off our seatbelts once we were out of town and driving on, ‘the highway’, because it was, ‘safer’. Things were done for the sake of doing them: there was no need to document anything or create content or share it with anybody. Pure play and pure fun. Our brains ran on imagination and nature… not technology or noise.

My mom (unbelievably) agreed to the plan, and we, the five children, without life jackets, I might add, began our trek upstream.

The creek was very shallow, only ankle or calf deep, and the five of us trudged upstream wearing our shorts and t-shirts, which were already soaking wet. I still remember that I was wearing a pair of two-toned Umbro soccer shorts — teal and purple. They stuck to my legs like glue as we slopped through the water in our soaked sneakers. We figured it wouldn’t be that long before we saw the bridge up ahead, where my mom would be waiting for us. And then we could float back down. The excitement of this adventure was palpable.

At least, that’s what we thought was going to happen. Until we rounded the first corner.

The creek stretched in front of us, and the five of us pushed the raft upstream. The current wasn’t strong—it’s a slow-moving creek—but progress was still slow, because we were indeed going upstream. Spirits were high, though, and we were excited for this adventure. And yet, I still remember thinking: this creek looks bigger than I imagined it would.

We had no food, no water, no anything. Just five kids in a four-man inflatable raft in the middle of a creek. I looked at Chrissie and smiled. Exactly this, I thought… this was the adventure we had been hoping for.

The first hour or so was filled with excitement and laughter as we continually pushed the boat upstream. We had figured it might take about an hour or two to reach the bridge, and so everybody was having a blast and enjoying the experience to the fullest. We didn’t realize that we had gotten in over our heads until we rounded yet another corner and saw a large concrete bridge collapsed over the creek.

We had never seen this part of the creek before and had no idea where we were. The water got deep, and the collapsed bridge had made dark, deep holes of water between where the structure had tipped over. There were logs and wooden pilings blocking our path, so we pulled the raft up to a section of the collapsed concrete structure and had the kids climb out of the boat to reduce the weight so that Chrissie and I could push it up and over some of the pilings lying across the creek.

I watched as my friends scrambled up onto a sharply banked slab of concrete, leaning into it, so that they wouldn’t slip and fall back into the dark pool of water. Slowly, we pushed the boat over the piling and into a large pool that had formed in the creek in the location where the bridge would have been. We hoisted ourselves up and over the logs and jumped back into the water next to the boat to continue pushing it forward.

As I jumped into the water, I gasped as my feet felt for … anything. I couldn’t touch the ground… the water was deeper than I had anticipated.

We swam, grasping onto the side of the boat, trying to push it over the second piling that was blocking our path. Eventually, we navigated the obstacle, and everybody but me and Chrissie got back into the boat on the other side of the bridge. And then we began kicking and swimming the boat upstream.

I had no idea that the creek was this deep. It was well over my head as we continued moving slowly against the current. At this point in the adventure, it had been hours with no sign of the bridge where we were supposed to meet my mom. We were cold and hungry, and if I’m being honest, a little bit of fear and worry was starting to creep in.

Ever the optimist, I kept telling everybody that the bridge was just going to be around the next bend. But every time we came to the next bend, it wasn’t there. Clinging to hope and the side of our rubber boat, Chrissie and I kicked hard against the current to continue pushing the boat upstream.

It was on this trip that I learned an important lesson: the journey from point A to point B is not always exactly what it seems to be. Yes, you can have an idea of where it might go, and you can hope that your idea and the path you have in mind are parallel to each other, but life doesn’t often work like that. Often, it does feel like swimming upstream, against the current, turning bend after bend, eyes focused in the distance toward where you want to be, and wondering when that will appear. And at some point, you just have to trust that you’re going to figure it out — even when things seem impossible.

It had been hours now since we had left my mom at her original drop-off point, and we had no food, no water, and we were cold. The morale in the ship was starting to crack, and as the oldest child and the self-proclaimed captain of the skiff, I was doing my best to keep the morale high.

“We’re doing great,” I’d say. “I’m sure we’re getting close. Everything’s going to be fine.”

But as we rounded the next bend and saw nothing ahead of us but another straight stretch of creek, I was starting to wonder myself. I could feel that doubt beginning to creep into my own heart too. Eventually, we rounded a bend that I was sure would end with the bridge in sight, and yet again, it didn’t.

But what I did notice, surprisingly, amidst my feelings of distress, was that the place we now found ourselves in was one of the most beautiful places I had ever seen:

There was no sign of civilization nearby, no houses that we could see. The vegetation on the shore was thick and lush, and trees were hanging over nearly the entire creek as we kicked upstream, making it feel like we were pushing our boat through a magical hanging garden. Amidst the impending terror, there was also this strange sense of awe that I had never experienced before. A sense of empowerment, of resiliency and independence. Here we were, five kids in a raft, and we were doing it. We might be lost, but in this moment, we were okay.

I knew that hope had started to fade for the others in the skiff when the first person started to cry. I did my best to keep spirits up, but it was growing more and more difficult. As the hunger and thirst set in, our resiliency was becoming harder to resuscitate. And, whether we were doing a great job or not … we were kids… and we were scared.

Suddenly, in the distance, we heard something that didn’t sound like any bird we recognized.

“Stop kicking,” I instructed Chrissie. “Listen.” A hush fell over the raft.

All of us held our breath as it felt like the world stood still.

And faintly, oh so faintly in the distance, we could hear a woman—my mother—screaming our names.

What we didn’t know at the time, but later learned, is that my mom, who had been growing (understandably) increasingly panicked, had been running through neighborhoods door to door, asking people if the creek was close to their backyard. If it was, she was sprinting into their backyard and bushwhacking through vegetation to try to find an access point where she could yell for us.

We began screaming back.

“Mom! Mom! We’re here! We’re here! We’re okay!”

And suddenly, we saw my mom burst out of the vegetation and appear on the side of the creek a few hundred yards downstream of us.

“There she is!” we screamed. “Mom! Mom!”

The relief that hit our collective group in that moment was, and still is, indescribable. The taut cord of fear that had held us of all precariously together instantly dissolved, and all of us began to simultaneously weep and laugh as we saw my mom. Her face was buried in the relief of her own hands, standing in disbelief on the shore of the creek after hours of searching for five children pushing a four-man raft upstream.

We had been found.

I kicked hard in the deep water and pulled myself up into the raft where all of us were now together — packed tightly into the too-small boat. Finally, we let go, and allowed the current to take us downstream towards my mom, who was frantically waving at us from the side of the creek shore. Then, and only then, for the first time that day, we floated.

We floated through the creek and the hanging garden and somehow ended up right where we were supposed to be.

Those four minutes of floating downstream were some of the happiest of my life. It was as if every feeling I had ever wanted to experience was compressed into those four minutes. Love, relief, joy, adventure, exhilaration and freedom. All of it was there. It was exactly the type of epic adventure that I, deep in my heart, had wanted.

Two weeks ago, Aaron and I took our own inflatable boats to the Stillaguamish River, a beautiful river that flows near our home. We used two cars to facilitate a drop-off, and Aaron rode his pontoon boat while I was in my inflatable kayak. We had a plan of paddling from a bridge to a park, which on the road didn’t seem all that far.

And yet I had to laugh, because as we continued paddling for hours, I remembered the lesson I had learned as a child: Flowing with the river is not always the same as going on the path that you’re expecting.

It took Aaron and me five hours to paddle what had appeared to be a short distance between point A and B on the road. As it turns out, it was closer to 8 miles on the river! About halfway through, we stopped for lunch, and I started telling him the story of my adventure on French Creek as a 14-year-old kid.

I was surprised that nearly 30 years later, I could still summon the exact emotions that I felt that day. I could still feel the magical mystery of that beautiful creek, the fear of the unknown, and the intense joy, love, and relief of being found again.

As I told Aaron the story and got to the ending, I said the same words to him that I wrote to all of you:

Then, and only then, did we float.

As I was writing this story, I got curious about that day, a day when no cell phones existed, when children of the 1990s were feral and imaginations were fierce. Was the adventure really as big as I had imagined it to be? After trying to figure out the distances with my mom, we were able to find the location on a map:

Five children pushed and paddled an inflatable raft nearly two miles upstream.

And then, we floated about 200 yards. And somehow, against all of the odds, those 200 yards seemed to contain an infinite universe of lifetimes.

Friends — thank you SO MUCH (as always) for being here and for reading my stories. I don’t think I’ve ever shared this one, and it felt so touching and poignant to be able to share it. For the record, my mom is horrified that this ever happened, but I have to say — it remains one of my BEST memories from childhood and I’m so grateful to have lived such a wonderful, adventurous, free-range childhood — filled with so many fantastical adventures!

I hope that wherever and however you are today, you can tap into the spirit of that adventure in your own heart too.

Dear Kula Diaries,

Almost eleven years ago, I almost unintentionally dropped my engagement ring between some giant boulders high on the side of Mount Baker.

But first, I should backtrack.

When I met my now-husband, Aaron, I was definitely not thinking about getting married ever again. In fact, I’m pretty sure that one of the very first things I told him was that I would never get married again. And, for the record, I still think that’s a perfectly valid decision. I don’t think there is a need or a requirement to get married, and I wholeheartedly believe that everybody should do what they want to do and what is best for them.

Having just emerged from a divorce and looking back across the debris field of past relationships, I was pretty sure that the problem was me and that I should probably stay out of serious relationships for the rest of my life. As it turns out, I wasn’t wrong. The problem was me, or at least partly. But over the past eleven years of marriage, I’ve learned that the problem can be you, and there can also still be room for growth. Sometimes pretty incredible people enter your life and show you what the meaning of love really is.

In April of 2015, Aaron and I decided to go on an overnight trip to Park Butte Lookout, a tiny fire lookout perched high on the side of Mount Baker. By this point, we had talked about getting married but hadn’t made any firm plans and certainly hadn’t made it official yet. So, getting engaged wasn’t necessarily going to be a surprise, but I didn’t know when or where it would happen. Little did I know, as I ascended the Park Butte Trail, that Aaron had stashed the engagement ring in his backpack with a plan to give it to me at sunset.

We arrived early in the day to try to secure the lookout for ourselves. If you’ve never camped in a fire lookout before, most of them are first-come, first-served. I hereby pronounce that I will never backpack to a fire lookout ever again unless it’s by reservation, because it’s just far too stressful wondering if you’ll actually get to stay there. If other folks are already up there, it’s commonplace to share the lookout, but it’s not always welcomed, and you should never count on it. You should always come prepared with a tent in case the lookout isn’t available.

At sunset that night, we had finished eating dinner and were excitedly watching the glowing colors spread across the evening sky. Aaron came up behind me and wrapped his arms around me in a hug. What I didn’t realize was that he had slipped the tiny box with the engagement ring into my jacket pocket, thinking I would find it within moments.

Much to his dismay, I didn’t.

Instead, for the next ten or fifteen minutes, with my pocket hanging wide open, I enthusiastically leapt from boulder to boulder trying to get better and better photographs, while Aaron helplessly watched the little ring box bouncing around inside my pocket, praying that it wouldn’t pop out and disappear forever into one of the countless cracks between the giant rocks surrounding the lookout.

Eventually, he couldn’t handle it anymore. He came over, gave me one more big hug, gently placed my own hand into my pocket, and there I finally felt the tiny box that had been hiding there unnoticed.

I gasped. As I slipped the ring onto my finger, I was filled with excitement — and obviously had no idea what it would really come to mean or how the next eleven years of our lives together would unfold.

There’s a very cliché passage that’s common in many wedding ceremonies about a wedding ring being a circle with no beginning and no end, representing eternity, unending love, and the endless journey of life together. That passage has always irked me a little because it feels so predictable. Whenever I hear it, I find myself thinking, Really? Is a circle analogy the best thing we could come up with? I’ve had the opportunity to officiate many wedding ceremonies, and I always tell folks, “Don’t worry, I won’t drone on and on about how the ring is a circle.”

When I think about that moment up on Park Butte, the ring was simply a thing—a representation of an idea, a promise, and a bit of hope. As Emily Dickinson wrote, “Hope is the thing with feathers.” That’s what I put on my finger that day. Hope. Hope for something that we could create together.

I remember holding the ring up into the light of the alpenglow, watching it sparkle in the evening sun, its tiny facets catching the light and reflecting back the beauty of this incredible place that we were so lucky to share together. The diamond we had picked was actually a natural diamond — not a clear one. In fact, the color is almost grey, and the facets are somewhat sporadic. Around the edge of the ring, Aaron had purchased rough, uncut diamonds and had them embedded in the side of the ring. It was (is) perfect.

I couldn’t have possibly known at that moment the challenges and joys, the sadness and laughter, the adventures and ordinary days that would fill the next eleven years. All I knew was that I wanted to be part of whatever came next. And over the past eleven years, I remain infinitely glad that I have been.

Last week, Aaron and I returned together to Park Butte for the first time since we got engaged there. We didn’t actually go to the lookout this time. Instead, we wandered over to a series of tiny tarns so that Rose and I could film for our 2027 Benaroya Hall Crescendo concert benefiting the Washington Trails Association. Accompanied by Rose and our cinematographer Mitch Pittman, we made our way to this beautiful spot beneath the same mountain where, so many years ago, Aaron and I had decided to build a life together.

Rose and I quickly donned our dresses and started performing on the edge of a small reflecting pool. And as has happened so many times before in the wilderness, I became overwhelmed with gratitude—for this place, for my life, for my friends, for music, and for my amazing husband, who has supported me even during times when I felt as though I didn’t deserve that support.

As Rose and I played with tears in my eyes, I looked across the tarn and watched Aaron enthusiastically taking photo after photo and video after video of us performing. I smiled as I realized he was proudly documenting a wife who was very different from the one he had proposed to all those years ago. Back then, I was a railroad police officer with a dream of doing something different. Now I was living that dream, with Aaron still by my side.

One of the funny things about filming a Musical Mountaineers concert is that you start out incredibly strong. The adrenaline from the hike is still running through your veins and performing feels like this incredible energetic rush. You hit a note that sings, and your whole body erupts in goosebumps as though the universe has clicked into place.

As the day goes on, though, the fatigue starts to set in, and things can become a little funny. Laughter comes more easily and everything feels a little goofier. And believe it or not, standing outside for six hours in fifty-degree weather while wearing a gown isn’t exactly the easiest experience. It certainly requires a fair amount of dedication.

Toward the end of the evening, Rose and I were feeling exhausted, a little giddy, definitely cold, and laughing at almost everything. At some point I realized I had completely lost sight of Aaron, who had been hiding behind rocks so he wouldn’t be visible in the drone footage.

Then, in the middle of performing, something caught my eye. I looked toward a large boulder in the distance, and suddenly a single hand appeared above it.

Just...a hand. Holding a cellphone.

Aaron was completely hidden behind the rock, stretching his arm as high as he possibly could so he could continue filming us without ruining the shot.

The joy I felt in that moment was almost impossible to describe. My heart smiled with the deep knowing that, despite all the inevitable challenges that life brings, two imperfect people had continued choosing love over and over again.

My ring glistened in the sunset that evening too, but now it was a different kind of glistening. Eleven years earlier it had reflected hope. But now, it reflected choice. With all of the knowing of what our marriage would be — the good, the bad, and everything in between — the ring represented a continual decision to walk forward, together.

It reflected the life we’ve built, everything we’ve seen and felt and learned in all of the moments—both extraordinary and ordinary—that transformed a tiny ring from a symbol of possibility into a reminder that love isn’t something you find once. It’s something you choose, over and over again.

I have this VERY dorky thing that I do (often). When Aaron and I are out in public or adventuring, I usually will set up the self-timer on our phone to take a photo. Then, when he’s least expecting it (if I’m being honest — he’s probably expecting it at this point), I drop down to a knee and ‘propose’ to him. It originally started as a joke, but it’s turned into a fun practice — and he usually tries to make the photo funny by looking away while I’m doing it. And yes, while it started as a joke, the essence of what I’m doing is not a joke. Every time I do it, I think to myself: yes, I choose this. I choose us. Over and over again.

Eleven years ago, Aaron proposed to me at Park Butte lookout, and this time, in nearly the same location, I got to propose back. So much time has passed, and so much has changed in our lives since that night in April 2015, and as I looked at Aaron last week, I realized something else: my love has changed too. It hasn’t waned. It hasn’t gotten stale. Instead, it’s gotten richer… deeper… the layers of life shared, creating something much more than an idea or a ring. This, I think. This is what love really is. Not some white horse rom-com nonsense. It’s this: it’s watching my husband haul a violin-case-laden backpack across a sea of boulders just so he can be there with me to see what it’s like to bring music to the mountains.

Friends — thank you so much for being here, and for allowing me the chance to share this lovely story with all of you. It’s so special to be able to share these adventures with Aaron (we worked opposite schedules for the first 4 years of Kula’s life, so I do not take it for granted that we now have the freedom to be together all the time!).

I’m sending you all so much love today — wherever and however you are.

Dear Kula Diaries,

In 2011, I traveled to the tiny kingdom of Bhutan for a trek through the Himalayas. It was, quite honestly — the dream trip of a lifetime. I had no idea that upon my return home, my entire ‘normal’ life was going to be flipped upside down. On my first day back from that trip, my boss sat us down at a picnic table in the park shop and told me and my fellow park rangers that we were likely going to be laid off. In what felt like the blink of an eye, my dream job as a ranger was ripped out from under me.

At the time, I couldn’t see a silver lining, and had anybody told me to look for one, it would have been met with some unkind words. But as life will teach all of us, the only thing consistent about life is change, the ebb and flow of everything… and here we are to experience it.

I was thinking about that trip to Bhutan a few days ago and about something that happened there on the last day of the trek. I desperately did not want that trek to end. I was in a place in my life where I was married to a (now ex) husband that I wasn’t spending any time with, and I was using the mountains and hiking to escape from pretty much all the discomfort that I had ever felt in my life. Day to day, I was living out the ultimate grown-up form of running away from it all.

If I wasn’t hiking, I wasn’t happy. And so, as you can imagine, for those 18 days when we were hiking through the Himalayas, I was the happiest that I had ever been in my life. But that’s the thing about running from something: If you don’t keep running, it’ll eventually catch up to you. I wasn’t in a position where I could continue running forever. And in fact, I shouldn’t have. Sometimes you just have to face the storm head-on and figure it out.

And so it was on that last day of the trek, when I was grasping for the last tiny straws of it, that something happened:

We arrived at the final town on our walk, a remote village called Gasa. In fact, while I was there, they were in the final stages of finishing a road to this village. It was the first time a road had ever met the village. Prior to that, in order to leave the town, you had to walk or ride a horse, which the villagers had done their entire lives. But suddenly it was opening up to more people and more travelers due to an impossibly steep and precarious road being built into the side of a hill that would surely be a slide hazard for the rest of its natural-born life as a road.

