On a very basic level, her work evoked fun. You’d think someone known as the “princess of polka dots” would be lighthearted and filled with happiness. But for Yayoi Kusama, it wasn’t that simple. A traumatic childhood led to severe and ongoing mental health struggles and hallucinations. She suffered a mental breakdown and chose to live in a psychiatric hospital for decades. Her art studio was within walking distance.

She could’ve quit making art for others or attempt to hide from the chaos around her. But instead, she decided to blast colors and dots into her dark and unwieldy mind. Pain covered in polka dots!

So when adversity tries to steal your light and or make you feel small, may you have courage to blast it with glitter and grow larger than life!

To marvel at a word is an accessible luxury. It’s not limited to fancy words or fancy people. Words like yuck, home, yet, dew, plop, nod, pauper— each word offering a room for us to settle into and think about. Does it bring up a memory, or an icky feeling, or a wave of calmness? Words encourage. They hurt. They comfort. There are even words used to describe someone who can’t find words to speak: rendered speechless.

So the next time a word decides to stand out, just for you, take a moment to imagine walking into a room. It’s decorated however you wish, and with your arms outstretched, you fall back onto a gigantic bed and take a deep breath. Thank goodness for words.

Until soon,

Sarah

Were it possible for us to see further than our knowledge reaches, and yet a little way beyond the outworks of our divining, perhaps we would endure our sadnesses with greater confidence than our joys. For they are moments when something new has entered into us, something unknown; our feelings grow mute in shy perplexity, everything in us withdraws, a stillness comes, and a new, which no one knows, stands in the midst of it and is silent.

I believe that almost all our sadnesses are the moments of tension that we find paralyzing because we no longer hear our surprised feelings living. Because we are alone with the alien thing that has entered into our self; because everything intimate and accustomed is for an instant taken away; because we stand in the middle of a transition where we cannot remain standing. For this reason the sadness too passes: the new thing in us, the added thing, has entered into our heart, has gone into its inmost chamber and is not even there any more, — is already in our blood. And we do not learn what it was. We could easily be made to believe that nothing has happened, and yet we have changed, as a house changes into which a guest has entered. We cannot say who has come, perhaps we shall never know, but many signs indicate that the future enters into us in this way in order to transform itself in us long before it happens. And this is why it is so important to be lonely and attentive when one is sad: because the apparently uneventful and stark moment at which our future sets foot in us is so much closer to life than that other noisy fortuitous point of time at which it happens to us as if from outside. The more still, more patient and more open we are when we are sad, so much the deeper and so much the more unswervingly does the new go into us, so much the better do we make it ours, so much the more will it be our destiny, and when on some later day it “happens” (that is, steps forth out of us to others), we shall feel in our inmost selves akin and near to it.

I would like to imagine people reflecting colors. This might be similar to aura colors; however, I spent my time reading about chameleons rather than aura colors, so we shall ponder further!

If humans were to reflect a color to match our persona, would it change? Probably so. If this is my theory, I’d say the color would mean something to you alone. Otherwise, it’s just a color that is added to the world you live in. And what if you share the same color as someone else? That’s kind of neat. Because there’s the chance you love that person or have obvious things in common. But what if you couldn’t be more different or if he/she drove you nuts?! How curious. I’d have questions. Some people might change colors as they age and live through experiences. Others may keep the same color their whole lives! How would certain colors make me (or you) feel? What if I didn’t like my color? Personally, I’d book a therapy appointment for that one. If I were to pick the color to be today, I’d choose mossy green. What color would you be?

With a voracious curiosity, Ella expresses her questions and feelings through art. Every morning and evening, like clockwork, she gets out her brushes and colors. She puts on a smock and closes her eyes. Colors and images fill her mind. Then, she begins. She paints the sky in all different colors. On days when she feels low, the sky is often painted with clouds and grays and blues. At her happiest, you may see an evening enveloped in pinks and oranges. Every day is different and full of emotion. Ella sees beauty in it all and gives thanks for having feelings to share. She hopes that, somehow, it helps the people below and reminds them that each day is a gift. So, if you ever find yourself looking up at the sky around dawn or dusk, please think about Ella.

May she encourage you to share your gifts and seek creativity in the world around you— be it through art, emotion, friendship, or even a delicious shepherd’s pie!

The head, no stranger to logic and practicality. She is a realist, with a booming voice that says, think louder than you feel. A scrappy, resilient, street-smart lady who’s equipped with confidence. I’d be lost, or worse, without her. But you must be wondering, what about the heart?

The heart is gentle; as sensitive as they come. Though pain, worry, and fear tear at her seams, love, joy, and hope mend her back together. She beats with laughter and sadness. But she is not weak. She is courageous, bolder than the fiercest contender. I’d be lost, or worse, without her.

