Some days (or seasons) life feels like it spins us in circles. The hurried pace of life often leads me to circle back in search of keys, glasses. Name whatever item I might need for the errand at hand and currently cannot locate; I walk in circles. I learned early that retracing one’s steps is a good starting place (literally walking in a backwards set of concentric circles) when attempting to find that which is lost or hidden from view. If we were flies on the wall, I imagine we would witness constant circling (especially in the case of some of us). Watching someone cut their grass from afar, for example, one may observe a back and forth gridding, a chaos of random partitions, or a spiraling inward (or outward). Even animals circle before bedding down for the night or a daytime rest. Spirals are, it would seem, a frequently walked path in life regardless of species.

Spirals (that inward or outward movement or design) abound in the natural world as well. The golden ratio of the Fibonacci sequence can be observed innumerable places in both the natural and human-sculpted world. Karl Marx chose to describe history as a spiral of development and collapse through the conflict caused by opposing forces (for Marx this is always class-based). Centrifugal motion of two opposing forces in motion creates a spiral (or a gyre in the case of three dimensional shape). In other words, spirals exist in physical sciences from biology to physics, as well as in social sciences as a means to explain human systems and societies. It is, therefore, not surprising that spirals have been represented in human art, myth, and religion for millennium.

Celtic art and images, for example, incorporate spiral designs as far back as the Neolithic Period. In Ireland and Britain the triple spiral (triskelion) are thought to have represented the cycles of the moon, the phases of life (think: maiden, mother, crone) or a constant state of movement. Later this symbol was adapted to the trinity of Christianity, but its meanings are much older than Christianity’s two-thousand-year-old history. In fact, spirals appear in ancient designs across the world, from Peru’s Nazca lines and petroglyphs to Chinese jewelry and other ornaments. Spiral designs can be found the world over, from Peru’s Nazca lines to Maori koru, from African adrinka designs to the Hindu Vedas. Across cultures, spirals relate to life and death, to motion and change. In other words, spirals represent the natural state of things. Humans have been associating life and a coiling path for as long as humans have been making marks on stone or clay or paper.

Read more

There is not a single mold for any adventure, as human stories from time immemorial attest. Some adventures involve a large amount of chance and are largely unplanned (think: Alice falling down the rabbit hole). Others evolve like a slow birthed creation with years of planning, consideration, and logistics. My family of four has always leaned toward adventure. I suppose that is what one should expect when settling down with a Forest Service smokejumper who had already summited most continents’ highest peaks prior to our meeting. My husband and I are two ballasts in our family; he is always planning our next adventure while I cultivate a cozy home with gardens, quilts, and walls brimming with art. He is the planner. I am the processor who is nearly always more than happy to go along for the ride. The balance has always been perfect for us. We can hike the Grand Canyon, rim-to-rim, with our daughters (ages 11 and 8 at the time), for example, then return to our two cats and the comfort of home.

Some adventures, though, are larger and involve substantially more planning. Since we decided to be a family of two, long before our daughters graced the world, my husband and I have talked about taking a long world trip when he retires. Of course, to a late twenty-something, retirement is abstract and far away, even when discussing wild land firefighter retirement (which like military and law enforcement comes much earlier than most career fields). In any case, we sowed the seeds of a grand-scale adventure nearly two decades ago. When it became apparent that he was fully eligible to retire this May, after working for the federal government first as an Army Ranger, then as a wild land firefighter (from engine crew to hot shot to smokejumper and finally training specialist) for over 30 years, we started planning a year-long trip abroad with our daughters in earnest. I say “we” loosely, as I did little planning. I was very busy with my first year teaching secondary English language arts at a local International School, and travel logistics are my hub’s forté, not mine. I did not even commit to “yes” at first; it took time and a lot of deep thinking on my part to do so. Eventually, I got there, and embraced the audacity of this life-shaking experience fully: we would pack up life in Boise, Idaho where we have lived for the last 8+ years, settle our two cats with my in-laws, store or sell all our belongings, and hit the road in search of adventure. At the heart of our adventure lay a flexibility and an acceptance that we know not where the path may lead. In other words, we planned, but we also prepared to trash the plan in favor of something better.