And it was on this last day that we arrived at a monastery, as we had many times previously on the trip. At these monasteries, it was customary to remove your shoes and enter one of the prayer rooms where the monks were praying. We would sit down along the wall on pillows specifically set up for visitors so that we could listen and meditate and pray along with the monks. Several times the monks offered us tea or they dusted us with flour, a blessing meant for good luck and living to a ripe old age.

As we walked towards the door, I was with two fellow male trekking companions from our group. We approached the threshold and there was a little bit of a language-barrier commotion with one of the monks trying to say something to us, but us not fully understanding it. Then, there was a flurry of nods and head shaking — humans attempting to understand each other, but not really doing a good job of it. Try as I might, I was not able to learn Dzongkha (the primary language of Bhutan) for this trip. At that time, there was no Google Translate or Duolingo Dzongkha available (I’m pretty sure there still isn’t).

This is the traditional greeting in Bhutan:

ཀུ་ཟུ་ཟང་པོ

The correct pronunciation is, ‘Kuzu zang po’. It’s the Bhutanese version of “Hello” or “How Are you?” — one of the coolest memories that I have from Bhutan is seeing a yak herder far up on a treacherously steep hillside, deep in the Himalayas. He must have spotted our small group, because suddenly, we heard his echoing call, Kuuuuuzzzzuuuuuuu zaaaaaanggggg pooooooo!!’ reverberating through the entire valley. Our group, completely delighted, shouted back joyfully… and for nearly 5 minutes we exchanged echoing calls of greeting, before eventually continuing on our hike.

This time, after exchanging kuzu zang po at the threshold with the monks, and despite the apparent miscommunication, we ducked through the small door and entered the prayer room. Quietly and respectfully, we found our cushions along the wall, and sat down in a cross-legged position. The moment I sat down, I saw every eye of every monk turn to look at me, and all the monks started anxiously twitching on their own prayer mats and snickering amongst themselves while simultaneously looking at the head monk at the front of the room and then back at me.

I smiled and waved and sort of shrugged my shoulders stupidly and wasn’t quite sure what was going on.

As I sat there watching everything unfold, I could tell that something had happened or something was wrong, but I wasn’t sure what I had done. All I knew was that every eye was on me and then back to the head monk, and then on me, and then back to the head monk. I remember having this panicked feeling inside, like, Oh my gosh, did I do something to offend them? Since we had been going into monasteries the whole time, I couldn’t recall that I had done anything different in this one.

I looked imploringly at the head monk at the front of the room, who was sitting on a slightly elevated cushion, leading the prayers, half expecting him to give me some sort of directive. But that’s not what happened.

Instead, a huge smile broke out on his face, the biggest smile I’ve ever seen, and he threw his head back and started to laugh. That laugh rippled through the room like a wildfire, and soon a room of almost 40 monks was hysterically laughing. And at that point, so was I, and so were the two trekking companions with me.

Together we all sat in that room hysterically laughing, and I had no idea why. I just knew that it was the funniest thing that had ever happened to me in my life.

Even today, just thinking back on that moment, the uninhibited joy is palpable as I write these words. I have never felt anything quite like it, a reverberation of laughter that indeed felt like it was welling up from and enveloping the whole universe.

Eventually, the monks went back to their prayers, their chanting, and their singing, and I sat in the room with my eyes closed, letting their voices wash over me. I remember opening my eyes at one point and looking up, surprised to see that one of the younger monks had slipped a stashed cell phone from under his red robe, and was actively texting. He looked at me and held up a finger, as if to say, Shh, let’s keep this between us.

I smiled back.

Afterwards, as we left the room, several of the monks asked to have their photo taken, which I did, and they huddled around me while I showed them the photographs of themselves. This was long before smartphones, and many of these monks had never seen a photograph of what they looked like.

Our guide eventually arrived and started talking with one of the monks at the door, and I could see that the conversation was getting more energetic as they both started to laugh. I walked up to Ugyen (our guide) after he was done talking with the monk and asked, “Did they say anything about what happened in there?” I was so curious about the laughing incident.

Ugyen smiled at me.

“Women actually aren’t allowed in that room,” he said.

I gasped. I was immediately horrified by the disrespect that I had inadvertently showed. The mistranslation had gone horribly wrong, and we had assumed that I was allowed in. Whether or not I understood the traditions and customs of the Buddhist monks was irrelevant. They clearly had a rule, and I very clearly had not followed it.

I put my hand over my mouth. “I am so sorry,” I said.

I felt so embarrassed for my behavior. Here I was, just another stupid tourist.

Ugyen shook his head. “It’s all good,” he said. “It made their day.”

I’ve reflected back often on that moment and on the kindness of those monks. Many people would have rolled their eyes at the dumb American tourist who unknowingly wandered blissfully into a male-only meditation room. But instead, these monks exemplified what it means to practice acceptance and peace and to go with the flow of the universe, even when it’s not what you want.

They were able to see the artificial boundaries set by humans and could see that this was not a misstep in the dance of life, but rather a twirl. They knew that they could choose to see this as a stumble with pain, or as a delicate wisp of the cosmos, with the ability to witness it as a thing of beauty and a source of laughter and joy. The ultimate alchemy: turning the energy of the universe itself into love.

Of course, this doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t have rules or structure, and I don’t think that that’s what the monks were implying or accepting. And it’s certainly not what I’m suggesting. If I went back, I wouldn’t enter that room out of respect. But at that time, I did, and there were two ways to handle it. And the monks chose and made a deliberate decision to see that instance through the lens of the universe itself and not through the lens of human-made structure and rigidity.

I think of those monks often, particularly in moments where it feels like nothing is going right, or at least not the way that I wanted things to go.

It’s just a twirl, I’ll think.

And sometimes, not always, but sometimes I swear that if I listen closely enough, I can still hear the faint echo of those monks laughing.

Friends — it feels SO special to recall this wonderful trip to Bhutan, which — more than 15 years later, I still think about often. It was and is one of my favorite memories, and I’m so truly grateful for the 18 days that I spent there. I was definitely in a different place in my life during that time — when I came back from Bhutan, I sunk into a very deep depression — but I know that, ultimately, what bloomed from that place of sadness and loss, was something of great beauty and resilience. I no longer ‘need’ to go on wild adventures in order to feel happy — and I love living with the knowledge that these special walks in beautiful places have helped to shape the story of my own life — as I am sure your walks and hikes have done for all of you.

I’ll end today with the traditional Bhutanese/Tibetan farewell (which, like ‘aloha’, can also serve as a greeting for best wishes and good luck)— Tashi delek!

P.S. filling this post with random life photos from the last few weeks, just for fun!

Dear Kula Diaries,

This is a story about remembering what really matters.

A few weeks ago, I found myself having one of those days. And by ‘those days’, I mean the type of day where you stub your toe within two seconds of waking up, and the rest of the day feels like you’re stubbing pretty much everything else. It’s what I like to call… a stubbable day.

Soon, the layers begin to compound, and somehow, you find yourself on a Zoom call, feeling unbelievably stressed and worked up about how far behind you are, about how much you aren’t getting done, about the impossible task of attempting to do a seemingly impossible list of tasks. A day like this sneaks up on you and leaves you with quite a feeling of disappointment in yourself and a feeling of impending doom. For anybody who has started a business or simply lived life before, this is probably a familiar feeling—one that’s not exclusive to me, but rather something shared. We hear somebody else talking about this and innately start nodding our heads. On those types of days, it seems like even the most minute thing that goes wrong becomes annoying, just another obstacle, another tiny piece of proof that I’m screwing up and things are not going my way.

It was on such a day that, in the midst of my morning walk, I had a sudden impulse to check my email, which is normally not something that I do on my walk. For some reason, I decided that I needed to confirm the time that I was supposed to be playing my violin with Aaron, my husband, who plays the ukulele, at the assisted living home the following day. As I scrolled through the email, I came across the communication with the vitality director where she had asked me to perform a day earlier than originally planned. I had very clearly written back and confirmed that change with her, which meant that on this day—this already stubbable day where it felt like everything was starting to fall apart a little bit—I suddenly realized that I had forgotten about a performance I had committed to, or at least written it in my calendar on the wrong day.

I wasn’t mentally prepared for this. Suddenly, I felt overwhelmed by the number of tasks that I had to do, and now I had to quickly prepare for a performance. The sense of compressed time that I felt was physically tangible. How was I going to fit everything into this day? On top of that, I hadn’t had a day off in nearly two weeks and was feeling the stress and anxiety of not having had any chance to recuperate after a long trip to Reno for a pretty exhausting outdoor industry show.

At ten minutes before one p.m. that day, I quickly packed up my violin and rushed everything out into the car with Aaron, where we headed off to the assisted living facility where we perform monthly. On the entire drive there, I felt that familiar sense of urgency, a burning sensation in my chest telling me that I was falling behind, that I hadn’t done enough that day, and that I was letting people down. I’ve been volunteering now at this assisted living center for over a year, and it has been one of the most life-giving experiences and parts of my month. Usually, it’s something that I anticipate greatly because I love connecting with the folks who live there and sharing music.

But this time, as we arrived in the parking lot, I was very clearly not there. And by that, I mean I was in my head, still looking over the to-do list, still criticizing myself for my lack of productivity. Then I walked into the room and was instantly met by dozens of pairs of kind eyes who had been anticipating my arrival because they just wanted to hear my music. I didn’t have to prove anything to them. I didn’t have to tell them what I had done that day to optimize my business for search engine and agentic shopping. I didn’t have to talk to them about my latest performance metrics. I just needed to be there. That was it. There was nothing being asked of me except simply to be. I felt my shoulders start to drop, and my breathing began to settle.

As I looked out into that room, into those dozens of pairs of loving eyes, I saw people who were seeing me exactly as I was. And for a moment, I was able to see myself that way, too. Suddenly, as if a magic eraser had swooped down from the heavens, the stumbles of the day were erased, and I was simply there—laughing, playing music, trying to get everybody to guess which song I was going to play next, and urging folks to sing along.

Me and Irma doing some improv together!

When I play my violin there, I always try to tell stories about silly adventures that I’ve had while playing the violin. Since we’re thick in the midst of summer, I started out by telling the story of the first time I was ever paid to play my violin. I was twelve years old and was hired by a student in my school to play at his grandmother’s ninetieth birthday party. Her favorite song was Summertime from Porgy and Bess.

At the age of twelve, I had already been playing violin for seven years. So while I looked very tiny and inexperienced, I actually was a relatively proficient violin player. We hatched the idea to surprise the grandmother. My friend, whose name was Buddy, walked out in front of the audience and said, “Grandma, happy 90th birthday. This is my gift to you.” I appeared from behind a closed door, and you could hear the entire room—a big fancy dining room area filled with people—gasp in disbelief that this twelve-year-old was going to come out and play a song.

Immediately, I lifted my violin and began playing Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, which, of course, was part of our plan. Buddy wanted me to surprise the audience by being much better than I seemed to be. So, I played Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star, and I could tell that the audience was being predictably very polite about how good of a violinist I was, admiring me as a cute little girl who was only mediocre at the violin, but not really taking me very seriously.

As soon as I was done playing, I took a bow as I received polite applause and then, much to everybody’s surprise, lifted the violin again and threw myself into a jazzy rendition of Summertime from Porgy and Bess. I still remember the look on the grandmother’s face as I played her favorite song, tears streaming down her cheeks, as her grandson stood nearby beaming because the entire surprise had been his idea. I was paid fifty dollars to play at that birthday party, which at the time was more money than I had ever earned in my entire life.

But even though I felt abundantly rich for a twelve-year-old, in some way I realized that the true gift had not been the money. It had been that moment—a moment shared with everybody in that room to celebrate the love of a grandson and his grandmother on her ninetieth birthday.

As I played for the assisted living center a few weeks ago, the (now meaningless) stress of the day vanishing into nothingness, I put myself into the music fully, just like I had when I was twelve years old. It seemed to come from a place that had no limits, a place that was not bound by rules or expectations, a place that only existed in the purest of love.

One of the last songs that I played was a song that I had never played for this particular group before. Because it was right before Father’s Day weekend, I thought it would be really nice to play one of my favorite pieces. It’s called O Mio Babbino Caro, which means “my beloved father.” It’s a very special piece by Puccini. And as I played it, I could feel the whole cosmos clicking into place, as if to say, “This is what matters. This is what matters.”

At the end of the piece, I told everybody that my favorite part was when there is a delicate musical phrase where the note shifts up to a high G. I explained to the group that listening to that moment reminded me of reaching up and touching a cloud. That when I played that note, I thought in my heart, “How can I make this the most beautiful note that has ever existed to share with all of you?”

IMPORTANT ASSIGNMENT: This is the most beautiful version of the song mentioned above that I’ve heard on the violin (seriously recommend wearing headphones and listen to it with your eyes closed… that high note will get you every time!!)

I looked into the audience and saw dozens and dozens of smiling eyes looking back at me. Then I lifted my violin once more. Aaron flipped the page of the music, and we began to play Leonard Cohen’s, Hallelujah. As we did, the whole room started to sing. Every single person in the room burst into song, singing word by word. And together, those words and those notes reached a place that simply cannot be described. It’s only a place that can be felt — a moment when I can understand what Melville meant when he wrote, “It is not down on any map; true places never are.”

Aaron and I filmed this a few years ago, and I thought it would bring a bit of magic into your day today:

In moments like this, I am reminded that I’m not alone. That there is nothing I need to fear… no thing I need to do. I am scooped up by the hands of love. I’m still remembering. I’m still learning. I forget all the time, but the universe comes back and comes back and comes back and reminds me:

This, Anastasia, is what matters. This is everything.

Friends — thank YOU SO MUCH for being here and for reading my stories each week! I hope that you all have a restful, wonderful week and that you are able to find many moments throughout to connect with what really matters.

Dear Kula Diaries,

If you’ve been here a while, this will not be news to you. But if you’re new here, or if you just woke up from a fever dream and ended up on my Substack page, it behooves a short introduction:

I am the founder of a small outdoor gear company called Kula Cloth that makes a flagship product called the Kula Cloth, which is an antimicrobial pee cloth for anybody who squats when they pee. Yes, that’s right — an absorbent piece of fabric for pee (only).

After using a scrap of fabric as a pee cloth for many years, and after teaching all of my backpacking students how life-changing it was to use one in the backcountry, I had an idea to try to turn it into a real piece of gear. To compress a very long story into one sentence, I talked myself out of it, had a near-death experience, and then talked myself back into it.

Now, eight years later—in fact, eight years on July 20th, which is tomorrow as of the publication of this essay—we recently received a milestone award (aka a paperweight) from Shopify, the website that hosts our online store, celebrating the fact that on May 11th of this year we shipped our 100,000th direct-to-consumer order.

What does that mean?

It means that 100,000 individual orders have been placed on our website, and that each one of those orders was either packed by me or one of my employees from one of three different locations: the guest bedroom in our previous house, the guest bedroom or garage in our current house, and now our small headquarters here in Washington State.

As a side note, this number doesn’t include most of our wholesale orders, which make up a significant portion of our business. These are simply the orders where one individual came to our website, decided to purchase a Kula Cloth or two, and we lovingly packed it up and sent it to their home.

A few days ago, I was scrolling through my phone when I came across a photograph of myself holding the very first order I ever shipped. It’s in a paper envelope with stamps as postage—which, as the post office later informed me, doesn’t actually work because you can’t mail a package as though it were a letter. I had handwritten the customer’s name and address directly onto the envelope.

I can’t begin to describe the joy I felt in that moment. This was the very first Kula Cloth, sewn by my own hands, that I had released into the universe. It was the first tangible proof that an idea inside my mind could become something real. It felt like taking a little piece of my heart and setting it free.

So what have I learned after shipping more than 100,000 orders? (As of writing this post, we are rapidly approaching 107,000!)

The lessons, it turns out, have very little to do with business or being a, ‘successful brand’.

So… let’s get into it:

It's Not What You're Doing. It's How You're Doing It.

When I first started an outdoor gear business, I imagined spending my days wandering trails, inspiring people, going on adventures, and living this impossibly glamorous outdoor lifestyle. I am here to tell you that this has not been my experience. Do I love what I do? Absolutely. Is it also repetitive, frustrating, overwhelming, and exhausting at times? Also absolutely. This experience contains the multitudes of life, just like everything else. If you are starting a business to feel happiness — you are going to be disappointed, because happiness does not come from your business. It comes from within you, and your business can then be a vessel for those feelings … but it certainly is not the root cause.

There were so many things about running a business that I never anticipated. I didn’t know how to build systems because I had never built a company before. I simply had an idea. But once you bring an idea to life, it comes with customers who need help, employees who depend on you, unexpected problems, taxes, inventory, shipping delays, website glitches, and countless responsibilities that never crossed your mind when all you had was inspiration. For the first year of Kula Cloth, I didn’t even know what a customer service management system was, and I was attempting (poorly) to handle all of our customer service e-mails via Gmail … while googling things like, ‘What is a line sheet?", or, ‘How do I get my reseller’s certificate?’.

There have been many moments when I’ve wanted (honestly) to walk away from it all. I have hid these moments well, but I assure you, I am not sugar coating this. During those moments, I’ve had to remember why I started in the first place. It wasn’t to build the biggest company. It wasn’t to chase endless growth. Instead, It was because I believed I could create something that genuinely brought goodness into people’s lives. That has become my true north — my beacon that keeps me focused on the task at hand, when things like inventory debacles get in the way. That’s the primary mission. The products and the sales are secondary. My purpose is simply to use the inspiration that has led me to this exact moment in this exact lifetime to bring good to the people I encounter along the way. If I’ve done that, then I’ve already succeeded, regardless of what any business expert tells me. I refuse to become so consumed by the capitalistic hellscape that I forget to enjoy my life or destroy my body with stress. My purpose is simply to be here now and to bring goodness wherever I happen to be. End of story. When you realize that — you become free. Ironically, your business also tends to become highly successful in that type of energy — without destroying yourself in the process.

This is not about your product or about ‘stuff’. It’s about other humans.

When people hear that we’ve shipped over 100,000 orders, it sounds enormous. But looking back, I don’t think we’ve ever really shipped 100,000 orders. We’ve shipped one order... over and over again. Every package belonged to one person. One human being who worked hard for their money and decided to spend a little of it on something that began as an idea in my head. It’s easy to think about business in terms of numbers, but numbers don’t laugh. Numbers don’t cry. Numbers don’t send heartfelt emails about how something changed their backpacking experience or helped them feel more comfortable in their own body. People do. Behind every order number has always been a real person, and remembering that has kept this business feeling deeply human.

If you forget that, you lose the whole point of everything <gestures at the universe>. When in doubt, keep this in perspective above all things. In the epic saga of the cosmos, nothing really matters except that the love we bring to others. That’s the honest truth.

That naturally leads into another lesson:

Small Things Matter.

After all, this entire company exists because of a small thing. A pee cloth is not a life-altering invention in the grand scheme of human history (although I might argue myself on that statement). It’s a simple idea. But simple things have a remarkable way of changing the texture of everyday life. A handwritten note tucked into a package. A watercolor painted by hand. A silly newsletter. A sticker that makes someone laugh. None of these things are monumental on their own, but together they remind us that someone cared enough to make an ordinary moment feel a little less ordinary. I’ve come to believe that life itself is built exactly the same way—not from grand gestures, but from countless tiny moments of kindness that accumulate into something beautiful.