So how do these two live when they are as different as they come? I’m glad you asked. The heart writes letters, as only the heart can, and sends them straight to the head. These letters hold imagination and wonder, empathy, and curiosity. The head opens each one, letting every feeling find its place. Over time, wisdom grows. The heart’s feelings begin to inform the logic. And then the head writes back. Her letters are filled with questions, grateful for the heart’s constant pursuit. The heart reads every word with thoughtfulness, letting the questions inform the emotion. The head is complex. The heart is dynamic. And when the obstacles creep in, eager to delay and confuse, the head and the heart remain steadfast pen pals. Neither survives without the other.

These are the voices I know best, and I’d be lost, or worse, without them.

Might they be covered in the invisible ink used to write life?
When I was little, a small iridescent pyramid was one of my prized possessions.
To a normal observer, it was a paperweight.
But to me? It was a rainbowcaster, never to be taken for granted.
Rainbows were cast like lines from a fly-fisher,
With powers to mesmerize and slow down time.

I imagine walls to be covered in words and colors.
Layered with hope and despair.
Walls are often thought to help people hide,
But what if instead they are caretakers,
Storing the memories we don’t have room to keep?

It’s time to meet another empty wall.
And whether they be covered in merriment or gloom,
I shall add to it!
For my life has more rainbows to cast.

Gurgle-grrrummblhelloooooo-gurgle

The bubbles, grumbles, and growls were a language I did not understand,
But an unmistakable greeting proved my theory true—
There is a monster in my stomach!
This explains a lot.
Hello Monster, I say with a tap on my tummy.
It growled back, and sounded a little friendlier.
I wonder if she has a name?

What does she do in the spirals of my intestines?
Questions flood my mind, but I decide to leave them be.
For to believe there’s a monster in my stomach,
Is a wonderful, spooky secret to keep!

Today, the moon looks like a button in the sky.
Please do not take offense or judge me for the thought;
For I know the moon has never been a button in the sky.
But what if something in the cosmos has changed?
What if, today, grand ol’ Mr Moon was in fact a button!

And what might happen if that button were pushed?
Would parachutes filled with chocolate float down from above?
Might a symphonic soundtrack lull us to a much-needed nap?
What if day turned to night?
Or the grass turned purple!

One push of the button could do anything.
It could flip the trees upside down.
Or put clouds on the ground!
Maybe we could slide down a rainbow.

I wish I had a ladder that reached Mr Moon,
Or even a hot air balloon.
Easy does it, I’d say to myself as I neared the big, bold button moon.
And then I’d count down from 3-2-1 and press it!
It would be marvelous and well worth the climb.

But for now, I will look at the moon and believe its secret

—
That, just for today, it’s a mysterious button in the sky!

I once went sailing on Lake Michigan and got seasick (lake sick?). Was it the waves, or the champagne and charcuterie? I’ll never know.

Once he scanned the front page, he skimmed the Politics section and then turned to his favorite part of the paper, The Arts section. The front page story was about a little play that had made its way from the East Village Kraine Theater (max. seating 99 people) all the way to Broadway. It was the little engine that could. The Times typically printed the first review of Broadway plays. Several people had been waiting for this one. The play was titled The Ripple Effect. It was the story of a young girl who didn’t think her life was very special, but she was kind to others. And her kindness impacted people. After an encounter with her, one woman found the confidence to apply for a new job, which she eventually got; another person ended an unhealthy relationship; someone else had restarted painting years after giving it up; kindness was paid forward over and over again. People were living more hopeful lives because of it. Those are just a couple of examples of her kindness and the ripples that followed. But what happened to the young girl? Did she find out? The reviewer decided to keep the ending a secret, though the word “masterful” was used.

Felix read on, enrapt. When he read the final sentence in the review, tears fell from his eyes. It said the following: “First-time playwright Felix Tomson has his own ripple effect, and we are all lucky to be in his wake.”

Felix dreamed of having a play on Broadway ever since he was little. At 74 years old, he did it! “What a life,” Felix said to himself, sitting on a bench, right outside the entrance to the park.

I have a wobbly heart.
My life has twisted and turned down paths meant for those much braver than I.

I’ve felt alone many times,
but my wobbly heart reminds me it’s okay.
My wobbly heart is gentle and scared;
It loves loudly and aches quietly.

When loneliness comes in like a storm,
my heart wobbles so violently, I fear it will be ripped from me;
but miraculously, she finds her rhythm again.
My wobbly heart may never have a steady beat.
It’s weird and silly, melancholy, and a bit courageous too.
If offered a replacement,
I’d say, “Thank you, but no—
my wobbly heart is just right.”

And hopefully, those wobbles will keep wobbling down paths meant for those much braver than I.

Wimpy Waffles Worry.
Wombats Will Wakeboard When Weary.
“Whoop Whoop!” Whispers Winona Worm.

Whenever Wanda’s Woe Woos Wacky, Wisdom Winks.

With Well Wishes

It’s all a bit chaotic.