But how does one really prepare for the wild unknown? As a literature lover, I always turn to the wisdom immortalized by poets and writers when asking big questions. Preparing for adventure might take the grand form of James Joyce’s (semi autobiographical) young protagonist, Stephen Dedalus who concludes The Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man in affirmation: “I go to encounter for the millionth time the reality of experience and to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience of my race.” Such grand prose makes my heart soar, but I realize it may not for all. Perhaps, instead, setting out on adventure is more spontaneous, less grandiose of term. It might be more aware of the danger wrapped up in leaving the comforts of home behind. Young Bilbo Baggins of Tolkien’s classic high fantasy, The Hobbit, reminds readers: “It’s a dangerous business, walking out one’s front door.” Bilbo’s wise companion, the wizard Gandalf reframes the experience to one of possibility: “Home is now behind you, the world is ahead!” Of course, possibility also comes with danger, as Tolkien’s later series The Lord of the Rings emphasizes. When a second generation of intrepid adventuring Bagginses takes to the road, Tolkien gives readers the clever passage: “It’s a dangerous business [. . .] going out your door. You step onto the road, and if you don’t keep your feet, there’s no knowing where you might be swept off to.” Personally, I try to invite the life-affirming energy of Joyce’s Molly Bloom’s closing soliloquy at the end of Ulysses: “I was a Flower of the mountain yes when I put the rose in my hair [. . .] yes and [. . .] then I asked him with my eyes to ask again yes and then he asked me would I yes to say yes my mountain flower and [. . .] yes and [. . .] yes and [. . .] yes I said yes I will Yes” (italics mine). Molly’s stream-of-consciousness repetition concludes Joyce’s epic Ulysses in affirmation of life and love, just as Penelope welcomes back her long lost spouse, Odysseus at the end of The Odyssey. These are just a few literary guideposts. Indeed, literature shows us that “yes” both welcomes and concludes adventure. Either way, to engage with adventure is an affirmation of life itself.

Read more

Glass Beach in Fort Bragg, California is a glorious example of change:
from city dump to colorful seaglass.

I have been thinking about change a lot of late. 2026’s first half will soon tag its second in the relay of a year. The seasons remind us of that change is a natural state: Late winter morphs into early spring; the heat of summer swallows the tumult of spring. Indeed, even when change is at times uncomfortable, so too is life beyond the human. When we pay attention to the world beyond our screens and stuff, we can’t help contemplate the universality of change. Look to the Romantic poets’ many poems about seasonal shifts for confirmation of this fact. (For poetry lovers, I’ve shared some poetry on change below.) I have been considering change even more than usual this year. In part because of big changes in store for my family this summer; in part because of the increasing madness I observe in the world. Both circumstances—the personal and the political of 2026—seem to demand I pay homage to (and maybe give thanks for) the inevitability of change.

If one believes, as I do, that the earth and her oldest living creatures (trees, for example) might teach us a thing or two about how to cope with life successfully, acceptance of change as a part of the natural order seems integral. Seasons shift to shift again. Storms rage then subside. Creatures are born, grow, die, and return to earth. Change is at the center of it all. The notion of constancy, of a static reality, is synthetic, a human-generated concept with few natural examples. Even glaciers, mountains, rocks, and astral bodies change with time. Despite the natural state of things, we humans have come to be generally uncomfortable with change.

As our binomial nomenclature Homo sapiens suggests, modern humans champion knowledge over all things. Indeed, as many know, sapiens is Latin for wisdom or discernment. There is little doubt that it is easier to know what is constant than what is ever-changing. Perhaps it is our drive to understand things (or to exult in the illusion of understanding) that makes us so resistant to change. Even when humans find themselves in uncomfortable circumstances, many resist change. The conservative outlook that any change will make things worse (even when they see themselves as politically liberal or progressive) may feel comforting. Modern cynicism encourages humanity to set aside lofty (pollyannic, naive, illusory, even crunchy?) perspectives about change being the only way, be it for good for ill. This distrust seems compounded by our modern obsession with self and the individual. It’s true, most changes will lead to some level of discomfort as individuals adjust, adapt, and maneuver shifted realities, yet that discomfort is often short-lived. We seem to be living in a moment that champions static comfort of fleeting moments over dynamic meaning, intentional living, and authentic dignity because we as modern humans have come to distrust, even fear, the discomfort that swells up when we first face change or challenge.