Have Fun.

To me, this is the entire point of owning your own business. It gives you the freedom to pull on an interesting thread and see where it leads. If I want to write a newsletter that includes a quest, I can. If I want to run this company like Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory, I can. If I want to tuck hand-painted watercolors into random orders, I can do that too.

Nobody gets to tell me what this has to look like, and that is SO MUCH FUN.

Without that freedom, I genuinely don’t see the point. I love what I do because it allows me to create. Yes, there are plenty of things that fall outside the category of ‘fun’, but the more time I spend creating from a place of curiosity, wonder, and play, the more aligned I feel with the reason I started this company in the first place.

Sometimes I remind myself that we are human beings floating on a rock through an infinite cosmos that could literally disappear into a more stable vacuum at any moment. Society is largely a collection of ideas we’ve collectively agreed upon. Even money is just one of those ideas. None of it is nearly as serious as we make it out to be. At the end of the day, it’s a pee cloth and an idea, and it’s supposed to be fun. The more joy I can infuse into this work, the more love I seem to bring into it as well.

You Never Actually Arrive Somewhere Different than Now.

I used to think that satisfaction lived somewhere out ahead of me. Maybe it would happen after the first hundred orders. Or one thousand. Or after hiring employees. Or getting a warehouse. Or reaching 100,000 orders. But every time I reached one of those milestones, life simply continued. There was no dramatic moment where everything suddenly clicked into place and I felt permanently fulfilled. There was simply another ordinary Tuesday waiting on the other side. And, there’s the ‘dangling carrot trap’ — which tricks you into thinking that if you keep chasing, you’ll eventually get there.

Well, guess what? You are there. Right now. This is IT! The only moment we ever have. Don’t miss it trying to be somewhere else.

Oddly enough, I’ve found that incredibly comforting. It means life isn’t happening someday. It isn’t hiding behind the next goal or the next achievement. It’s happening while you’re packing orders with music playing in the background, laughing with your coworkers, drinking your morning coffee, or watching the sunlight come through the windows of our semi-crooked (literally) building. The finish line was never where the joy lived. The joy has always been here all along. It’s here right now, if we remember to look for it.

Take Care of Yourself.

It’s so easy to lose yourself in your business because it truly is an extension of your heart. It is something you created from nothing, and it’s tempting to let it become your entire identity. But it isn’t who you are, and it cannot define your existence.

This is why I believe it’s so important to intentionally reconnect with the bigger part of yourself every day. To step outside the constant stream of thoughts, worries, stories, planning, and problem-solving long enough to touch something much larger than your own mind. It’s difficult to describe in words, but it’s unmistakable when you feel it.

I’ve become much better at resting over the years. When you own a business, work and play often blur together, making it easy to work constantly. But your brain needs rest. Your nervous system needs care. Your mental health needs tending. As the owner of a business, we are often taught that we need to do more… when the solution might actually reside in doing less.

For me, that means meditation. Dancing. Painting. Playing music. Riding my motorcycle. Hiking. Stepping away completely. Admittedly, I am not always good at resting. BUT — I’m getting better at it. I’m intentionally finding ways to carve out time that is for ME — completely unaffiliated with my ‘job’.

I promise you the world will keep turning. Nothing will fall apart.

But, If you never allow yourself to rest, eventually something will break—either you or the business. I’ve learned that it’s my responsibility to create space for renewal before my body creates that space for me in a far less enjoyable way.

And perhaps the biggest lesson of all is this:

You Are Already Enough.

Sometimes I look at that photograph of myself holding that very first package, with its handwritten address and completely incorrect postage, and I want to give that younger version of myself a hug. She thought success lived somewhere out ahead of her, waiting patiently at the end of enough hard work. She couldn’t have known that eight years later, after shipping more than 100,000 orders, the biggest lesson wouldn’t be about business at all.

It would be that she was already enough before she ever shipped the first package.

The business didn’t make her whole. It simply gave her another beautiful way to express the wholeness that had been there all along.

Friends — thank YOU so much for being here and for your endless support. Some of you have been Kula fans since BEFORE I even started the company… and some of you might still be scratching your head and wondering how you ended up reading a story about a pee cloth. Both are amazing, and I’m simply so honored that you are here. I hope that the story of Kula can continue to teach me (and others) about what really matters in this wild, wonderful experience of life. Thanks for letting me carve out my own little nook of the universe to share with all of you.

Dear Kula Diaries friends,

On July 1, 2026, our Dance Experiment group celebrated the final session in our structured program. It was the 1,635th consecutive day that our group had shared dancing together. Yes, this means that there was some type of Zoom call and virtual dance party every single solitary day for 1,635 days in a row. I’m pretty proud of that, and I know that a lot of people in the group are too—as they should be.

The final session itself was quite special… as was the entire month leading up to it. It was a really difficult decision for me to transition this program into something with a lot less structure, but the group took the change with grace and understanding. During the month of June, there were so many beautiful reflections shared about what this program meant to people, about the friendships they had created along the way, about the way dance had changed their lives, about the way the program had continued to support them through difficult times. The practice of dance had created such a positive ripple of energy in so many lives.

If I’m being honest, I had cried at almost every session leading up to our final one, so I knew the last session was going to be quite a tearjerker. I started the session by reading a poem that I wrote in the early days of the Dance Experiment, back when I had our creative director make me a postcard that I could hand out in hopes of recruiting people to join the program.

Here’s the poem:

Next, we moved into a meditation. Aaron and I have recently been doing a course on Insight Timer called The God Note by Charles Freligh He’s the same instructor who led the 111-day Zen course that I’ve previously mentioned, and this course is quite beautiful and profound. The meditation was short—only four minutes—but it seemed to be one of those meditations that immediately touched the gratitude button. As soon as it started, from behind the screen of my computer, I started to weep. Luckily, the video on my computer was turned off — but I felt such a profound sense of gratitude and sadness at the same time.

With that mindset, we began our dance set.

I had asked each Joy Facilitator to contribute one song to the playlist. We started with my choice, which of course was “Blinding Lights,” and then moved into everyone else’s selections. As each new song came on, I changed the Spotlight button on Zoom so that the facilitator who had chosen that song was highlighted during the dance. Every single time I saw one of them pop onto the screen, I started crying even more. To watch these incredible humans, who have been so devoted to this program for four years, show up and dance on Zoom with so many people was quite profound in a very unexpected way. By the last song, I was weeping tears of everything.

And I say tears of everything because it really was. It was joy. It was peace. It was relief. It was happiness. It was sadness. It felt like the full human experience had swirled itself into one 34-minute Dance Experiment.

You can listen to our final playlist here:

After we finished dancing, I tried—poorly—to articulate my thoughts. All I could really muster was how grateful I was to live in a world where a whole bunch of humans can get together at 6:30 in the morning for a dance party. What a beautiful planet. What a beautiful life experience.

Seeing the world through the eyes of the Dance Experiment has helped me focus so much on what is right with the world. And friends, I’m happy to report there is very much right with it. After everybody was done sharing gratitude and thank-yous, I did the thing I had imagined and feared for quite some time.

It was something I had done many, many, many times over the years, but for some reason this time seemed quite different. This time I actually read the words and thought about what they meant.

When you host a Zoom call, that also means that you need to be the one to ‘end’ the call. To do that, there’s a red button with an ‘x’ on it in the corner of a Zoom call that says, “END’. When you click it, another window pops up and gives you more options, as if to ask: Is this really what you meant to do? Are YOU SURE?

I hovered my mouse over the red button that said, in white letters, “End Meeting for All.”

I looked at the gallery view one last time… the dozens of Zoom boxes filled with my happy, dancing friends. I took a deep breath…

And I clicked the button.

I stood in my little garage studio for a while, trying to regain my composure, trying to make it look like I hadn’t been crying so much before I walked in to meet Aaron for our morning walk.

I felt a sense of both emptiness and gratitude.

Instead of avoiding those feelings, I allowed myself to simply be there with them. To see them. To notice how truly special it was that, for four years, I had the opportunity to care so deeply about a group of humans who danced together every single day.

Our Dance Experiment program was a lot of work. It was, in every sense of the phrase, a true labor of love. Over the years, though, with the added responsibilities of running a growing gear company, it simply became too hard for me to continue running it as a business—which is never what I had wanted it to be anyway.

On paper, it looks simple: show up and host a Zoom call. How much work could that be? But on the back end, it required a lot of time spent scheduling, making sure people got paid, covering holidays, and constantly checking my email and text messages to make sure everything was ready for the next day’s session. There was not one single day in the last 1,635 days when I didn’t check to make sure that the program was running smoothly. Sometimes technical issues or emergencies arose and people couldn’t be there, so we needed to find a substitute. Often, I’d step in myself. I personally hosted calls every Christmas and every Thanksgiving for the past four years. And it wasn’t just me — 6 Joy Facilitators, an Event Coordinator and an accounts payable person made this program possible. It was a FULL ON production, EVERY single day of the year.

I don’t say any of this to make anybody feel bad, because the truth is this: I loved it!! I loved every ounce of ‘work’—if you can even call it that—that I put into making this possible. It’s something nobody in the universe has ever done before, and might never do again... unless, of course, we start it back up at some point in the future. I will never, for one second, regret any iota of a moment that I spent with these amazing humans — they are now, and always will be, true friends. Many of whom I have met in person as a result of this program.

But, over the past few months, I’ve had to be honest with myself about my own mental health and well-being. And sometimes that means making decisions that don’t necessarily feel good.

I’m going to divert for a moment to share a (difficult) story that has always helped me put this into perspective.

Many years ago, I worked in a job where I had a boss I cared about very much. He was like a father figure to me, and we had a wonderful working relationship and friendship. One day I was working alone when one of my employees called me. I could tell from her voice that she had been drinking.

She told me she needed to tell me about something that had happened at work and she described a situation where our boss had done something completely inappropriate that had made her feel so uncomfortable she had called in sick the following week because she was afraid it might happen again.

I remember sitting there feeling a pit form in my stomach—a hollow cave that I desperately wanted to swallow me up.

It’s one thing to hear about something like this on television and say exactly how you would react. It’s another thing entirely when you’re actually faced with the situation and years of friendship complicate the thoughts going through your mind. And when I say ‘complicate’ my thoughts, I don’t mean that for one second I didn’t know what to do. I mean the combination of disappointment, anger, and sadness was so unbelievably intense and overwhelming: How could you possibly have done this? How could you have put me in this situation? I picked up the phone. I called my boss’s boss and I told him I needed to meet with him immediately.

The following morning at 7:00 a.m., the employee who had called me the night before phoned again, panicked.

“I lied,” she said. “None of what I told you was true. I was just drunk.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “I’ve already reported this.”

I knew that whether she had been drunk or not was irrelevant. Any report of inappropriate sexual behavior had to be reported. This wasn’t optional. She slammed down the phone. And with that… I braced myself for what would become the most hellacious few months of my entire working career.

The next several months were… horrifically painful and awkward. During the investigation, nearly everyone I worked with began ignoring me, giving me the silent treatment, and accusing me of making up the entire story in order to get a promotion. …including the person (the victim!) who had originally reported it.

At one point, my boss—who unbelievably was still allowed to continue working during the investigation—walked out of the office, slammed the door, and screamed that I had ruined his entire life. I remember thinking to myself:

But I’m not the one who did the thing that you did.

Over the course of the investigation, numerous former employees were interviewed. And what I learned through that process is that when you shake a tree, leaves start to fall out. Another woman admitted something similar had happened to her. She had simply been too afraid to report it.

Toward the end of the investigation, someone from headquarters pulled me aside during an unrelated event. “I don’t know if anyone has told you this,” he said, “and I can’t imagine how difficult this has been for you, but I want you to know you did the right thing.” I stood there with a lump in my throat, wanting to scream, wanting to release the pain I had been carrying for so long. I had felt SO ALONE for so long, and the recognition and validation of my pain from another human hit me like a gut punch.

Barely able to speak, I looked at him with tears in my eyes, “Thanks,” I said. “I appreciate it.”

I haven’t told this story to many people because, to be honest, it still hurts. Even now, decades later, it hurts to think about everything that happened that summer. And yet, as I think back to that time, there is not one cell in my body that doesn’t know I did the right thing. If I could go back, I would do exactly the same thing again. To this day, I feel very proud of how I handled that situation. But there is no part of me that feels good about it. Because at the end of the day, the whole thing was just… sad. Sad and disappointing on so many complex levels that it hurts to even comprehend. But that experience taught me one of the most important lessons I have ever carried with me:

Doing the right thing does not always feel good.

As a chronic people pleaser who recoils from pain and has a deep-seated fear of disappointing people and making them uncomfortable, I have often put my own well-being second in an attempt to avoid discomfort. It’s uncomfortable to do hard things. But just because something is uncomfortable and sad does not mean it is not the right thing to do.

I want to be clear: I am not comparing my work situation with ending The Dance Experiment. Instead, I’m comparing the experience of feeling like you are in an impossible place… and having to make a decision that, no matter how you look it… hurts. While the decision to end the Dance Experiment doesn’t even remotely compare to the debacle at my former job, that same feeling of disappointment was there: Disappointment in myself. The fear of letting people down. All stemming, of course, from the greatest human need of all:

The need to be loved.

And yet, as I’ve learned—as many of us have probably learned—this is looking for love in all the wrong places. Because love is not a thing that you get from others. Love is simply who you are. It is something that already exists inside of you and it is the part of you that looks out for others. It is also the part of you that looks out for yourself. It is an energy within your heart that you can radiate at all times. And the infinite love that exists within you is not something that can ever be stripped away.

No amount of work drama. No amount of making difficult decisions. No number of challenging moments in life. Nothing ever makes you less deserving or less worthy of love. Because you are always—and forevermore will be—worthy of the infinite love that already exists inside of you.

This is what I felt on our final dance call, and why it was both so beautiful and so hard.

I realized I had this amazing group of humans who had all shown up, bringing their own infinite love with them into that moment, dancing and celebrating something that we had all created together. The love that I felt that morning was intensely beautiful and unique — a thing that I will (seriously) cherish for the rest of my life. And in that moment, I faced the ultimate fear: the fear of not being loved for being who I am… and what happened was quite remarkable:

Nobody slammed the virtual Zoom door on the way out. Nobody made me feel bad. Instead, it was just love. And I realized that clicking that red button was never closing a door… instead, it was opening a new one…an infinite one that could lead anywhere. Open to the possibilities. Open to the ways this beautiful experiment of dancing through life can continue to thrive unexpectedly.

The following morning, we had our first day in 1,635 days with no Zoom call. It was the first day that the Zoom room was silent at 6:30 a.m. It was, honestly… weird. And yet, as I put my earbuds in and danced to my own playlist—the very same one I had shared with everyone the night before—I could feel them there. I could feel the love that we had created. And very decidedly, even though I was dancing by myself on a road in the middle of the woods... I knew in my heart...that I was not dancing alone.

Friends — thank you all for being here, it means so much to me — and thank you for following along with the ups-and-downs of ‘figuring it all out’. When it comes down to it, we are all just trying our best, and there is no blueprint for a life that hasn’t yet been fully lived. It’s up to each of us to make the most of it, in the best way that we can.

Sending you all so much love, today and all days!

Dear Kula Diaries,

I haven’t done a roundup post in a while, and I’ve been collecting things to share. That time is now. This is going to be a little cornucopia of fun, interesting, curious things that I like or wanted to share with you that wouldn’t necessarily fit into a post of their own.

So here goes…

Look, Ma, I’m Famous!

A few weeks ago, my friend Tommy Corey—an outdoor photographer, portrait photographer, and author of All Humans Outside—launched his latest project called Bloomline Collective.

Tommy was inspired to start this project because he wanted a place for real human connection that focused on real human stories instead of AI slop. I’m pretty excited to continue reading the stories as he publishes them.

The first story featured my friend Morgan, a mobile physical therapist and thru-hiker whom I first met during my very first PCT Days event, when I had to borrow Wi-Fi from her cell phone for the entire event because I forgot to bring my own. Morgan is a pretty incredible human who has changed the lives of countless thru-hikers, and her story is really special.

Which is why I was so honored to be featured as story number two!

Tommy wrote a beautiful article about how I ended up doing what I’m doing, and somehow he managed to capture it in such a lovely way that it actually felt new to me—even though I already knew the story and knew how it would end. He wrote it in a way that made it come alive for me all over again. Plus, Tommy’s photography is AMAZING!! I love the photos that he chose to include.

I hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I did.

I also want to mention that I personally joined Bloomline Collective as a founding member (using my own money — it’s only $50 for a lifetime membership!). It’s something anyone can do if you’d like to support Tommy, his project, and all of the meaningful stories he’s going to be sharing. As somebody who’s known Tommy for many years, I’m incredibly proud of him, and I’m looking forward to watching this new adventure unfold.

The Most Beautiful Painting I’ve Ever Seen

About two weeks ago, my husband asked if we had any plans the following Sunday. I told him I didn’t think so, and he replied that we needed to drive to Redmond, Washington...but he absolutely refused to tell me why. Naturally, I spent the entire week trying to guess.

Eventually I convinced myself that he must have bought something on Facebook Marketplace and that we were simply driving to pick it up. It sounded like he was coordinating with someone else, though, and I couldn’t figure out who. I guessed just about everyone I knew… nope, none of them were correct.

Then, Sunday arrived and we drove an hour and ten minutes to what felt like a very random house. To be honest, I was a bit nervous, because it all felt very mysterious — like we were about to ‘intrude’ into some random stranger’s home. So, I simply could not have been more surprised when my dear friend—and artist—Sophia Trinh opened the door.

Aaron had told me beforehand that within about two minutes of arriving, I would probably figure out what was happening. The second I saw Sophia, I knew. What I didn’t know was that this scheme had been unfolding behind my back for months.

Apparently it all started back in April, when we saw Sophia at an art event. Aaron had pulled her aside and asked if she would be willing to create a commissioned painting as a surprise gift for me! I was SHOCKED! You can watch a beautiful video of the painting and my reaction here: Galaxy Whale Video.

For years I’ve watched Sophia paint her watercolor whales and dreamed about someday hanging one of them in our house. As many of you know, I’m a self-proclaimed Moby-Dick fanatic. I even wrote a three-part fan fiction series inspired by the novel. It’s my favorite book and has become a deeply meaningful symbol in my own life. (you can read the Moby Peak series here: PART 1, PART 2, PART 3 — it’s one of my favorite stories I’ve ever written… seriously, I love it, so don’t be frightened away from it by the Moby Dick reference!!).

At one point I had mentioned to both Aaron and Sophia that my dream painting would be a whale swimming through the cosmos: A galaxy whale. Well...unbeknownst to me, they’d been working on exactly that. This past weekend, everything was finally revealed as Sophia unveiled her remarkable original painting.