Each guest keeps trying to get my attention but I can’t seem to focus. This morning I was excited and ready for the perfect picnic! And now, the blankets are dirty, people are talking loudly, some look uncomfortable and there’s too much noise. I feel myself shrinking and my hands ball into fists.

Just then, there’s a soft touch on my back. I turn around to see Sadness and Joy, one holding a big bag of french fries and the other with popcorn. I know you’re not supposed to have favorites, but I do. And I’ve known them my whole life. A lot of people think Joy and I are the closest. They aren’t wrong, we are thick as thieves! But the truth is, it’s Sadness and I that are most alike. She has been there for me when no one else was around and has always brought steadiness and quiet when I can’t seem to find either. She also knows exactly where to find Joy when I need her too. I’d be lost without Sadness.

They give me big hugs, then put the bags of popcorn and french fries on the blankets. I watch as Joy and Sadness greet the others. Miraculously, things seem to calm down. It’s a nutty bunch, and Control is always trying to get me to shrink our circle of friends. Classic Control. But I’ve learned something from each one of them and for that I’m grateful. I wouldn’t be me without them.

At the end of the day, I sat in my bed and journaled about the picnic. The next morning when I woke up, I turned to find my journal still open on my bed. Before closing it, I re-read the last line I’d written before falling asleep. It read:

I think I love my life.

I said, “it’s a pleasure to meet you Herman, my name is Sarah. You’re welcome in my garden anytime you’d like. Thank you for singing.”

He bowed once more, as a gentlemen would, and went back to his flower. I watched as he folded up his piano, and placed it in a small suitcase. He quickly attached the suitcase to his back and flew away.

And that was the day I met my husband…

Just kidding.

But I did meet Herman and we have become great friends. 🧳

It begins with an idea.
The possibility of creating something is a pull like none other.
Expect the how-muches to shout loud enough to awaken the dragon—
big and wild, eager to consume and destroy.

This idea must be bold.
It must try to quiet the how-muches before they cry out,
how much time will it take?
how much money is needed?
how much makes sense, or is even any good?
how much of me do I let people see?

The dragon waits, listening for the how-muches to call.
Once he hears them, he knows an idea is exposed.
He breathes fire and launches upwards, searching for his next victim.

Little does he know, this time will be different.
For no one could’ve predicted what happened next.
This little idea, though surrounded by doubt and the how-muches crying out,
remained undaunted.
She didn’t have answers or a plan to fight,
but she did have hope and a belief that everything would be alright.

As the dreaded dragon neared,
with anger flashing in his eyes,
the idea whispered a prayer of courage.

He landed with a thud and crept slowly toward her.
She stood tall with a determination in her stare.
Finally, face-to-face, the idea said hello and was in awe of his beauty.
You are beautiful, she said, knowing these could be her last words spoken.
The fearsome dragon froze. Did he hear her correctly?
She sensed his curiosity and spoke:
Hello, my name is Idea, and I matter to someone. What is your name?
It was kind and brave.
No one had ever asked the dragon his name.
With softened eyes, his stance relaxed.
A stillness fell between them.

My name is Henry, the dragon uttered.
Strangely, he didn’t want the moment to pass.

It’s nice to meet you, Henry. May I ask you a question?

Yes.
The idea asked first about his family, then his friends. She asked about his favorite color and what he loved most about being a dragon. Henry answered each one. It had been a long time since anyone took an interest in a big, scary dragon. He then asked Idea questions about where she came from and what was important to her. With each question, the how-muches faded to a whisper, and then nothing much at all. Neither Henry nor Idea wanted their time to end. He helped her be bolder. She taught him kindness. Days passed until one day, Idea felt a strong pull. She knew it was time to grow. I’ll be back, she promised her unexpected friend.
And thank you for letting me get to know you. You are extraordinary.
With tears welling up in his eyes, he pulled her in close and hugged her tight.
Thank you for seeing me. You have changed my life.

Goodbye.
Goodbye.

• A young bird - I will soar

• A lion - I need courage

• A magic fish - I want to explore
  

2026

“Our conversation was very June and very Afternoon, meaning it meandered like a honey bee.”- Unselected Journals of Emma M Lion, book 2

Every so often, I worry I’m not living life the right way. It’s a fleeting thought, but one that does creep in from time to time. But then something or someone inevitably pulls me back to what’s true, which is that I really enjoy my little life. Recently, these two phone notes were what got me, saved ten years apart. In 2016, I was 33. My current age is 42. If I had to find a connection between the two, it would perhaps be how I want to experience the world, curious and unhurried, open to whatever comes…like finding a fairy tree.

.

While on the topic of winged things, I recently learned that bats are the only mammals capable of flight. Before you bring up the gliding mammals, bats are the only ones that actively flap their wings to sustain continuous flight. As a kid, I once encountered a sleeping bat suctioned to a screen door. I did not like that very much. The end. This felt like a two-sentence story worth sharing. I use the word “story” liberally.

Doesn’t this make you wonder what other people find extraordinary? Don’t even get me started on prisms refracting light!