Yet, change is the one constant. Scientists tell us that it is nearly impossible to find truly static objects in our universe. The human body is constantly reforming itself: change. The world around us is always shifting through seasons and weather-patterns: change. Our moods and relationships are ever evolving and transforming: change. Even the places we call home, our personal philosophies and world views shift with experience and time: change. Change is the natural order of things.

Read more

It is easy, of late, to be consumed by a tsunami of despair. The 24-hour news cycle and the endless abyss of doom-infused scrolling inundate us all, particularly on difficult days. Misleading or fake news memes circulated by impassioned folks who re-share in a second before taking three more to fact-check, accelerate the growing tempest. We swim in a sea of information—easily accessed, easily passed along, easily manipulated and created—and at times like these it’s easy to be overwhelmed; life rafts can be hard to locate between one wave of madness and the next.

Indeed, domestic and foreign events are the waves and the wind in a storm promising change and uncertainty. There is plenty to stand, mouth agape, watching with horror, frustration, and fear. Many sit paralyzed by the glow of a screen; some take action, making posters, rallying in the streets, participating in small acts of kindness and coordinated resistance using apps like FiveCalls. Regardless of one’s reaction to the unprecedented state of current affairs, the largest challenge—certainly not for the first time in the history of human civilization (nor for the last, I’m sure)— is to cultivate hope.

In the 1860s, as America descended into what became a brutal and lengthy civil war, Emily Dickinson penned a poem made famous after her death in the 1890s. Dickinson famously wrote of hope as a small winged beast, fragile but audacious in the face of storms and foul weather. The extended metaphor that is the spine of Dickinson’s 13-line poem, is a powerful one. It is the song lifted amid dark times that keeps each of us going and demands nothing in return, beyond a perch on which to sing. Take a moment, and sit with the power of Dickinson’s hope:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.*

Despite its wordlessness and the viciousness of the storm, Dickinson’s hope bird sings on. Dickinson’s poem suggests that hope, and the joyful song it produces, demands nothing beyond a place to rest in the human breast. Words are not necessary, nor is any real certainty. All hope needs is the space to lift its song.

In addition to making room for hope’s song, we must also curate that in which we immerse ourselves. I remember my mother telling me, as a child, that I should surround myself with the type of people I wished to be. The same is surely true of one’s reading and viewing; when we choose texts of hope and possibility, rather than the apocalyptic-promising, consumer-fueled news cycle, it is easier to keep doing the next right thing. I am not the first to claim these things. Dutch historian and author, Rutger Brugman’s Humankind: A Hopeful History (2020) prompts modern folks to reconsider their consumption of news:

“I was raised to believe that the news is good for your development. That as an engaged citizen it's your duty to read the paper and watch the evening news. That the more we follow the news, the better informed we are and the healthier our democracy. This is still the story many parents tell their kids, but scientists are reaching very different conclusions. The news, according to dozens of studies, is a mental health hazard” (34).

Brugman argues that “[e]ight in ten adults in western countries are daily consumers of news,” so much so that on average we spend three years of our lives consuming news (36). Humankind goes on to outline a host of psychological and cultural reasons why so many believe humans are inherently cruel; a thesis he disproves time and again. (I encourage anyone who wants to cultivate or at least consider an alternative vision of humankind to pick up this fascinating read.) Rather than mindlessly turning to social media (and it’s “news”-based memes) and corporate news, might we not curate something else in our reading/viewing? Alternative options certainly exist in this age of information. By choosing to read/watch stories that highlight human goodness, connection, and resistance to authoritarian measures, we might better clear the way for Dickinson’s hope bird to boldly sing in our hearts.