It is truly a masterpiece.

I’ve found myself sitting in front of it over and over again, and every single time I look at it I discover something new—tiny stars, swirling galaxies woven into the whale, little details hidden among the planets. It is simply breathtaking and I feel unbelievably honored to have Sophia’s work hanging in our home.

Even more special than the painting itself was getting to spend the afternoon with Sophia and her parents, hearing about her creative upbringing, and talking with her dad about being present, finding our own unique paths through life, and extending compassion toward others.

The painting is currently preparing to be professional framed… so stay tuned, I’ll be sure to share another photo once it’s on display.

Dungeon Crawler Carl and Donut Are Back

Matt Dinniman—Gig Harbor, Washington resident and author of the Dungeon Crawler Carl series—just released book eight, A Parade of Horribles. We had pre-ordered the audio book months ago… so Aaron and I immediately started listening.

And now we’re both incredibly sad... ...because we listened to it too quickly and now it’s over. It was one of the few books I’ve ever said this about before: it was absolutely worth the year-long wait. Chapter 57—the karaoke bar fight chapter—may be one of the most ridiculous and insane things I’ve ever listened to. It’s hard to explain… so, just take my word for it.

If you’re new to the series, I cannot recommend the audiobooks highly enough. The narrator, Jeff Hayes, performs every single character voice himself, and somehow brings them to life in a way that I honestly can’t describe.

Even if the description of the books doesn’t sound like something you’d normally enjoy, I implore you to give them a chance. Had I only read the back cover, I’m not sure I ever would have started the series. Now it’s one of my all-time favorites, and I have fallen hook-line n’ sinker in love with Princess Donut.

Another fun surprise has been discovering just how widespread the Dungeon Crawler Carl community is. Whether I’m talking motorcycles or hiking or some completely unrelated topic, if I casually drop a Dungeon Crawler Carl reference into the conversation, somebody almost always catches it. It makes for some pretty hilarious interactions.

Now I just have to patiently wait another year for the next book.

The Garlic Diaries

I can’t remember whether I mentioned this in my last update, but I’ve started seeing a dietitian. As it turns out, one of my neighbors, Jamie, is a dietitian and part of a local group called Common Table. You can find Jamie here: Jamie’s Website - she’s AMAZING, and I highly recommend working with her! You can find Common Table here: Common Table website.

I decided I wanted a little extra help navigating my nutrition, especially because I’ve been dealing with stomach discomfort off and on for many years. I started wondering whether there might actually be a bigger issue underneath everything. Meeting with Jamie was incredibly validating.

She confirmed that I wasn’t imagining my symptoms—even though, over the years, I’d largely convinced myself that what I was experiencing was simply normal. As it turns out, feeling like your stomach is going to blow up on a regular basis is, in fact, not normal (go figure!).

Following her recommendation, I started doing some food sensitivity and intolerance testing. Pretty quickly, one of my breath tests showed that my methane levels were abnormally high, which, among other things, can sometimes indicate methane-dominant SIBO.

So I now have an appointment scheduled next week with a doctor to investigate whether SIBO might actually be the root cause. What is SIBO? SIBO, or “small intestinal bacterial overgrowth”, occurs when the small intestine contains too many bacteria or an abnormal mix of bacteria. It can go untreated for MANY years, but typically requires antibiotic intervention — and it is notoriously challenging to ‘cure’.

In the meantime, I’ve been following a gentle low-FODMAP diet for the past few weeks, and it is seeming to help. I’m still avoiding garlic and onions completely, and I’m still essentially headache-free except for the occasional headache around my menstrual cycle. Considering I used to have around 25 headaches every month, that’s a remarkable improvement.

It’s still WEIRD to wake up in the morning without a headache. Waking up in pain was my ‘normal’ for so long — that waking up without pain feels like a genuine miracle. It’s been pretty life giving, and I’m so grateful for the folks who are helping me restore my physical (and also mental!) health. Chronic pain takes its toll on the mental and spiritual body, as well as the physical body — and I’ve found that my morning meditations, dance and walking are all contributing to an overall greater sense of wellbeing in a more noticeable way, now that I’m not struggling through them each morning.

My Favorite Recipe Lately

Lately I’ve become completely obsessed (read: hyper fixated on) with barbecue soy curl fresh wraps. These are the soft rice paper rolls you’d typically find at a Thai restaurant. In fact, when Aaron and I used to go out for Thai food, I’d usually just order multiple rounds of fresh rolls. Unfortunately, most peanut sauces contain garlic, so I started making my own.

For the peanut sauce, I mix together PB2, a little peanut butter, rice vinegar, soy sauce, maple syrup, and then slowly whisk in water until I get the consistency I want.

It’s heavenly.

If garlic isn’t an issue for you, you could certainly add garlic, ginger, chili oil, or anything else you enjoy. This is how I make my fresh wraps:

Ingredients

Homemade Peanut sauce

• PB2 powdered peanut butter

• A small spoonful of regular peanut butter

• Rice vinegar

• Soy sauce

• Maple syrup

• Water, as needed

Optional additions:

• Garlic

• Fresh ginger

• Chili oil

• Red pepper flakes

Quick-pickled vegetables

• Carrots

• Daikon radish

• Salt

• Sugar

• Rice vinegar

Soy curl filling

• Soy curls

• Room-temperature water

• A small amount of olive oil

• Frozen edamame, optional

• Fody garlic- and onion-free barbecue sauce (or your favorite BBQ sauce of choice!)

For assembling

• Rice paper wrappers (I use 28 cm rice wraps)

• Cooked rice noodles

• Avocado, sliced

• Arugula

• Quick-pickled carrots and daikon

• Barbecue soy curls

Optional fillings:

• Cooked rice

• Cucumber

• Fresh herbs

• Shredded lettuce

• Additional vegetables

Instructions

1. Make the peanut sauce

In a small bowl, combine PB2, a little regular peanut butter, rice vinegar, soy sauce, and maple syrup.

Slowly whisk in water, a small amount at a time, until the sauce reaches your preferred consistency.

Taste and adjust the ingredients as needed. Add garlic, ginger, chili oil, or other seasonings if desired.

Set the sauce aside.

2. Quick-pickle the vegetables

Use a vegetable peeler to shave the carrots and daikon radish into thin strips.

Place the strips in a bowl and sprinkle them with a little salt and sugar. Add rice vinegar and toss until everything is evenly coated.

Refrigerate for approximately 10–15 minutes while you prepare the remaining ingredients.

3. Prepare the soy curls

Place the soy curls in a bowl and cover them with room-temperature water.

Let them soak for approximately 5–10 minutes, or until softened.

Drain the soy curls, then squeeze them firmly with your hands to remove as much water as possible. Removing the excess water will help them brown rather than become soggy.

4. Cook the filling

Heat a frying pan over medium heat and add a very small amount of olive oil.

Add the soy curls and frozen edamame, if using.

Sauté until the soy curls are lightly browned.

Pour in enough barbecue sauce to coat the soy curls and continue cooking briefly, stirring until everything is heated through.

Remove the pan from the heat.

5. Prepare the rice paper

Fill a shallow baking dish or large plate with warm water.

Dip one rice paper wrapper into the water for about five seconds. It may still feel slightly firm when you remove it, but it will continue softening as it rests.

Lay the wrapper flat on a clean plate or cutting board.

6. Fill the wrap

Arrange a small amount of each filling near the lower third of the wrapper:

• Rice noodles

• Sliced avocado

• Quick-pickled carrots and daikon

• Arugula

• Barbecue soy curls and edamame

Avoid overfilling the wrapper, or it may tear while rolling.

7. Roll the fresh wrap

Fold the bottom edge of the rice paper over the filling.

Fold both sides inward, then roll the wrapper tightly away from you, similar to rolling a burrito.

Repeat with the remaining wrappers and fillings.

8. Serve

Serve the wraps immediately with the homemade peanut sauce for dipping.

For a crispier variation, lightly coat the assembled wraps with sesame oil and a sprinkle of roasted sesame seeds and cook them in an air fryer or frying pan until the exterior is lightly crisped.

The possibilities are pretty endless.

I’m fairly certain I’ll be eating these for the rest of my life.

Coffee Roaster

A few weeks ago, Aaron and I took the motorcycles up to Mount Vernon for a coffee ride. Our destination was a tiny little coffee roastery called Dorothea Coffee Roasting. The storefront is incredibly small, with a simple coffee bar serving drip coffee, pour-overs, cold brew, and even a decaf option.

What I loved most was that it felt much more like a wine tasting than grabbing an ordinary cup of coffee. The gentleman working there was incredibly knowledgeable and walked us through the different coffees while we chatted with other coffee-loving folks sitting around the bar.

It made for a really fun stop, a perfect excuse for a motorcycle ride, and we came home with a couple bags of coffee to enjoy ourselves.

If you live locally to the PNW, this tiny little spot is 100% worth the drive (or grab a bag online). No, I’m not paid to mention them. Yes, I am obsessed with coffee and cannot possibly keep this information to myself.

Jasper: the feral cat diaries, an update!

As many of you know, we trapped a feral cat on our porch nearly two years ago. Jasper arrived at our house on a December day during a cold snap when it was 5 degrees outside… and we started feeding her. Eventually, it became problematic to leave cat food out on our porch, so we decided to try and bring her inside. It took SIX MONTHS to lure her into the humane cat trap, but we finally did it… and it’s also hard to believe that Jasper has been living in our home for 2 years now!

When Jasper first arrived, she was… well, terrified. Which, is to be expected from a feral cat who was trapped off a porch and has probably never known the inside of a house. She spent the first three day in our home attempting to ‘hide’ in her litter box. We worked with a person who had experience in cat rescue so that we could slowly adjust Jasper to the house. First, she lived in large cage that was covered in blankets. Gradually, we started to ‘open’ the blankets so that she could peak outside. Eventually, we removed the blankets. Slowly, Jasper started to venture a few feet away from her cage… and very slowly… she started to move around the room.

Now, nearly 2 years later, she is integrated into our home as a (mostly) happy member of our family. She gets along VERY well with our cat Esa, and the other two cats ‘tolerate’ her presence. We no longer have to use a leather glove to pet her, because we aren’t worried about being scratched anymore. She still hisses quite frequently and she is still VERY timid and fearful, but if we are in one of her ‘safe zones’ (i.e. underneath our dining room table or if she is in the condo of her cat tree), we are able to pet her quite naturally. She’s so soft and sweet and she loves being pet when she’s in a safe location. Recently, she’s started playing a little bit (for the first time!). She happily plays with Esa (one of our other cats) on a regular basis… but until recently, she has been very hesitant to let her guard down and play with a human. We have discovered that she enjoys playing with a piece of twine, and so now we sit under our dining room table quite often and toss around a little piece of twine so that she can bat at it.

I’ve often heard folks say that a, 'feral cat can’t be tamed’ — but Jasper has proved otherwise. She was decidedly feral when we got her — hissing, spitting and perpetually terrified. But, it’s been such a true joy to watch her let her guard down a little bit and soften her heart to the idea that there are humans in the world who might be able to provide her with a tiny bit of love. Even now, two years into this process — it’s slow… but she is making progress. Sometimes, it’s just standing out in the open more than usual, but she’s still making tiny steps forward. In her own way, she’s reminding me that life isn’t about the big leaps… it’s about being where we are and finding our own, unique path towards love.

Friends, thank YOU SO MUCH for being here… for reading my stories and random musings each week and for supporting my journey — which includes a lot of ups and downs. Life is a funny thing, and I’m figuring it out just as much as anybody else is — so, if you feel like you are alone out there, please know that you aren’t. I’m bumbling my way through life the best that I can — and I’m just grateful that I get to share little bits of the adventure with all of you!!

Dear Kula Diaries,

On June 23rd, I hit an interesting (to me) personal milestone: 2,000 days of consecutive dancing.

Keep in mind that I’m the type of person who gets excited when my odometer clicks over to a number like 14,141. Just the other day, my odometer clicked over to 101,010 … and I basically freaked out on my commute to work. I always say to my husband, “Look at this!! This will literally never happen, ever again! Isn’t that incredible? How amazing that I got to watch it happen!”. And when my motorcycle hit 10,000 miles, I actually yelped so loudly with excitement that my husband thought something had happened to me (in retrospect, I need to chill out a little bit while operating a two-wheeled vehicle — ha!). So, I understand that hitting 2,000 days of consecutive dancing is much more of a me fascination than it is anything else. After all, we only ever have just this one day to dance. In fact, just this one moment right now. Every single moment — whether it’s clicking over to 101010 or not… is miraculously unique… every. single. time.

When I started dancing on January 1st, 2021, I never imagined that in 2026 I’d still be dancing, and that I would never have missed a day. Not one single day. And mind you, there were some days in there that I really wanted to skip. Days when I told myself that I didn’t deserve to dance. Days when I told myself I didn’t feel like dancing. Days when I told myself that this entire endeavor was (honestly) stupid and unnecessary. And yet… even on those days… the joy in my heart that I felt when I danced no matter what was going on in my life, urged me on. And I’ve always been glad I included it in my day.

As I’ve continued my dance experiment through many different seasons of life, it has brought me closer and closer to the truth of what I didn’t know I would discover when I started. In fact, when I first started, the Dance Experiment was more of a question than an answer: What happens if you dance every single day?

When I started my experiment, it was a joke. Then it morphed into something that was fun or funny. Then it became a skill I wanted to try to learn. Then it was more about fitness and exercise.

Here’s a video I made a few years ago talking about the origin of the Dance Experiment:

But as I continued, and as life continued, and as I started to dance through the ever-changing tides of life, I realized that on days that I would classify as ‘good’, I danced. On days that I would classify as ‘bad’, I danced. And it felt important on all of those days—not just on the days when things were going perfectly or on the days when I needed it most. It was just always there, reminding me that every day deserves dancing.

An undercurrent of peace and an inner cultivation of joy come not from anywhere else, but from within me… from within each of us. It’s easy to blame external circumstances for how we are feeling, and when we do that, we strip ourselves of the power to feel the way that we want to be feeling — and we also strip ourselves of the ability to embrace the ‘is-ness’ of life. Some days ARE tough. Some days ARE exhausting. Some tasks ARE boring. Sometimes we ARE angry. The canvas of life is ours to paint — and denying ourselves this experience is to deny the essence of life itself. So, instead of running away from things that we don’t want — we embrace them… we dance through them. As Eckart Tolle says, ‘Life is the dancer, and you are the dance.'

Earlier this month, I made a decision that will probably always break my heart in a small way. I made the impossibly difficult decision to end our ‘structured’ daily group Dance Experiment.

Since January 9th, 2022, my company Kula Cloth has been hosting a daily call on Zoom. Over the years, thousands of people have joined us for our daily dance sessions. For the number nerds out there, on July 1st 2026 (this coming Wednesday), our last day of consecutive sessions, we will have hosted 1,635 Zoom calls as a group.

The decision to end this program did not come lightly, but the truth is that with my increased responsibilities as the founder of a gear company—which I didn’t have all of in 2022 when the program started—attempting to coordinate, schedule, and lead a structured program has gotten much more stressful. Leading 8–12 Zoom calls per month is taking its toll on me physically and mentally. In addition, the program is donation-based and always has been. Over the past year, it has been costing approximately $600–$800 per month to host because it wasn’t bringing in enough donations to sustain the cost of paying the Joy Facilitators who help lead the calls.

While I would love to say that the Dance Experiment is self-sustaining, and that I have somebody who can coordinate it and facilitate it for me so that I can continue to be a part of it without having to do the administrative side of it, that simply isn’t the case. If I throw all of my time and attention into ‘promoting’ the dance program, just to keep it sustainable, it takes away attention from Kula Cloth, where I have (many) people depending on me to keep the company successful and viable. Attempting to recruit more folks to join the program just added another layer of work that I am simply unable to manage at this time. From where I sit now, I love to envision a future when somebody is running the day-to-day operations of Kula Cloth, so that I can focus more on my creative pursuits — the Dance Experiment program would be the first to return, without question.

I’m a self-proclaimed workaholic, because ‘work’ for me feels more like a hobby, and something that I love with all of my heart. But, it does take its toll if I don’t get a break. I’m really focusing on limiting my commitments and prioritizing my mental and physical health, as recently I’ve felt overwhelmed and realized that this just wasn’t sustainable.

I feel a crushing sense of guilt from making this decision. There’s a part of me that feels selfish, as in, who am I to take this away from people based on money or time? What we’ve created with the Dance Experiment is a real community, and it feels as though it rests on my shoulders and that I’m ‘ruining’ it for everybody.

I know that’s not the case, and people have assured me that it’s not the case. But it doesn’t take away the feeling or the guilt or the fear of letting people down. And especially when you love something so much, there is going to be pain and loss and grieving… and I’m not going to pretend that it any part of this is ‘easy’ for me. The people I’ve met through this program are very real friends that I care about very much — and that is something that will not change.

Our last session takes place on Wednesday, July 1st, 2026… and as it approaches, I feel like it’s a train on the tracks nearing its last stop and knowing that I’m going to have to get off, even though a part of me doesn’t want to. And yet when I sense into that overwhelm that I feel on the weeks when I’m trying to juggle way too many balls (and by the way, I don’t know how to juggle), I also feel that it is the right move. I feel a sense of peace and creativity in imagining what might bloom next … what new life will arise from the ripples of love that we have created over the past 4+ years.

As I’ve contemplated these last few days of my beloved group Dance Experiment… and as I have tried to (genuinely) assess my own personal health and wellbeing, I’ve come to a startling realization: maybe all along, Spock was wrong.

There’s a famous scene in Star Trek II: The Wrath of Khan… Near the end of the movie, the starship Enterprise is badly damaged during its battle with Khan. The ship’s warp drive has been crippled, and a radiation-filled chamber must be entered manually to repair it. Knowing that entering the chamber will be fatal, Spock quietly chooses to do it himself.

He restores power to the ship, saving the crew, but receives a lethal dose of radiation in the process. As he is dying, he speaks with Captain James T. Kirk through a glass barrier. When Kirk tells him he shouldn’t have sacrificed himself, Spock replies (famously):

“The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few... or the one.”

And while (obviously) Spock’s sacrifice was heroic… the sentiment itself isn’t entirely accurate. As a person who will go to the ends of the earth (at my own expense) to help somebody else out… I know that, ultimately, this can sometimes actually prevent us from helping others. Because if the ‘needs of the one’ are neglected, then ‘the one’ cannot do the things that they were meant to do. Namely — if we are burned out, none of us will have the capacity or energy to do the things that bring meaning into the world.

For me, dance is a part of the meaning that I bring into this world, and I don’t want that to end. So, I’m trying to look at this change as simply that—a change. A transition to something new. An opportunity for something even better to bloom. A new way to connect more deeply with myself so that I can continue to bring something good to others. I’ve realized something very important: burned-out Anastasia doesn’t bring much to others except more burnout and exhaustion.

And I know that the endlessly creative version of me (and all of us), who is excited and full of life, is capable of some pretty amazing things. In fact, that’s how the Dance Experiment was born: simply from me being me, having fun, and doing something that felt interesting. It was never meant to be a business. It was simply meant as a vessel for joy.

And joy it has created. Over the years, it has brought joy into thousands of people’s lives all over the world. As a group, we have navigated life and death and grief and joy and everything in between. Our members have had impromptu meet ups in person, and real friendships have bloomed from a place that we created. It’s been a pretty special experience—one that I didn’t expect and one that I will cherish for my entire life. As it turns out, The Dance Experiment was never about a singular goal or arbitrary number — it was never about arriving at some, ‘final destination’ — instead, it has always been about seeing what happens next, and, most importantly …this moment right now: What can we do right now to cultivate love within our own heart… and to bring that to others? The idea of an ending is simply that — an idea. But we live in an infinite universe where we can choose to dance in any moment of any day. We can continue to choose to share that with the people we care about, whether it involves registering on Eventbrite or not.

As for me, I won’t stop dancing.

Two thousand days is, if I’m being honest, just another day. Another day, another chance to dance simply for the joy of existence on this planet. A chance to accept myself exactly as I am. A chance to feel the feelings of loss that are only present when one has loved so greatly.

To incorrectly paraphrase Herman Melville: I know not all that may be coming, but be it what it may, I’ll go to it dancing.

I’ll end today with a poem (fittingly) written by Leonard Nimoy (the actor who played Spock in Star Trek, for anybody who isn’t familiar with him):

I may not be
I may not be
 
I may not be the fastest
I may not be the tallest
     Or the strongest
 
I may not be the best
Or the brightest
 
    But one thing I can do better
     Than anyone else...
 
      That is
 
        To be me

Thanks to everybody who has cheered me on over the years with my personal dancing. And, more importantly, thanks to everybody who makes the Dance Experiment what it continues to be to this day: a collective expression of love and life. Thank you for allowing me to be me… and I hope that dance has given you the same permission to be exactly who YOU are. Together, we can love each other where we are — no matter what.

Whether we’re on a Zoom call or not at 6:30 in the morning, we are always, always, first and foremost, dancing together in this life, forever connected by the joy and love we’ve created over the past five years.

Dear Kula Diaries,

I don’t have much experience in casinos, but we stayed at one last week while we were attending an outdoor industry show, and it was fascinating in an unexpected way.

I woke up at 4:30 in the morning every day so that I could walk to a nearby pond to do my morning dance practice. As I walked through the casino at 4:40 a.m., it was still packed: there were people drinking and playing slots, and I’m pretty sure they hadn’t just gotten there. I’m pretty sure they had been there since the night before.

Now first off, I want to say… to each their own. If somebody’s passion in life is gambling and slot machines, then I would absolutely never not encourage them to follow their heart. And to be fair, I genuinely love the fact that so many humans can exist on this planet and all have such vastly different interests.

On one hand, you’ve got me: going out to dance on a beach by a lake in a neighborhood at 4:45 in the morning, which probably looks just as crazy to somebody else as it does to me for somebody to be drinking a glass of red wine and playing a slot machine at the same time. It’s all about perspective.

But what really got me thinking was noticing the subtle things that the casino does to keep people inside:

As I meandered through the endless rooms of blinking lights and ringing bells, I noticed right away that there are no windows anywhere, so you really don’t have any perspective of whether it’s night or day. There are no clocks either, so you definitely can’t tell what time it is. And all of the doors are coated with a dark glaze — it’s so dark that when I actually stepped outside, I was shocked to see how bright it was. I understand that might be partly because the sun in Reno is so hot and otherwise the hotel would get really warm. But it also places you in what feels like a very strange ‘purgatory-esque liminal state’, so you might as well keep dumping money into the machine in front of you.

It’s a disorienting experience, especially once you notice it, because then you can’t unnotice it and all the ways in which it feels as though it’s a different time than it actually is. “One more push of the slot machine button couldn’t possibly hurt,” is what I imagine somebody says at some point during their twelve-hour slot binge.

The other thing I noticed was the noise and the lights: For somebody like me, who is overly sensitive to mass amounts of stimulation, it’s almost painful to walk through a casino because you’re getting hit from every direction with the smell of smoke and incessant dinging and buzzing and bells ringing and lights flashing. But all the noises and flashing lights indicate something important: that somebody, somewhere, is winning something. Even if they aren’t, it sounds like winning. It looks like they are winning. Each ding of the buzzer is like a tiny beacon of hope that loudly shouts, ‘YOU COULD BE NEXT!!!”.

When I was eighteen years old, my parents took me on a boat from Bar Harbor, Maine, to Canada. Because the boat went into international waters, it actually had a small casino on it. And because I was eighteen, I was allowed to gamble at the slot machines, which was my very first time doing it. I actually had no interest in genuinely gambling. I just wanted to play a slot machine because I was eighteen and thought it would be cool.

So my dad gave me three dollars, and I promptly lost it in the slot machine in about 1 minute. But I remember something that my dad told me during my 1.5 minute stint as a gambler: as I sat in disappointment after losing my $3 ‘investment’, we sat for a moment in the boat casino and he said, “Listen. What do you hear?”

I stopped to observe the strange room and I heard… dinging and dinging and dinging. I said to my dad, “I just hear winning. Everybody’s winning something.”

And he said, “Yeah, because do you think anybody would play if all you heard was buzzing every time somebody lost?” And I realized that he was right. And yet, I knew from my own experience, that far more people were probably losing. Instead, they’re using the psychology of sound to make most of us think that everybody is winning and therefore… we will too. So, we better keep going so that we don’t ‘miss out’.

Of course, it makes sense: If we heard a loud, depressing ‘Debbie Downer’ noise or a harsh buzzing noise every time somebody lost, I don’t think anybody would play.

That moment when I was eighteen years old has always stuck with me and genuinely fascinated me about the psychology of how so many of these buildings and places are engineered to trick people into thinking they’re going to win, and also to trick them into continuing to do what they’re doing… even if there is very little hope of anything, other than walking away with lighter pockets.

As I walked around the lake that morning, after exiting the smokiness of the casino, I looked around and noticed the infiniteness of everything that was around me: juniper bushes… people’s homes… the reflection of the golden morning sun on the water… the ducks and geese… the sound of birdsong in the morning. Everywhere around me, other people were living their own lives. The casino rose up like an artificial mountain in the distance, and the sun was rising in the east and casting its gentle glow over everything.

As I looked out on this oddly beautiful juxtaposition of life, I realized that the casino hooks people with the promise of something better: with the promise of actually winning. Because for some, but not all people, we’ve trained ourselves to believe that we haven’t won.

It’s so easy to notice a lack of something. In fact, our brains are trained for it. In moments of survival, noticing that we don’t have something is what keeps us alive. It keeps us on edge and keeps us safe. But unfortunately, in our brain’s beautiful ability to detect a lack, we’ve often forgotten to see the incredible infiniteness of the world around us. We’re so lost in what we don’t have… that we don’t notice all that we do.

There are no slot machines or casino games scattered throughout the universe, and for that I’m glad because I can only handle about two minutes of that level of overstimulation. But everywhere we look, in a much more subtle way, the universe is flashing:

Winner.

In one of my favorite meditations by Dandan Liu, she shares the actual mathematics behind these odds:

“1 in 10 raised to the 6.285 million. That's the number calculated to be the odds of your existence.
To give you a sense of what this number means imagine you had a stadium filled with 2 million people.
Every person had a trillion-sided dice.
To be 1 in 10 raised to the 6.285 million,
Everyone would have to roll their dice and land on the same number.
That's the astonishing odds it took for you to be here breathing.”

Winning in life doesn’t always come with a trophy or bells or fanfare or flashing bright lights or dollars. But if you can learn to be quiet, you’ll see it’s always there. Lights shimmer in every sunrise. The dinging bell of each and every birdsong… every laugh shared with friends. Life is always reminding us of the greatest truth of all:

We’ve already won.

By being here and having the chance to experience life, we’ve already won. The casino tells us that winning is somewhere out there, just one more spin away. The universe reminds us that winning is already here. And that the best bet you will ever make in your life is always on yourself. It’s up to each of us to walk beyond the veil of darkness that holds us in place, and to put our trust in the light.

Gamble on love.

Gamble on who you are.

And you will never lose.

Dearest friends — thank YOU so much for being here and for reading my words each week and supporting my writing. It brings me a lot of joy to try and see and experience life through my own unique lens and then share that with all of you. I hope, in some way, it reminds you just how wonderful and special you truly are.

Dear Kula Diaries,

This week, I thought it would be fun to keep a diary of what it’s like being a tiny brand at a big outdoor show.

Last week, my husband Aaron and I were in Reno, Nevada, attending an outdoor industry trade show called Connect (hosted by the Grassroots Outdoor Alliance). It’s a four-day event where outdoor gear companies like Kula Cloth have the opportunity to meet with specialty retail buyers. It’s a big deal because it gives us the chance to build new wholesale relationships and potentially bring Kula Cloth into even more stores. It’s also a big deal because attendance is by invitation only.

The first challenge wasn’t the show itself. It was figuring out how to get all of our stuff to Reno. Yes, the ‘big’ brands have freight containers. No, we do not. For some reason, I had the idea that we should bring our Make-A-Kula station with us. The problem was that we’ve never traveled by air with a sublimation printer before.

We were able to ship the heat press and a bunch of supplies ahead of time, but we decided we needed to carry the printer with us. The printer just barely met the carry-on requirements. Unfortunately, we couldn’t find a bag that fit it, so I ended up putting it in a cardboard box and strapping the box to a small dolly. Yes, it looked ridiculous, and no, I did not care.

I wasn’t entirely convinced this ridiculous plan was actually going to work.

My backup plan all the way up until boarding was, “Well, technically we still have enough time to drive to Reno.” Thankfully, it never came to that. But to be fair, I didn’t fully relax until I watched Aaron lift the printer into the overhead compartment and saw it slide perfectly into place. At that point I knew we had made it… my plan was going to work!

We arrived on Saturday, and Sunday was setup day. We had about eight hours to get our booth ready, which was more than enough time because our booth was only ten feet by ten feet and consisted of two tablecloths, a banner, and our Make-A-Kula station.

When I first started packing and shipping things for this event, I remember thinking, “Wow. This is a ridiculous amount of stuff to bring to Reno.”

Then I arrived at the show and saw what the other brands had brought with them…

I watched forklifts moving giant crates belonging to some of the major outdoor brands. Not boxes. Crates. The kind that looked like they could fit in the back of a semi-truck. At that point, I realized we had probably packed on the light side. As we set up our little corner of the show floor, we watched enormous brands assemble booths that were probably larger than my house. Meanwhile, Aaron and I were carefully arranging our two tablecloths.

It’s worth mentioning that when you arrive at an event like this as a small brand, it can be easy to feel intimidated by all the glitz and glamour surrounding you. But I want to make an important note for all the little brands out there:

Those brands are not you.

On the first day of setup, I told Aaron that our booth was going to be the most talked-about booth at the entire show. Not because it was the biggest. Not because it was the most expensive. But because it was going to give people an experience. I truly believed that our little Make-A-Kula station and a healthy dose of creativity would attract more people and create more meaningful connections than any giant display ever could. It has never been about having the biggest booth — instead, it’s about the love and intention that you bring to what you are doing.

On Sunday night, we walked through the Discovery Marketplace, a one-night showcase that happens before the main event. We got to see our friend Jen from Alpine Fit and catch up with Lloyd from Garage Grown Gear. At one point, Lloyd and I realized we hadn’t taken a photo together in nearly seven years, so we fixed that immediately:

Meanwhile, the entire experience had this strange backdrop because we were staying in a casino hotel. Now, I am definitely not a casino person. Nothing against casinos. If that’s your thing, more power to you. But every morning, as most of you know, I wake up early and go for a walk before the day begins. It’s how I clear my mind. I found a lovely little pond nearby where I could walk endless laps while watching the sunrise. It’s a surreal experience leaving the hotel at 4:50 in the morning. I’m walking toward the sunrise while other people are still sitting at slot machines, gambling, drinking, and fully immersed in a night that hasn’t ended yet. But, to be totally fair, I realized this… while walking through the casino pre-5am on my way to go dance. Everybody is here in this world to do what they enjoy the most… and that’s something that I can appreciate. The world would be boring, and the flat spot on the beach at the lake would be too crowded if everybody needed to dance at 5am.

Ok, but meanwhile… away from the overstimulation of slot machines… I also found the coolest little spot to dance…

The first day of the show finally arrived.

Connect is a different type of show than most of the trade shows I’ve attended.

At most events, you set up your booth and wait to see who wanders by. People may or may not stop. They may or may not notice you (and sometimes when your booth says PEE CLOTH on it… they definitely pretend not to notice you). Connect works a bit differently.

Before the show even started, I sent out roughly one hundred emails to brands and retailers that I knew would be attending. I wanted them to know that Kula Cloth would be there and, perhaps more importantly, that we were bringing our Make-A-Kula station. At Connect, people schedule appointments with you ahead of time, which meant our calendar slowly started filling with meetings. Or at least what everyone thought were meetings…

Little did they know that many of their official business appointments were actually appointments to make a custom Kula Cloth.

I’m a bit of an introvert (surprising to many folks, I know) … so most trade shows feel a little bit like getting hit by a brick wall over and over again. By the end of the day, I’ve usually talked so much and interacted with so many people that I’m completely wrecked and can barely function. I’m happy to report that this show was nothing like that. Was it exhausting? Yes. But, because appointments were scheduled throughout the day, everything felt calm, and well paced. There was never a moment when we were completely mobbed with people. Instead, we had time to actually talk with each person who came by.

Some meetings were with existing retailers who already carry Kula Cloth, and others were with shops that were interested in learning more about us. I got to tell people about our new fabric, our updated snap configuration, our custom Kula program, and all the other little changes we’ve been making behind the scenes. It felt like I got to nerd out on my own product over and over again, which was very exciting and fun.

And then, of course, I made them custom Kulas… my absolute favorite part of the meeting. Maybe it sounds corny, but every time I make a custom Kula Cloth for someone, it feels like getting a tiny little glimpse into another person’s life.

Yes, it’s technically a pee cloth.

But because people carry it with them on adventures, they often choose to put something deeply meaningful on it: A beloved pet. A child. A spouse. A special place. A favorite memory. A goofy inside joke. By the end of the first official day, I could already tell that this was my favorite trade show I’ve ever attended. Hands down. It was the most relaxed and least stressful one I’ve ever been to. And for the first time in my life, my voice didn’t hurt after day one. That alone felt like a miracle. Yes, I even brought cough drops with me… and shockingly, I didn’t have to use them!

Day Two Started out… WEIRDLY.

Every morning I went on a walk at a nearby park so that I could fit in my dancing practice. There’s was a beautiful beach area there that’s nice and flat, which made it the perfect place to dance. When I arrived, I noticed an older man picking up litter along the shoreline. I had seen him the day before and noticed that he seemed curiously interested in my dancing from a distance.

I didn’t think much of it… because, honestly, it probably is strange to see some person flailing around on a beach at 5am.

I politely said hello and walked to another section of the beach to look at some baby ducklings. And that’s when things took a turn. This random man took it upon himself to inform me that I was creepy, a freak, and not right in the head. Ummmmmmm… hmmm. If you ever find yourself walking up to a random human to tell them that they are creepy… newsflash: the problem might be you.

So, the day was already off to an interesting start.

It got even more interesting when Aaron and I headed down to leave for the venue. We’re staying on the twelfth floor of the hotel, and when we went to take the elevator down, it stopped working. Fortunately, we weren’t actually trapped inside it, so I’m not complaining… but we did have to walk down twelve flights of stairs. The stairs eventually ended in what appeared to be a locked hallway, which was mildly worrisome. I found a button and buzzed a door that I wasn’t entirely convinced was supposed to open. Thankfully, it did, and when it opened, it deposited us directly into the administrative offices of the Peppermill Hotel.

We emerged from the stairwell to find ourselves staring at a group of employees who looked every bit as surprised to see us as we were to see them. Between the creepy lake guy and accidentally infiltrating the hotel’s administrative offices, it was definitely a memorable morning.

Once we made it to the show, however, things improved considerably.

What started out as custom mountain landscape Kulas in the morning had, by the afternoon, devolved into meme Kulas featuring Gandalf with large breasts. So, it’s probably safe to say the show was going very well.

Days three and four: a blur

After four days of working twelve-hour days, everything starts to become a little fuzzy. The theme of the entire week, at least for me (well, and the show itself), was connection. When you get to print something onto a product for people, you also get to hear the story behind why they are putting that thing on the product. Even if it isn’t something particularly profound, it still gives you a glimpse into that person’s sense of humor. And humor and fun and laughter bring people together.

Over the past eight years that Kula has been around, I’ve probably designed and printed thousands upon thousands of custom Kulas. It’s such a cool experience to hear about people’s pets, their families, their favorite adventures, something funny that happened to them, or the brother-in-law who is getting a custom Kula as a wedding gift. I imagine all of these custom Kulas going out into the world and creating little waves of laughter and connection that ripple far beyond our tiny footprint.

I firmly believe that what we’re doing with our custom Kula program goes beyond the booth itself: In fact, it makes the 10 x 10 confines of our pipe and drape booth disappear. Sure, we might not be solving world peace by putting a pig showing its butt crack on a Kula Cloth, but we sure as heck can make people laugh and feel a little bit better. And I know that makes a difference.

After our full day on Wednesday, we were lucky enough to get invited over to my friend Jen’s house. Jen and her partner Kelly offered to cook us a completely garlic- and onion-free dinner, which was such an unbelievably kind and thoughtful thing to do.

To understand how meaningful this was, I have to qualify this experience by sharing that Aaron and I had been surviving on hotel-room cuisine all week. Because my garlic/allium allergy makes it nearly impossible to eat out now, every evening I would come back to the hotel room and microwave rice noodles with miso and toss in chunks of tofu and edamame. It was edible caloric intake for my body and it was not disgusting. However, I would not have placed it among the world’s most impressive culinary delights. So, to sit down at somebody’s home and have a real meal was such a treat. The dinner included a lemon, arugula, fennel and bean salad (with preserved lemons) and what may have been the most incredible bread I have ever tasted. It came from a bakery in Reno called Beloved — seriously sooooooo good.

More than the food, though, it was just wonderful to spend time with Jen and Kelly. We talked about entrepreneurship and life and pretty much everything in between. If you aren’t familiar with Jen, Jen Gurecki is kind of an icon in the outdoor industry. She is the founder of Coalition Snow, the only women-owned ski and snowboard company, which is currently in the process of closing. After being diagnosed with breast cancer and going through chemotherapy and treatment, Jen has recently begun building something entirely new.

Her new company is called Far Out, and it’s a business built around slowing down:

After cancer, Jen realized that she no longer wanted to participate in hustle culture, and honestly, I don’t blame her. Far Out focuses on thoughtfully curated travel experiences and retreats, including things like skiing in Japan and cycling in Africa, along with a collection of goods that Jen personally selects because they were created by real humans and not robots.