Awash in the informational sea of modern life, it is easy to spend hours and hours of our lives thoughtlessly consuming negativity. And yet there are so many alternative narratives. For nonfiction lovers, books like Sharon McMahon’s The Small and The Mighty (2024) or Robin Wall Kimmerer’s The Serviceberry (2024) offer hopeful reading. There are nearly endless examples of fiction reads—classics to contemporary, short form to lengthy tomes—that cultivate hopefulness and human connection. (I invite you to peruse the many reviews of such fiction available at LitReaderNotes, if you are in need of a recommendation.) Instead, or at least alongside, all the news and socials, I suggest everyone read one poem a week. One a week would be more than fifty a year. Fifty poems to elevate one’s spirit might provide the palliative needed for the current moment. A poem takes nearly no time to read, but it will linger long after. It may be just the food the hope bird needs to sing more boldly, even if it demands no such sustenance according to the poet.

The great power of literature—fiction, nonfiction, or poetry—lies in its ability to move us and to sculpt our interior worlds; when we spend all our time reading/viewing the vitriol amply available online, it is easy to feel we have no time for reading/listening to literature. And yet, by simply clearing out some of the space in our lives (and in our hearts), the hope bird will undoubtedly sing despite the raging storm.

If we accept the adage, we are what we eat, then we should consider our entire diet. A healthy body and mind needs good food—both nutritive and nourishing—and that applies to both the foods we eat and the mediums we consume. I invite you to join me in reconsidering the cognitive, emotional, even spiritual diet upon which we all depend. If, upon reflection, that diet could use some tweaking, seize the day. Just as so many folks limit their daily processed foods or added sugars, perhaps we could all do with a good cleanse when it comes our consumption of doom-scrolling, news headlines, and general narratives that divide us from others far more than they connect us. As seasons shift, and those of us in the northern hemisphere hunker in for wintering, consider shifting behaviors in favor of cultivating hopefulness and connection over fear and tribalism.

I’ll leave you with a poem; few modes better encapsulate joy through language.

Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate.

Give in to it.

There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be.

We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed.

Still, life has some possibility left.

Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world.

It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins.

Anyway, that’s often the case.

Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty.

Joy is not made to be a crumb.

In the current moment, words (think: executive orders) are pulling apart decades of labor, thought, and planning. Words are devastating the daily lives of hundreds of thousands of Americans who find themselves suddenly unemployed (it started with federal employees but has cascaded into the nonprofit and private sectors). One man’s words are, indeed, unsettling the safety, security, and comfort of thousands, if not millions, of Americans. Organizations that receive federal funding—be they science research, environmental, arts, education, or health and human services organizations—face unprecedented uncertainty. In the arts, for example, last week the National Endowment for the Arts sent an email to all grantees stating that they will no longer fund any projects rooted in diversity, equity and inclusion. Rather, the NEA will prioritize projects that “celebrate the 250th anniversary of the United States” instead.1 The statement has left thousands of artists and arts organizations confused, frustrated, and angry. The NEA has been a long-standing funding agency (since 1965 Enabling Legislation for the National Foundation on the Arts and the Humanities Act of 1965) for many of the nation’s most renowned arts organizations. These organizations, as well as the artists they support, ensure the cultural richness of this country. Artists and organizations alike find themselves asking: Does that mean we can’t talk about race or gender? Does that mean we can’t support and highlight BIPOC2 artists? How can we create art about the human experience if a significant portion of the human experience now precludes artists from a massive (and publicly-sourced) funding source? Navigating these questions has become the challenge of the moment.3 But I wonder: Need it be? Should we, perhaps, take a page from Juliet’s book and just change the language, the name?

Read more

Not only do stories successfully instruct, humans are hungry for stories. Neuroscientists have proof* that our brains respond to story more robustly than any other form of communication. Want to teach someone a new way of thinking? Brain research clearly shows the best way to convince someone is to imbed a lesson into a story. A string of facts will not change a mind, but a good story will. While the “proof” in the form of brain scans is relatively recent, this is a long-known truth among humanity. If one looks at world religions, arguably patrons of the world’s oldest paradigms, story abounds. Parables and gospels, epic tales and legends: all lesson-rich stories. The fact that these religious tracts and oral stories have survived, generation after generation, demonstrates the power of story to instruct, to mold, to inform, and to inspire.