I’m very proud to say that when Jen texted me to let me know that Far Out had officially launched, I immediately entered what can only be described as a panic-shopping session:

I was absolutely determined to become her first retail customer.

I frantically scrolled through the website, found what were honestly the coolest earrings I had ever seen (see below), immediately purchased them without looking at anything else, and hit BUY NOW. I was absolutely delighted to discover that I was order number two. Jen was kind enough to explain that order number one had actually happened before the official launch and wasn’t a retail order. Therefore, I am fully claiming victory as the first Far Out retail customer in human history.

I know how much it means when somebody places an order on a brand-new website. I know what it feels like to launch something into the world and hope that people care.

So it felt really special to be able to support Jen in that small way.

After dinner, Jen delivered the earrings I had panic-purchased from her new business, after becoming what I proudly claim was the first retail customer in company history. Having secured the title that nobody else was competing for, I spent a little more time browsing the website and purchased one more item — a beautiful pottery teacup made by my friend Lauren Echo, who recently started a pottery business called Echora.

The next day was a “short day”… the last day at the show:

We made many more Kulas, laughed more, and then packed up the booth, headed back to the hotel, and met up with Regina, a friend I had only ever known through The Dance Experiment and Zoom. She drove over from the Tahoe area to have lunch with us, and it was lovely to finally meet her in person.

After lunch, Aaron and I returned to the hotel and promptly turned into gelatinous blobs. After nearly six straight days on the road, the downdraft of output was finally starting to hit us. The next morning, we packed up our booth, put our sublimation printer back in a box on a dolly, flew home, stopped by the Kula HQ office, somehow ended up working for a few more hours, chased down a FedEx driver near our house to sign for a package we almost missed, and then, after 7 days on the road… we finally made it home.

Home to our beloved foursome of cats.

Home to our own bed.

Home to our own refrigerator and food.

I wasn’t entirely sure what to expect going into this week. And to be honest, after working six days in a row, I feel pretty exhausted and a little over socialized right now. But the only word that keeps coming to mind is: grateful.

Grateful that a pee cloth can have a booth at a major outdoor trade show and that everybody knows what it is. Grateful that my husband and I get to work together doing something we’re both passionate about. Grateful for the employees who make it possible for me to leave town and promote our company without having to shut down the entire operation. And grateful for a home that we love coming back to.

When Aaron left his job in 2022, there was a lot of fear that we both had to walk through. There was a lot of trust that we had to place in the universe and in ourselves that this whole thing was somehow going to work out. And after a week like this, I really feel like it has.

Trust your gut.

Lead with your heart.

Lead with connection and love.

And the universe will be there laughing right along with you and cheering you on.

All of my weekly Kula Diaries posts are free for all humans to read. I put a tremendous amount of energy into writing this diary, so your paid subscription is a tiny little message of encouragement that says, “I still want to see this type of (actual) writing!” I really appreciate your support so much. Love, Anastasia.

Pssst. I didn’t have a chance to record a voiceover this week… thank you for understanding!

Dear Kula Diaries,

When I was a kid, somebody asked me what my greatest fear was, and I told them that it was disappointing my father.

Little did I know then that I had spent a lifetime trying to find a sense of wholeness within myself by seeking approval from others. My parents. My teachers. Always striving to be the perfect kid. And maybe some of that was oldest-child syndrome (which I’m absolutely POSITIVE is a real thing).

It always seemed that no matter how hard I worked, no matter what I did, it was never quite good enough. There were always ways in which I was lacking, ways that I could improve, ways that I could be better, something else that I had missed. I know that being ‘pushed’ to be better isn’t inherently a bad thing… but, as I’ve learned throughout my life… it’s exhausting. Because it begs the question: When will I be good enough?

At some point, this way of living begins to take its toll—not just on the shape of your life, but also on your own view of yourself. If everybody else thinks that what you’re doing isn’t good enough, maybe it’s true. If being who you are isn’t enough, then maybe who you are isn’t enough.

We are (sadly) products of a world that tells us that our worth and value are not simply in being who we are, but in being who others want us to be. And we fear that lack of love so much that we will bend over backwards to mold our lives not into a shape that we want, but into a shape that we think will be the most pleasing to others. Somewhere in that process, the true self that we are begins to wither, replaced by a façade—the self that others want us to be.

All because we are afraid to disappoint somebody else. All because we are afraid to lose what we incorrectly believe is the source of our worthiness and the source of our love. But at some point, we have a choice. We have a choice to choose a different path.

It could be right now. It could be a week from now. Maybe it has already happened. But at some point, we can make a decision that is truly our own—not one that asks, “What would this person think?” or “What does this person want me to do”, but one that instead asks, “What is my own heart telling me about this situation?”

Disappointment is not what we think it is.

Disappointment is the sign that we are bumping up against the edges of who we want to become and beginning to ignore the edges that have kept us rolling in somebody else’s lane.

A true, ridiculous story: when I was a kid, I went bowling in the second grade on a field trip. I was afraid to put my fingers in the holes of the bowling ball because I had an irrational fear that my fingers would break when I tried to roll the ball down the lane. So, I lied to everybody in my class and told them that I had broken my fingers in a tragic bowling-ball accident and was only allowed to roll the ball granny style to prevent further injury to my previously broken fingers. I am not kidding about this lie — and I can’t imagine that anybody actually believed it.

On that field trip, I remember playing bumper bowling for the first time. It was fun because every time you sent the ball down the lane, you knocked over pins. But pretty quickly, it got boring because it was predictable and safe, and there was no risk or chance. There was no adventure in knowing exactly where the ball was going to go.

So, grasping the ball by the sides (to avoid the tragic bowling ball finger injury), squatting down, and rolling it through the middle of my legs, I started bowling in the lane without the bumpers.

Sometimes I’d get a gutter ball. Sometimes I wouldn’t. But eventually, I got a strike.

I distinctly remember how good that felt because I knew for sure that I had done it. I hadn’t been relying on foam barriers to help guide my way. I had figured it out and positioned my granny shot just perfectly.

Life is the same way. But the bumpers are foam. They are often invisible because they come in the form of words and looks and expectations and the fear of disappointing others based on our decisions. In those safe zones, it’s easy to feel comfortable. When you do predictable things… you get predictable results, and there’s nothing wrong with that… but, still… I always felt like there was a part of me that knew there was something else out there. A way where I could, as Mark Twain says, cast off from the safe harbor, explore, dream, and discover.

Slowly, but surely, I started to realize that other people’s disappointment was not my responsibility. I started listening to myself and my own intuition, and when I did that, it made other people uncomfortable … because, suddenly, I was not predictable anymore. I was dipping my toe into the unknown — a place that often feels intimidating and terrifying. And yet, I knew — for the first time — it was where I was supposed to be.

I have disappointed many people in my life, and I know this because they have told me. I have disappointed people by not going to medical school. I have disappointed any number of random strangers who don’t know me and some of my own family members by deciding not to have children. I have disappointed friends and relatives by leaving my ‘safe’ job to start a pee-cloth business. I have disappointed so many people… in more ways than I can count. And guess what? When I started living for me instead of others, I suddenly felt free. I felt really excited about everything I was doing. And, oddly enough, those people who were once disappointed — began to understand it too (even though, by then, it didn’t matter).

Last week, I was riding my motorcycle home from running errands and just enjoying the feel of the wind and the smell of the air. I could smell a campfire from a nearby park, and I had this intense sense of gratitude and freedom and joy—a pure expression of who I was in that moment, living life on this planet.

And I realized that it was in the places where I had disappointed others but listened to my own heart that I was the happiest. Eventually, people come to terms with their disappointment. But they don’t have to live my life. I get to live my life. Which means that it can look exactly like I want it to look.

Disappointment is a gift that we can give to others because in their disappointment, we can become who we are. And they can let go of expectations and choose to allow—or not allow—themselves to witness the becoming of another. Maybe it doesn’t look like they imagined, but maybe it will be better.

And maybe, for the first time, instead of seeing a projection of what could be, they will instead see what is. There is no gift more important than simply seeing another person for exactly who they are, where they are, in all of their wholeness.

Whether their life matches what we want it to be or not, let it be. Let them remove the bumpers. Encourage and uplift — but let them figure it out. Let them roll freely down the lane of life and discover who they can be—unencumbered, uninhibited, free, loved, and totally whole… exactly as they are.

Sending you all so much love today… and all days. Thanks for being here friends, it means a lot to me.

Dear Kula Diaries,

My husband and I eat a large bowl of fruit every night for dessert, and I’m not sure exactly when it started becoming more than just a desert. It has become almost a little ritual in the evening, pulling out all the fruit (and yes, there is a lot of it) and slicing it up carefully and placing it into bowls, finished with a tiny little drizzle of maple syrup. Naturally, I eat mine with a miniature fork.

Right now, our fruit bowls contain mixed frozen berries, frozen mangoes, cantaloupe, pineapple, strawberries, and grapes. It’s a giant, overflowing bowl of fruit, and I look forward to it every single night. I usually sit on our couch… eat my fruit… and paint 4 watercolors (which I bring to the office the following day to give away to Kula customers!).

A few years ago, I don’t know what inspired me to do it, Aaron and I started a tiny little practice that I named the ‘closed-eye strawberry’. While I was cutting the fruit, I would take one strawberry, slice it in half, and each of us would take our respective half of the strawberry, put it into our mouths, and close our eyes while we chewed it.

If you’ve never eaten with your eyes closed before, it is a sensory experience that will surprise and delight you. So often we are eating as a means to an end or paying attention to something else while we’re eating — work at our computer, a conversation, a cell phone. But when you can actually stop to be fully present for a bite of food, the textures, the flavors, and the sensation of that food — the life itself that exists in that strawberry — comes alive in a way that is hard to describe. Seriously — today (sooner rather than later), eat something (anything) with your eyes closed… and really savor it.

So almost nightly, as I’m slicing my fruit, I hand Aaron his half of a strawberry, and we do our little closed-eye strawberry routine. And each time, no matter what has been going on in my day, I am just fully there for that strawberry.

The moment is indeed sweet.

Aaron and I have been participating in a 111-day course by a meditation instructor on Insight Timer, and a few days ago one of the Zen stories that he shared really touched me. I’m paraphrasing the story here and telling it in the second person so that you can imagine yourself inside of it:

You are walking through the jungle when suddenly a tiger appears from the trees and begins chasing you. Terrified, you run as fast as you can, branches whipping against your skin as the tiger crashes through the jungle behind you.

Eventually you reach the edge of a cliff.

With nowhere else to go, you grab hold of a vine and lower yourself over the side of the cliff face.

Above you, the tiger waits.

Far below you, you notice that another tiger waits among the rocks.

And then you notice something else:

Two tiny mice, one white and one black, are slowly chewing through the vine that you are hanging from.

You are suspended there between what is above you and what is below you, knowing that the vine will not hold forever.

And then beside you, growing from the side of the cliff, you see a single wild strawberry.

You reach out and pick it. You place it into your mouth. And it is the sweetest thing you have ever tasted.

As I sat and listened to this story, of course I couldn’t help but think about my closed-eye strawberry that I’ve been doing for years. In some way, this story was able to explain the sweetness that I had felt in those seconds of time. Sweetness that was available to me every single time I tasted the strawberry, no matter what had been going on in my day.

It’s easy to forget the sweetness. It’s easy to get distracted and to be pulled in a million different directions, and to forget what exists in that eternal moment that hovers between what has happened and what might. And yet that is the place where the only realness in this universe exists, a place that we rarely visit… save for a few moments each day to taste a strawberry.

It’s easy to get caught up in everything else, and to forget about the strawberries. But they are there… right now. I can take a deep breath and look down. I know there is a basket of strawberries at my feet. And I can choose to taste one whenever I’d like.

Friends — I hope that you can find a strawberry today, in whatever form that it takes. Remember, the tigers will be there too — but so is the strawberry. Coexisting in that infinite focal point of the place where our life exists — right now.

I’m sending you all so much love (and strawberries).

Hi friends! Today is just a short, reflective essay that I wanted to share with all of you. I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it down.

Dear Kula Diaries,

My husband and I have been doing a 111-day course on Insight Timer that includes a 5-minute Zen meditation every single day. These meditations are artfully created and recorded by a meditation guide named Charles Freligh. They include moments of what he calls “micro-Zen,” which is just about 30 seconds to a minute of quiet, followed by either a classic Zen story or another type of contemplative insight that helps bring you into the present moment.

In one of our lessons a couple of weeks ago, he told a story of how a Zen practitioner was annoyed because he had dropped a mug onto the ground, but as he (begrudgingly) swept up the pieces, he suddenly heard the sound of one of the shards being moved across the floor by the broom. In that moment, he awakened — he realized, suddenly, there is only ever this. In his frustration about dropping the mug, he had created suffering in his own mind — but in that moment of hearing the noise of the ceramic shard on the floor, he realized something important: he was the one creating the suffering about the mug because of his own annoyance. In reality, there was nothing more to that moment than simply sweeping up a small shard of ceramic.

While the story itself is a little obscure on the surface, if you look deeper and feel into the meaning, you can find it. We’re often so in our heads that we are not where we are. Something as ‘simple’ as there is only ever this is often lost in a whirlwind of past and future thoughts, worries and ruminating… to-do lists and being ‘busy’.

The story made me think about my own life and goals and tasks and achievements that (often) have nothing to do with anything in the big picture. In a strange way, these tasks become so ‘important’ or ‘urgent’ and I lose myself in the ‘seriousness’ of them on my way to some point in the future. This feels oddly similar to contemplating the work that was done by the billions of people that have come before us, living their whole lives fixated on what they could accomplish or earn, and then vanishing, transitioning into nothing. The factories that were once mainstays, are overtaken by vines. Nothing is permanent — and the only constant is, ironically, change. I’m learning that there are the ‘surface’ level things that we do — i.e. a product we create or sell … which is impermanent and fleeting. And then, there is the energy that we create while we are doing the things that we do — and that is the thing that matters… and the thing that is often overlooked in favor of shinier things.

As an entrepreneur, it’s easy to get swept away in this wanting and chasing: a life spent always wanting something else that, in about 50 years, nobody is going to remember anyway. Somewhere along the way, we’ve forgotten that the point of life is, quite simply, to be alive.

Yes, we can do all the things, check all the boxes, but underneath that has to be something different, because if it doesn’t, we’ll never wake up to what is here right now. I do believe that work is worthwhile and important. Personally, I love creating and designing and dreaming. I’m not suggesting that we shouldn’t do that. Instead, I’m suggesting that our external tasks must be supported by a more important, internal practice. Otherwise, we’ll never wake up to the pottery shard on the floor, to the bird chirping, to the smell of the morning air.

Instead, we’ll stay asleep in this world of empty boats… which is another Zen story we learned in our class:

A man is trying to create the perfect circumstance where he can finally find peace, and he takes his own boat out into the middle of a lake, away from everything, to find peace.

And as he settles into his meditation, he suddenly hears the sound of water lapping, and he grows furious that somebody else is out on the lake disturbing his peace and ruining his chance at finally achieving enlightenment.

When, suddenly, out of the mist comes the other boat, and as it approaches, the man looks over and realizes that it’s simply an empty boat drifting on the lake that had somehow become unmoored from its dock. Suddenly, he realizes that he was the one creating the disturbance in his own mind — not anybody else. Afterall, it was just an empty boat.

As the story goes, we are living in a world of empty boats, and we are the ones creating the waves because we have forgotten how to simply go with the flow of what is and see ourselves and all things as this one complicated life form that indeed has the opportunity to wake up and create something meaningful and good.

Last week, I was in our kitchen and went to get water, and the glass caught on the lip of our refrigerator as I filled up the water and I lost my grip. I watched in what felt like in slow motion, as the glass fell from my hand and scattered everywhere all over our kitchen floor, shards of clear watery glass (which, yes, were annoyingly impossible to clean up — ha!).

I could have gotten angry and frustrated, but instead I found myself remembering the story of the pottery shards and the empty boats — and oddly just slowly and methodically picking up the glass. Why did I need to create more drama in my mind about it? What would that have done?

Instead, I could just be there, picking up the tiny pieces and putting it back together.

And maybe, that’s what we’re all supposed to be doing. Looking around at the tiny, glistening pieces of life, putting it back together, and above all things reminding ourselves that, for now and always, it’s enough to allow ourselves to simply live.

Dear Kula Diaries,

A few years ago, I shared the true story of my personal struggle with cell phone and social media addiction. I’m not going to sugarcoat this at all—my own addiction to the imaginary world in my phone created absolute havoc in my life in more ways than I can begin to count. Suffice it to say: it was not good.

Here’s the first post I wrote: My body is there, but my soul isn't. - by Anastasia Allison

And a second post I shared: My body is there, but my soul isn't: Part Two. - by Anastasia Allison

I was spending more time looking at the fake world than being in the real one, and it created a huge gulf between my husband and me… and honestly, between me and all of life.

While I’m embarrassed to admit this now, at the time, I really had no idea. I was so lost in it that it felt real. Getting validation online and sharing nearly everything I did on a constant basis felt so intoxicating that I couldn’t imagine being off my phone. My body was literally hungry for the dopamine hits that came when I would share something and get a response. I would post something and then go back a million times a day to check on it, to see how it was doing. I created a world in my mind that somehow felt more vibrant than the world around me.

There’s a quote by Alan Watts where he describes this so perfectly:

A person who thinks all the time
Has nothing to think about except thoughts
So, he loses touch with reality
And lives in a world of illusions
By thoughts, I mean specifically, chatter in the skull
Perpetual and compulsive repetition of words
Of reckoning and calculating
I'm not saying that thinking is bad
Like everything else, it's useful in moderation
A good servant, but a bad master
And all so-called civilized peoples
Have increasingly become crazy and self-destructive
Because, through excessive thinking
They have lost touch with reality
That's to say
We confuse signs
With the real world
This is the beginning of meditation
Most of us would have
Rather money than tangible wealth
And a great occasion is somehow spoiled for us unless photographed
And to read about it the next day in the newspaper
Is oddly more fun for us than the original event
This is a disaster
For as a result of confusing the real world of nature with mere signs
We are destroying nature
We are so tied up in our minds that we've lost our senses
Time to wake up
What is reality?
Obviously no one can say
Because it isn't words
It isn't material, that's just an idea
Reality is
The point cannot be explained in words
I'm not trying to put you down
It's an expression of you as you are
One must live
We need to survive, to go on
We must go on

We are losing touch with what is actually real, and we’ve very dangerously created these worlds in our hands that we feel like we need to keep up with constantly. Our neurotransmitters are firing at an ever more rapid pace, and we wonder why we feel completely stressed and burnt out.

If you could see the information coming at you as rocks, or water balloons, or squirts of silly string—it would be endless. And who can possibly function while being pelted with rocks and balloons and silly string? Nobody. And yet, in a strange way, that’s what we’re doing. The problem is that it’s invisible to the eye, because it’s coming at us in an endless digital torrent. And not only that, but it’s also completely socially acceptable.

There’s nothing more depressing to me than going out to dinner and watching people sitting across from each other, their eyes devoid of light, their conversation devoid of words, both staring at their phones. And while I would never deny anyone their free will to spend their life scrolling (if that is what truly brings them joy) —I don’t even think many people realize that’s how they’re spending their time.

When I was in my full-blown social media addiction, I had no clue what I was doing.

I was so lost in that imaginary world that I was genuinely unable to feel joy or happiness when I wasn’t getting those little dopamine hits. And that’s what an addiction is—you’re getting a high, whether it’s from a substance or from your phone, and your body becomes dependent on it.

When I first broke the habit, I went through actual withdrawal. I felt depressed, disconnected, and in this strange brain fog—like I didn’t even know where I was. It felt like my consciousness had been pulled into my phone, and when I stopped using it, that part of me had to come back out into the real world again—the one underneath my feet.

Over the years since that first detox, I’ve found ways to have a presence online—because it matters for my business—without falling back into that level of addiction. There have been better days and worse days, but I can say I’ve never gone back to where I was.

Still, I have to admit, it’s sneaky.

It’s so easy to fill every gap with your phone. Sitting in the car at a gas station… waiting in line… just a ‘quick check’ of the e-mail or Instagram app… it’s almost automatic to reach for it instead of just being.

Nearly everything we do now involves a phone. I’m not getting rid of mine. But I do want to live more in the real world. And when I look around, I see that most people are not. Which begs the question: what is the real world? And why are our nervous systems crying out?

I think it’s because we’re being told to care about everything, all the time… and we’re constantly inundated by endless amounts of content. There is some noise that we could classify as, ‘good’ … and other noise that we could classify as, ‘bad’… but it’s ALL STILL NOISE. And we rarely get a break from it, unless we’re super vigilant about creating the break. We’re sucked into conversations and outrage about so many things that we don’t have any control over, and in that process, we neglect the small sphere of influence we actually do have. The thing that we do have control over is quite simple: this moment right now. That’s it. It’s about how we show up, how we care for ourselves, how we nurture our relationships, how we love the people in our homes in this moment.

To be totally transparent, I still struggle sometimes. It’s an active, ongoing practice to stay present and not get pulled back into the temptation of ‘checking out’ of life. Yes, there are moments when I intentionally use my phone— sometimes it feels like a conundrum, because I love making funny videos and sharing them. But it’s the hours behind the scenes, chasing validation or scrolling or filling empty spaces, that have always been the problem.

Recently, I subscribed to and started using an app called Freedom—ironically named—that lets you block certain apps. You can create sessions or recurring blocks on certain apps, so you’re not tempted during the times you’re most likely to scroll endlessly (note: I’m not paid to mention them — this is a product I pay for with my own money and am sharing because it’s genuinely changed my life!).

Now, if I notice I’m getting into an unconscious habit of reaching for my phone, I’ll set a block session. I find that, almost immediately, I feel more at peace. I also have Instagram, Facebook, Gmail, and my Shopify store blocked every day from 4 p.m. to 10 a.m. the next day.

Yes, I could override it—but there is a tiny pause when I realize it’s blocked and that is often enough to break the cycle. These days, I go entire weekends barely touching my phone—except to call people, take photos or, recently, to go geocaching. Otherwise, it just sits there, exactly as it is… a hunk of metal. Not my life.

This is all we have. Right now. This life.

And I think many of us (myself included at times) are missing it.

But what I know is this: life doesn’t go away. It’s always here, waiting for us to return. Life loves us and it is ready to remind us what is real. Quitting a phone addiction is something a lot of people say they should do—but very few actually do, because it’s that addictive. And I’ll say this: it’s not your fault. But we do have a choice.

Believe me, I’ve been there. I almost upended my entire life because of it. But, I too, had to choose: Digital life… or real one?

In book club this past month, we finished reading The Courage to Be Happy, and the most profound thing that struck me from that book was a simple concept to explain (but a challenging one to have awareness about). The philosopher in the book holds up a triangular shaped column that represents the human psyche. He says that from where most people are sitting, we can see only two sides:

A side that says, ‘that bad person’ and a side that says, ‘Poor me.’

These are the common complaints — the reasons for the suffering of most humans: either those who have ‘wronged us’, or our own sense of woe.

But, as the philosopher reveals, there is a third column that isn’t visible while you are looking at the other two. And that column is:

What should I do from now on?

This is how I’ve felt about my entire experience with cell phone/social media addiction. I could blame the app builders. I could feel sorry for myself and my struggle for validation and acceptance and for the fact that I was bullied as a kid — but none of those things is helpful.

Instead, I can ask: What should I do from now on?

In that moment, I can take back the power to choose my own trail — I can set the phone down, and walk forward into the rest of life, in whatever way feels best to me.

So I’m sharing this today as my own personal experience and as an invitation—just to look at your own habits. To notice and to be honest about whether or not the digital world is consuming too much of the real one. To maybe revisit it, even if you’ve tried before.

I can tell you this with absolute certainty: when I’m not using my phone, I am happier. More peaceful. More calm. More connected. More at ease. Every single thing you’ve ever read about phone addiction being harmful—it’s true. I can feel that in my bones. I have never taken a break from my phone and come back to it feeling happier. Not once.

Cell phones and technology and social media—they’re part of our world. And they can be really wonderful things. I’ve met some of my best friends on social media and built an entire business there.

But they are not your life.

You are something so far beyond your phone.

And in the wise words of Maurice Sendak:

Live your life.
Live your life.
Live your life.

Dear Kula Diaries,

I had originally planned for a different post today, one about my continued journey of working on a healthier relationship with my phone and with social media. But then I realized that today, being Mother’s Day here in the U.S., I don’t want people spending time on their phones reading too much about anything that I have to say. So instead, I’m just sharing these two poems. These poems were written by me, and they include stunning art by my friend Amanda McIntyre, who is an amazing mom and talented artist.

I acknowledge and understand that Mother’s Day can be both a joyful holiday and a very complicated holiday for some folks. As a child-free person who has been treated very differently from others my entire life due to my personal choice, I hope that I can also speak on behalf of all of the child-free folks out there, whether being child-free was a choice or not: there is a place in this world for all of us.

Mother’s Day is an opportunity to celebrate something sacred — and it’s possible to celebrate both the joy of motherhood and also the joy of being exactly who we are, each of us a nurturer of life itself and an important part of this infinite cosmic being.

So whatever feelings today holds for you, whether they are sad or indifferent or grieving or annoyed or remorseful or joyful, please know there is a place for that, and that all feelings and experiences are worthy and valid, and that there is nothing that can make you more or less whole than you already are.

I heard a really beautiful story the other day that I wanted to share:

A woman held a rose out to a small child and asked a question, “Is this rose beautiful?” The child thought for a moment and replied, “Yes, it is!”

Then, the woman hid the rose behind her back and asked, “Is the rose still beautiful?”

The child thought for a moment and replied, “Yes, it is.”

Beauty, love, kindness — these things exist within us, not apart from us. Always remember that, and you will understand how incredible you really are.

Sending you all so much love today and all days.

Dear Kula Diaries:

I’ve been writing this post since April 15th - HA! So, it’s a bit long, which makes me laugh… because I think that when I first started writing here on Substack, somebody told me that posts shouldn’t be more than 1,000 words in length. I have broken that rule for literally EVERY. SINGLE. POST. I’ve ever done here — and, unbelievably, I’m still here!

On the 24th of April, my musical partner Rose and I had the opportunity to perform on stage at Benaroya Hall for the Crescendo Concert — a concert with the Northwest Symphony Orchestra and the Washington Trails Association. This was our 5th time performing on stage at Benaroya Hall, which — quite honestly — feels like a dream to me. It’s such a surreal experience, and I love the opportunity to document the whole adventure. So, if you’re up for it: stick with me… and I’ll take you on a little journey… leading up to the 10 minutes that we were on stage just over a week ago.

Here goes…

Nine Days Before The Concert

Today is April 15th, 2026. It is officially nine days before our concert on the 24th at Benaroya Hall, and I wanted to start documenting my thoughts leading up to the concert because it’s such a special experience, and it really feels like the full week or so leading up to the concert is a celebration of so many things that I love.

I’ve been practicing every single day without fail (it feels like a habit now) and it’s been a wonderful experience. I have to sequester myself away from our cats into the guest room because they don’t like the sound of the violin. Our house has tall ceilings, and the sound really reverberates, and I think it bothers their ears. Each night, I close myself into the guest bedroom for a while to practice, and sometimes I play the song completely by myself, and other times I put a recording of Rose playing the piano in one earbud so that I can play along with the accompaniment.

Each time I practice, I try to visualize the feeling of being on stage—feeling the warmth of the spotlight and the energy and excitement of the audience.

Last year when we performed, one of the most fun parts of the concert was listening to the audience gasp as they watched our video of us carrying our instruments on a very cold wintery day to a special spot high in the Cascades. As I was on stage playing live, I was distracted by hearing ‘oohs and ahhs’ from the audience, and it was the sweetest experience! There’s something about what the Musical Mountaineers do that seems impossible, and yet you know you’re watching it. Even when we share footage of us hiking up through the snow or climbing up a class three scramble, we still get questions afterwards asking if we took a helicopter up to the summit.

The other day during my practice session, it was just before sunset, and there was a beam of sun coming into the window, perfectly warming my face while I played. I closed my eyes and imagined that it was the spotlight on the stage. These tiny moments while I’m practicing are small touchstones that I can come back to when the buzz of energy from a live performance feels nerve-wracking. No matter how overwhelming anything feels, I can always return to that moment … standing in my guest room with a beam of light from the sun warming my face while I play.

Last week, Rose and I rehearsed down in Tiny Homestead 2, the little cabin on our property, and the creek just below the cabin is particularly high this year and was rushing audibly in the background. We both decided that it was nature’s way of applauding. You can hear a little recording of our rehearsal here:

Over the next few days, my hope is just to continue practicing and continue to see this piece of music and this experience as a friend, so that Rose and I can bring something special and meaningful to people—something that gives them the feeling of connection with life and love and our universe all at once.

The name of our first piece is called Sanctuary, and I’ve been trying to work on a poem for Rose to recite at the performance. On my walk this morning, the idea came to me for a poem, so I typed it out on my phone. Here it is:

What is home 
but a place we know, 
a place we’re loved, 
and a place we can grow. 

When we step outside, 
we often find 
the stillness that exists 
under the mind. 

Recharged, reconnected. 
I can just be me 
when I’m out here 
amidst the peaks and trees, 

trusting my feet 
upon this path. 
I know not what is coming, 
but at least I can laugh. 

Because as I look around, 
below and above, 
I know there’s nothing to fear, 
When there is only love.

I’m still not sold on it yet… so, we’ll see.

April 22 - Two Days Before the Concert

It is April 22 today, and I’m writing this at 4:42 in the morning—or rather, I’m reciting it out loud to my cell phone. I’m actually on a walk in the dark, so I’m narrating this out loud (and hopefully my phone will ‘type it up’ correctly - ha!).

This past Sunday, Rose and I met up for a rehearsal, and then last night I practiced again by myself. It’s funny how, when you’re learning a new piece, it starts out as a stranger and becomes a friend.

A few weeks ago, I was performing at an assisted living facility, and I suddenly started playing a song that I hadn’t played in probably 10 years. Somehow stored in my DNA was the memory of the notes that I had once practiced very hard to learn. Memory is a funny thing, because if you asked me to recall the notes, I probably wouldn’t have been able to. But if I lift my violin and start to play them, it all comes back without me needing to think about it — as if they’ve been hidden away in some secret place in my mind.

April 23 - Day Before

Today is the day before the concert.

Yesterday, Rose and I had our final dress rehearsal together. We will get to rehearse a few more times still—one sound check on stage—and we’ll also have a piano in our dressing room backstage where we can practice and warm up.

I don’t have any special pre-concert rituals, except that I like to keep everything the same and predictable. So on the day of the concert, I’ll be leading a dance session—and it’s the exact same playlist that I led last year. I’ll be eating exactly the same things, and we’ll be getting our hair done in the morning and then driving down to Seattle to get there early so that we are ready to head in for our sound check.

We will be spending the night in a hotel in downtown Seattle so that I don’t have to drive home late, because the concert doesn’t start until 7:30, which is pretty much only about an hour away from my normal bedtime. So needless to say, it’s going to be an exhausting day, but right now I feel a wonderful sense of anticipation—I’m looking forward to seeing everybody, and for the opportunity to share our beautiful program with people.

Today I will go to work, and this evening practice again, alone in my guest room, and dream of what it will be like tomorrow. May I be present tomorrow to the whole experience, and take time throughout the day to savor all parts of it!

Day Of the Concert — April 24

I’m writing this after the concert, as a re-telling of the experience! Hence, switching to the past tense!

The day of the concert at Benaroya Hall started like any normal day for me. I don’t like to change my routine much, but what I’m not sure I’ve ever shared is that on the day of last year’s Crescendo concert, I woke up with an absolutely atrocious garlic-induced headache. I remember sitting in the chair in the salon, about to get my hair done, with my head in my hands, wondering how I was going to even make it through the day—let alone perform on stage. Luckily, with the help of some Cherry Coke Zero, which seems to be a magical beverage for me, and some adrenaline, I made it through the concert. But I felt pretty bad all day, and even worse the next morning when I woke up.

A lot can change in a year. And when I woke up on the day of the concert this year and felt clear-headed, I swear I could hear a small chorus of angels singing. My brain felt open and alive and ready to experience the excitement and joy of the whole day.

We first went to a small hair salon in Everett that has done our hair for the last few years, and the stylist was unbelievably able to do an updo on my hair that required only six bobby pins. If you are a long-haired person, you will understand the significance of this. Most folks with really long hair who get updos end up suffering the pain of lying on a bed of 10,000 needles on your head, with bobby pins stuck everywhere—but this was painless and comfortable.

We drove to Seattle next and spent some time at a little coffee shop across the street from Benaroya Hall before Rose and I finally headed in to start getting ready for our sound check.

Waiting is a funny thing, and what I know from years and years of performing music is that anticipation is far more difficult than actually doing the thing that you’re anticipating. When you’re performing on a big stage, and it’s not something that you do every single day for a living, there seems to be this distance between you and the stage and the audience, and having the opportunity to be in the space ahead of time, as opposed to making it into a big deal in your mind, feels very comforting to me.

As a park ranger, I used to perform my violin for campers in the campground. And really, there is no difference between performing for thousands of people or just a few. The only difference is what your mind tells you about how difficult one is over the other. But the actual act of playing the violin never gets more or less challenging. It’s simply about finding comfort in where you are.

To be able to spend time in a big, giant room makes it far less scary and feel much more like a cozy campfire nook—only slightly bigger, and the type of campfire where there are 3,000 people there.

For our sound check, Rose and I went out on stage to run through our piece, and since the orchestra hadn’t arrived yet, we were able to stay on stage for an incredible 28 minutes.

I decided to set up my video recorder in the audience seating to record our rehearsal. And after our rehearsal was done, they wanted us to stay on stage so that they could test the lighting. Rose started playing slightly impromptu, and as one does, I joined her. We just stood there on stage and played with those beautiful acoustics and improvised something that really felt like it came from everywhere.

The day before the concert, my mentor Hasna had done a meditation with me where she guided me through sensing the center of my being and noticing places where perhaps the center of who I was being called in different directions. Feeling recently acquainted with this feeling of ‘center’, I noticed it as we stood on stage and improvised. Here I am—me and my center—the music of the universe arriving at this moment. I was overwhelmed with a really wonderful sense of calm and peace.

We didn’t have to play until the second half of the performance, so we got dressed into our gowns and waited backstage until after intermission. Now, between us and the moment we walked onto the stage, there was only one song. Anthony Spain, the conductor of the Northwest Symphony Orchestra, said that the song only lasted seven to eight minutes. And so we stood backstage while Rose danced a ballet to the music of Grieg. And then when the song was finished, Anthony walked off, looked at both of us, smiled, and said, “Have a great time.” The backstage staff gave us the secret nod, and we walked out onto the stage.

It’s so surreal having a moment like that—something you’ve been thinking about and preparing for months—and now finally it’s there. Like the passage of time hasn’t even happened at all. And somehow the moment you learned that you were going to get to do this again, and the moment itself, and the moment afterwards are all there together — merged into this one, surreal instant of time.

Rose introduced us and started by reading a poem that I had written for the concert. The name of the piece that we were playing was called Sanctuary, and it’s written by Chad Lawson for piano, but Rose arranged it for violin and piano so that we could play it together. I wanted to write a poem that embodied the theme of the piece and the idea of what a sanctuary is and how that relates to nature. It was on one of my morning walks that the idea for the poem came to me, and I quickly typed it into my notes app while I was walking, trying not to trip up the gravel hill near my house.

It’s not the poem I shared earlier in the post — instead, I was inspired to write a new one. Here it is:

Rose read the poem, sat down at the piano and we both took a few breaths, and then she started playing the first note as Mitch’s video was played on stage behind us on a giant screen.

There was this funny moment backstage before we came out where I think it both hit us that we were going to perform at the concert, and I don’t know why I found it very humorous, but I suddenly was saying, “In about 20 minutes, we’re going to go out there, and we’re going to perform on a stage in front of thousands of people, and we don’t have a choice. We’re committed. We have to do this. We have to go out on stage and do this performance right now, and there’s no stopping it.” We both sat on the ground together and dissolved into laughter.

It was as if the rolling of time—I could feel it coming toward us—and now suddenly, here we were at the precipice. As I placed my bow on the string and started to play, I just felt like I was totally there — which is not always the case as a musician. There are times when I’ve performed where I get into my own head and start listening to myself and thinking about what note comes next, but this time, it was easy. The notes came, and then they were gone. And I remember thinking to myself (weirdly), “Here I am, I’m doing this right now. Wow!” As if it wasn’t the most obvious thing in the world but was somehow now just occurring to me.

Our video played behind us, and I could hear little gasps in the crowd as the different scenes of us climbing the peak were witnessed by the audience. I felt at ease and calm, and like I just wanted that moment to last forever. And then, just over five minutes after we started playing, the last note echoed. And the crowd filled the hall with applause. We bowed, walked off stage, were quickly ushered back for an additional bow, and the entire hall had jumped up into a standing ovation.

You can watch the full video that was played behind us here:

Watch Video!

After we played our first song, we had one more piece, but first I had wanted to share a story about our climb up Mount Pugh where we filmed the video. And this is what I shared with the audience:

Climbing over a vertical mile of elevation gain with a violin, a 76-key keyboard, and a bunch of camera gear is no easy feat, which probably goes without saying. We were also joined on our climb of Mount Pugh by our friend Chris, and I’m pretty sure that they carried about 10 liters of water, and my husband Aaron, who carried anything that didn’t fit into anybody else’s pack and also more water.