Politicians and the increasingly polarized news cycle also recognize this fact. Bite-sized stories flood our lives in the form of (generally terrible) news and anecdote. Social media’s algorithms push extremes because they are programmed to respond to patron actions such as emotional response (the increasingly complex “like”), share, and comment. The more extreme, the more responses a post has; the more visible it becomes. In other words, the more extreme a visual or text-based post is on social media, the more likely it is to pop up. As a result, increasingly extreme, and often destabilizing, stories have become the norm for everyday people. Politicians activate their fans with extreme rhetoric and often fictionalized stories punctuated on fear and dichotomy of “us” vs. “them.” Sadly, these stories (of refugees eating pets, for example) take root in the cultural imagination and reinforce narratives about who should and should not live on one’s street. Then, rather than combat fiction with real stories, politicians and thinkers on the other side of political spectrum spout facts (no, there is no evidence of pet-eating), and little changes. Why? Because stories convince humans; facts only reinforce what we already believe. The only people nodding their heads to the litany of facts raised to debunk political lies are the people who saw them as lies from the start. If, instead, we shared stories about the hard-working, family-loving individuals who have recently moved to this country to live a better life and contribute to this country’s prosperity, minds may sway.

Life is much more complicated than a two-hundred character tale or a sound-bite length lead story. Humanity is complex. Characters dynamic. Few individuals or organizations fall neatly under the role of hero or villain. Life is messier than that. Anyone who reads stories knows that truth.

So rather than sharing facts (200,000+ federal employees lost their jobs on Valentine’s Day in the States), share stories. A mother-of-two, Ph.D. ecologist landed her dream job tracking and studying endangered species of plants and animals at U. S. Fish and Wildlife last year. One week shy of completing her year-long probationary period, she and all the other “probationary”—i.e. new in the last year—employees in her agency lost their jobs. Effective immediately. Despite having received excellence award bonuses during her almost-year of work for the federal agency, she was let go for “poor performance.” Words no longer matter and that was the loophole used to terminate all probationary employees in that federal agency. Two hundred thousand** such stories exist. A twenty-something many-year hot shot (temporary-hire) firefighter lost the dream job he landed last year as a river ranger with the Forest Service. Effective immediately. Instability and chaos is the reward of all these individuals who chose to serve the public and work for public lands, public wildlife, public good. Each story, each experience, is a human one; and as a hyper social species, humans respond to other people’s pain. Stories will move people to action, even if it is the simple action of relaying that story to another. Soon a web of stories unfolds and the moment transforms.

Indeed, Humankind: A Hopeful History (2019, English translation published in 2020) by Dutch historian, Rutger Bregman, mounts the argument that Western civilization, particularly post-Enlightenment, has perpetuated a false narrative about human nature. Humans, Rutger Bregman argues, are hardwired to connect with and respond to one another (find a review to Humankind on LitReaderNotes). Our species’ neuro responses to story certainly seem to demonstrate just that.

All in all, the world abounds with disappointment, loss, hardship, and pain; these things are simply part of human experience. Yet love, connection, kindness, redemption, and hope are also flames that burn bright on many a dark night. The stories we tell (and share) are the vehicle of change and growth we choose. So next time sharing some ugly meme disparaging a politician whose actions seem beyond the pale, consider what story that perpetuates. We need to start asking ourselves the hard questions about what we say, share, and perpetuate. Would a different story lead to a better alternative? Without a doubt stories have the power to mold the future (that’s the real reason books are banned). So rather than circle the drain with the industrial news cycle and/or one’s like-minded social media friends/followers, consider picking up a story that inspires connection and resistance. Then pass that story on. Consider sharing human stories rather than facts and numbers. Consider trusting fellow humans to make better choices if they have access to more stories. Human history has witnessed myriad dark times and atrocities, but stories have the power to see us through even the darkest moments. This is, undoubtedly, a time for story-sharing.

*There is lots of recent writing about neuroscience and story. See “Why the Brain Loves Stories” from BrainFacts or “The Neuroscience of Storytelling” from NeuroLeadership Institute for articles. For a deeper dive check out Paul Armstrong’s Stories and the Brain (2020) or his earlier How Literature Plays with the Brain (2013).

** “According to government data maintained by OPM, 220,000 workers had less than a year on the job as of March 2024” (Associated Press, 14 Feb. 2025). See full article at US News and World Report.

Subscribe now