Mitch, the cinematographer, had arrived back in the Pacific Northwest after a work trip to Africa less than 24 hours before we did this climb, and so you can imagine that by the time we got to the summit, we were all pretty exhausted. Each of us, in some iteration, had taken various turns being in the fetal position throughout the hike. It was brutal. And then, at the summit, the realization hit us: sunset waits for no one, and we still have to put on gowns and perform!

It’s at a time like that when you need a beacon, a sign of hope, something that inspires you to keep going, and that is the moment when Mitch—the very outdoorsy male version of Mary Poppins—opened up his backpack and pulled out a container that contained no less than three pounds of apple pie that he had purchased in Amsterdam from his favorite pie shop in the entire world.

And so the four of us sat at the summit eating apple pie and feeling the life force energy come back into us. And I remember sitting there on the summit, looking out over the world and these beautiful humans that I had the opportunity to spend time with, and thinking that I indeed was the luckiest person on earth.

Everybody who spends time in nature has a moment like this—a touchstone that they can think of that has made them feel so grateful for life. Being outside isn’t just about the moments that are captured on film or on our phones, but more so about the moments that are captured in our hearts. And that’s why we are all gathered together to celebrate music and nature, because we believe that everybody deserves to experience that type of gratitude… and because we know that trails lead us to far more than just trails.

After I shared my story, Rose read one more poem, a beautiful poem by Morgan Harper Nichols about a flower. And then we performed our encore, Edelweiss, and ended with the Swallowtail Jig just for fun. We were probably out on stage for about 10 minutes. And it was the calmest, most fun experience I’ve had out there so far—just truly being able to be present and to enjoy the experience of sharing our music with so many people.

I’m going to write this next sentence twice on purpose for emphasis, because it truly sums up how I felt about the entire day and of this life:

What a gift. What a gift.

After the concert feels like what I can most accurately describe as a happy blur. Seeing so many familiar faces who showed up to support us and handing out Musical Mountaineers stickers. In talking with friends, at the end of the show, our friend Tyler came up to us and shared something that really stuck with me. He said that there was a moment in the video that really struck him and touched him in a profound way, and it was a simple scene where Mitch was filming me and I just looked off into the distance and smiled.

Tyler thoughtfully paused and said, “I’m not sure how to articulate this, but I’ll try. It just seemed in that moment that you were looking off into the vastness of the universe and smiling in a way that suggested that even though here we are on this beautiful earth with people who are threatening to burn it all down, even with that, we are still going to create art and music and find what is beautiful in this world to share.”

And so that’s what I’ll leave you with, friends: that the world is never too dark for the light of love and beauty that each of us still has the power to create. Many years ago, Rose and I would tell people that the Musical Mountaineers was, ‘our music on a mountain’, but that we believed that each person on this planet had their own ‘music on a mountain’ too. It might look different than carrying a violin and a keyboard up a literal mountain, but it still shines just as bright.

And if two women who had a little dream of carrying a keyboard and a violin outside can create 10 minutes of joy for thousands, then… what we all can do together?

Thanks for being here, friends, and thanks for reading my writing and listening to my music. I’m so grateful that Rose and I had this opportunity, and it’s definitely one of those memories I will hold in my heart for all of time.

Hello Kula Diaries friends!

Hi!! I’m Anastasia — and I’m going to re-introduce myself very briefly, in case you’re wondering how you got here. I’m the founder of a company called Kula Cloth and also the violinist for a duo called the Musical Mountaineers. I am an avid hiker, backpacker, cat lover and motorcycle enthusiast… who also loves to genuinely share and connect with other humans.

I started hosting a book club for Kula Cloth in 2020… and I’ve been doing it ever since! Being able to connect with folks through The Kula Diaries has been a very meaningful part of my life — none of my story makes much sense to me, if I can’t use it to help others navigate their own path too.

Each month, I host three core live events:

1. A virtual dance party

2. A monthly creative power hour (kinda like an inspirational mastermind session!)

3. A monthly book club

If you are new, WELCOME. If you have been here for awhile… also, WELCOME. I don’t take it for granted that you chose to press the ‘subscribe’ button on this page, and it really means a lot to me that you are here. I hope to take that gratitude, and pour it back into you.

For the month of May, I am hosting 3 live events … and you can read the event descriptions below. If you are a paid subscriber who cannot attend, please let me know (anastasia@kulacloth.com) in advance and I will make sure you receive a recording.

In order to attend these events you must be a paid subscriber of the Kula diaries. This costs a mere $5, which is less than the price of a single coffee. This money helps to cover the monthly cost of my professional Zoom account and storage, which I use for hosting these sessions. Having a tiny paywall also prevents distracting zoom bombers from joining our calls.

I put a lot of effort into our monthly events and into writing the Kula Diaries… as well as into supporting my subscribers and their dreams and projects, and I know it will make a positive and noticeable difference in your life — as it does in mine.

As a quick note to subscribers: I will likely be taking a hiatus from a rigorous event schedule between June-September of this year. I have a significant number of commitments away from home during that time, and while I’m not usually the greatest at giving myself some grace and a break — I’ve lately been feeling very much overextended with the day to day responsibilities of running a business, and am really feeling like I (honestly) need to go a bit easy on myself for my own mental health — so I just wanted to share that ahead of time so that nobody is surprised! I appreciate your understanding in advance. I don’t make any money from doing the Kula Diaries — i.e. it isn’t my ‘job’ — instead, it’s a labor of love and I want to keep it that way.

You can subscribe here to attend May’s events (or just to support my writing!):

Subscribe now

Event Descriptions:

Kula Diaries Dance Party — Thursday, May 7th 5–6pm Pacific time

This is about a 45 minute session with me… fun, joyful movement. If you’ve never tried it - be open and just see what happens. I guarantee you will feel amazing. I curate the playlist based on the themes that I’ve written about over the past month - so it really feels (and is) very special. I’ve truly enjoyed the Kula Diaries dance parties that I’ve hosted so far - they are unique and special, and even if you don’t consider yourself a ‘dancer’ - just come see what happens when you try something out of your comfort zone! You might be surprised.

Kula Diaries Creative Power Hour — Thursday, May 14th, 10am Pacific Time:

This is an hour long creative ‘mastermind’ type session where you can talk about anything that is important to you. Please note: if you don’t feel comfortable speaking or sharing on the call, it is never required and you won’t get ‘called on’. If you simply prefer to be in the space and listen, that’s entirely OK. Your camera does not need to be on for this session. It’s very low-pressure and welcoming! You do not need to be an entrepreneur to attend this session. We have folks from all walks of life who attend and find value in talking about what they want to create and focus on.

Kula Diaries Book Club — Friday, May 29th, at 10am Pacific time

We will discuss a brand new book (suggested by my mom!), so please go ahead and start reading it so that you will be ready to discuss on the 29th!

The new book that we will be discussing this month is:

NEW YORK TIMES BESTSELLER Two lifelong peace activists and guides to Israel/Palestine, both of whom have lost family in the conflict, take readers on a revealing life-changing journey across this holy, bloodstained land and discover the mythic, political, and personal history that divides but also binds them and their peoples.

“[A] short but immensely poignant account of a shared journey across Israel and the West Bank . . . raw with pain and rage and yet bravely insistent on the imperative of hope.”—The New York Times

As always, thank you so much for being a part of The Kula Diaries — for helping to make this tiny crumble of the universe (and internet) possible. I put a lot of energy and love into making this something that I (hope) brings love, joy and value into your own life — as I know it does into mine.

The Zoom links for all of the events are below - I do send a reminder e-mail prior to the event, but if you lose the e-mail reminder, you can always come back to this post for reference. Can’t wait to see all of you!

I am so unbelievably grateful for all of your support and I love getting to share this little nook of the universe with all of you. So, thank you for being here. I’m looking forward to a beautiful month of sharing, uplifting and connecting.

Love,

Anastasia

Zoom links for May 2026 Events:

Read more

Dear Kula Diaries,

A few weeks ago, my dad texted me to me to let me know that if my grandmother—my Grammy, his mother, Rose—was alive, she would have been celebrating her 100th birthday.

My grandmother was an eccentric Italian woman, an artist and musician, who instilled in me a great love of curiosity and whimsy. While I know that she and my father had a difficult relationship at times, she always made an effort to be present with her grandkids — and I fondly remember visits to her home in Long Island, NY… which consisted of watching old movies, playing music, making art, and looking at a curiosity cabinet of antique toy figurines that were known as, ‘The Greaty Great Greats’. For the record, we were not allowed to touch the Greaty Great Greats without permission. I didn’t know at the time — but, later learned, that these toys had belonged to my uncle Tommy — my dad’s younger brother who tragically died by suicide at the age of 18 years old.

It was my grandmother Rose who first played the violin for me, which inspired me, at the age of two, to tell my parents that I wanted to start taking violin lessons.

No violin teacher would accept a two-year-old student, and so my parents waited until I was four years old before I was allowed to take violin lessons. My mom found a violin teacher who lived nearby, and when the teacher told us she wasn’t accepting any more students, my mom somehow managed to accost this woman in church to introduce me and share my anxiousness and eagerness to play the violin.

According to my mom, I marched right up. The teacher leaned over endearingly toward me and said, “Oh, hi, Stacy, I hear that you want to learn how to play the violin.”

And apparently, I looked back at the teacher and very confidently stated,
“I already play the violin.”

In case it wasn’t clear… no, I did not play the violin.

However, the teacher was so taken with my unbridled enthusiasm that she added me as a student, and I started taking private lessons when I was four years old.

My grandmother was there for many of my recitals, and as I grew, I got to the point where I was no longer simply screeching on the instrument but actually making somewhat pleasant sounds.

As a kid, I remember standing in her living room, which was completely overtaken by a Steinway grand piano that she had been given for her 16th birthday by her parents. My grandmother would play the piano, and I would try my best to play along on the violin, and occasionally we would even play violin duets together.

When you start out playing the violin, you usually begin on a very tiny instrument, especially if you start as a little kid like I did. My very first violin was a quarter-size violin. Then a half. Then three-quarter. And finally, in your teen years, when your arms can handle it, you upgrade to a full-size violin.

I started playing on my first full-size violin when I was about 13 years old, and it was at this time that I had the opportunity to play on my grandmother’s violin for the first time. I still remember her opening the case cautiously, folding back the velvet cover that was draped over the violin, and delicately pulling out the instrument and the bow. The bow, she told me, was a priceless bow.

To be honest, I smirked inside a little bit — and nodded to be polite, but I knew very well that she had bought the entire setup at an antique store, and very rarely did anybody find anything good at an antique store. In fact, if you go to pretty much any antique store on the planet, you can find a plethora of violins that all claim to be Stradivarius violins. This is almost never the case. It’s usually some cheap violin made in a factory somewhere—something that would cost more to fix than to replace.

Nevertheless, my grandmother’s bow became somewhat of a mythical lore in our family, and every time I visited her, I anxiously looked forward to the moment when she would pull out her violin so that I could play it and hold the bow. I also distinctly remember using the bow at least once for a fake sword fight.

Whenever Grammy would talk about the violin and the bow, we’d all sort of giggle and roll our eyes a little bit. But she was persistent. This, she insisted… was a priceless bow.

As the years went on, we began to notice that my grandmother’s memory and behavior were starting to change. She began having a hard time remembering who we were. At first, we thought maybe it was the early signs of Alzheimer’s, but we later learned that she was having multiple miniature strokes in her brain, and the tiny pockets of blood were putting pressure on her brain and causing her to lose her memory and her sense of who she was.

At some point during this period of her decline, I went on a trip with my dad to visit her. Of course, I brought my violin—which, to this day, has always come pretty much everywhere with me because it would feel wrong to leave it behind. My grandmother was still clear enough that she was able to play, and together in her living room, we played Ashokan Farewell. It would be the last time we would ever play music together.

I didn’t acknowledge it at the time, but as we played, I watched her—eyes fixed on the music, focusing on making each note count. And at the end of the song, her eyes lit up with the clarity of doing something that made sense in a world that must have felt very confusing to her. The mini strokes in her brain would ultimately take away her remembrance of who she was and who we all were.

My grandmother passed away in 2012, just before I left for a trip to Argentina to cross the Patagonian ice cap. I packed with me a photograph of her and a handful of Cow Tails—her favorite sweet, sugar-filled caramel candy. My grandmother was the type of adventurous woman, who would have loved backpacking with me. When I was a kid, she frequently went on mini ‘hikes’ in our backyard and in the woods beyond — and on at least one occasion, we ended up getting completely lost, popping out of the woods in a neighborhood we didn’t recognize. Another time, she was crossing a log, precariously balanced across the creek… and fell in. I still remember her howling with laughter as she scrambled out of the water — soaked.

There’s also an infamous episode from my childhood where my grandmother had hidden her stash of Cow Tails in our house. I found them, pulled them from their hiding place, and my seventy-something-year-old grandmother physically chased me across the front yard—and actually caught me—to get back that bag of candy, laughing the entire time she was running.

She was the type of grandmother who, before bedtime, told improvised stories about three adventurous little girls—me and my two sisters—but instead of using our names, she called these characters Shirley, Mimi, and Tilly. They were always getting themselves into sticky situations involving syrup-filled plants or getting lost in forests that were laden with magical toadstools… or flowers filled with bloops of glue that made it nearly impossible to walk. But somehow, those three adventurous girls would always find a way. Each story was different — improvised by my grandmother on the spot, and we always waited with bated breath for the moment that we knew was coming: the moment when they would find THE WAND. No matter what… no matter how dire the situation that they were in, they would always find a wand that could help them out.

The incantation to use this mystical wand was always the same: Abracadabra… wiggledy wooooo! And when my grandmother waved her imaginary wand at the climax of the story, she’d practically shout the magical words in a high-pitched squeal of excitement. Her imagination inspired me to write and to create worlds and stories of my own — because it seemed that these stories were a way to figure out some of the parts of life that I didn’t understand. Maybe there wasn’t a magical wand available, but the idea of a wand mattered. If Shirley, Mimi and Tilly could emerge unscathed from a quicksand bog made of syrup and cane sugar… then I was pretty sure that I could tackle just about anything in life.

Months after my grandmother passed away, my dad brought her violin and bow to a violin shop to have them looked over before bringing them to me. Since I am the only person in the family who plays violin, it was decided that they would come to me. I didn’t care about the appraisal. All that mattered to me was that they were a connection to her.

According to my dad, the man at the shop looked over the violin and was impressed. My dad mentioned the long-standing family legend about the bow—that it was a priceless Sartory bow. Sartory was a bow maker from France who lived from 1871 - 1946, and his bows are works of art. The violin itself often gets more ‘attention’ than the bow, but I can assure you: the bow is equally important in coaxing a beautiful tone from the instrument.

The violin maker said it looked nice, but he couldn’t be sure. He suggested taking it to a bow specialist.

So, my dad put the bow into a fly-fishing rod case and took it on a train to New York City, to a shop called Salchow & Sons — a specialized shop that only sells and makes high quality bows for stringed instruments.

My dad later told me that when he arrived at the shop, he pulled the bow out of the fly-fishing rod case and handed it to the bow maker. The man held it horizontally between his hands, looking it over. The man nodded a few times, eyeing the bow carefully and then said one word: “Nice.”

My dad waited anxiously for more details, “What is it?”

“It’s a Sartory bow.”

My dad stood in the bow maker’s shop in absolute shock and disbelief. He called me that night as visions of myself sword fighting with the bow danced in my head. All along… my grandmother had been right.

As we began to piece things together, another story started to make more sense. During the time when her memory was failing, my grandmother had told us that her violin teacher had expressed interest in purchasing the bow. At one point, she had even given it to him to take to a shop to have it, ‘looked at’ by a violin maker.

He offered her $250 for the bow.

At that point, she barely knew who she was—let alone recognized her family. And yet somehow… she had enough awareness to hold onto that bow. It’s obvious to me now that he must have known exactly what it was—and that he was trying to take advantage of her. And yet, somehow, against all odds, there was something within her—something beyond the mind—a knowing that could only have come from the heart, that compelled her to hold on to it.

My grandmother’s violin has travelled almost everywhere with me. I’ve played it on stage at Benaroya Hall 5 times (as of the publishing of this post). I’ve even taken my grandmother’s violin into the mountains with me (although I do have another violin that I usually take, that’s not nearly as valuable). It isn’t lost on me that now, years after she has passed, I also find myself performing music outside, having adventures with another pianist named Rose.

I’ve always believed and felt that musical instruments are living things, holding onto the imprint of those who have played them. If you look closely at a violin, you can see the worn spots where a person’s hand has slid up and down the neck—the oils from their skin slowly changing the varnish over time — a fingerprint of everyone who has touched it.

In that way, we each leave something behind—a gentle imprint passed down to the next person who will bring music from that same place: our notes, lives and love — permanently intertwined. I can feel the love of my grandmother every time I play her violin. And though she may not be beside me, the energy of who she is exists in each note.

And her bow—her priceless bow—something that even the best violinists in the world would be proud to use… is in my hand. I use it to play an instrument that has lifted me up on some of the darkest days — an instrument that has helped me to understand the world around me and to translate so much of life into music. A little over a decade ago, I found myself stuck in syrup of a different kind — the type of stickiness that drags you down and makes you question your own purpose and existence in this world. I am sad to admit that my violin and bow had sat in their case — nearly dormant — for many years. Until, one day — something changed, and I opened the case and started playing again. It was with that violin and bow that I began to emerge from the sticky darkness that I had created for myself… and slowly move towards the light and the love that I had forgotten.

As I think about those days… and about my violin and bow, I realize something quite special: it was the magical wand that I dreamed of so many years ago … the one that my Grammy created for me as a young girl. All along, it was real — and hiding in plain sight. When we can let go of our beliefs about what is possible… we open the door for true magic to arrive.

I place it on the string… and pull it slowly, and as the violin starts to sing, I can hear it in each note—my grandmother’s high-pitched trill: Abacadabra Wiggledy Woooooo!

Friends — thank YOU for being here, and thank you so much for reading my words! A small side story: Earlier this past week, my mom arrived in Washington State to attend my concert at Benaroya Hall. By the time that this post is published on Sunday, I will have performed on stage on Friday evening with my grandmother’s violin and bow. On the first morning of my mom’s visit, I walked to our dining room table to set down my bowl of oatmeal for breakfast, and I noticed a small watch sitting on the table. “What’s this?”, I asked, curious about where it might have come from.

“It’s Grammy’s”, my mom said, “I had it fixed for you. We think that Grandpa Bill gave it to her on their wedding day.”

My mom had no idea that I had written this piece about my grandmother and that I had planned to release it the same week as my concert… or that the first photo that I had (already) chosen to use in this post was the photo from my grandparent’s wedding.

Indeed, the love of the universe is everywhere, friends. May you know and feel that love — always.

All of my weekly Kula Diaries posts are free. You can still subscribe as a paid member and attend my monthly events (or not) — think of it as a tiny little message of encouragement that says, “I still want to see this type of (actual) writing!” I really appreciate your support so much. Love, Anastasia