Creativity and Rebirth

What an exquisite time of the year spring is…the end of the season in which, as Garrison Keillor says, “Nature tries to kill you.” And the beginning of the promise of summer. I myself enjoy the winter here in the Midwest, despite the face and finger numbing cold. I find the barrenness of the fields calming, and often reflective of my inner emptiness.

But spring calls us towards life, and creativity.

If you’ve a writing project that is calling you forward and might use the support of a writing coach, I would be honored to hear from you.

For today, a few quotations on this most youthful of seasons: The first is from the early American writer, Anne Bradstreet:

“If we had no winter, the spring would not be so pleasant: if we did not sometimes taste of adversity, prosperity would not be so welcome.” (from Meditations Divine and Moral)

The second from the phenomenal writer, Pablo Neruda: “You can cut all the flowers but you cannot keep Spring from coming.” 

And finally, a lovely sentiment from Victor Hugo, from Les Miserables: “If people did not love one another, I really don’t see what use there would be in having any spring.”

Come visit me at It’s spring there too. And there are alligators.



One space open for writing coaching: could it be for you?

My writing coach approach is to help those who may not even of themselves as writers find joy and fulfilment in expressing themselves though the written word.  While I care deeply about the craft of writing, you will never see me marking up pages with a red pen.

I truly believe that writing is life-giving, revitalizing, and gives us the greatest chance of knowing who we are in the world.

Please have a look at the rest of my site, including the Testimonials, and let me know if you’d like to explore whether we’d be a good fit.

I look forward to hearing from you!


Three vaulted beams in this tiny cabin,
this sanctuary.

Three sons. Three lives. Three ascendancies.

Their risings lift me like grace,
growing ever upwards,
perhaps already receiving gifts
it is not necessary for only me to give them.



The Love Poem Part

The Love Poem Part

Three of my gorgeous friends stood outside the restaurant
where I sat eating dinner with the poet
and made faces at me
through the window.
They were wearing red and turquoise
and pale green silk,
and with their ripe smiles
they looked like goddesses behaving goofily.
This is not what well-mannered women in their 40′s do,
but they did it anyway,
and I laughed and he laughed.
He raised his fork to them and laughed.

I wanted to talk about “Moon-Skin,”
and poetry and courage and mortality,
and we did.
We talked about all of it.
We ate steak and drank red wine,
and if I noticed that his hair did not fall over his eyes in the quite the same way it had all day,
or remembered—just for an instant—
the feel of his hand on my back as we came through the door,
or listened only to the sound of his breathing as we drove back to his hotel,
it does not mean that I hadn’t been paying attention
to all of the talk,
especially about mortality.

Some part of me finally woke up
to the awareness that mind and body together make poetry,
and I wanted to apologize to someone
for taking so long to understand

that I am required to pay attention to all of it,
to use everything,
and my God,
what have you been waiting for?

Yes, tell everything, even how he took the moist, red morsel of meat
from the point of my knife and put it into his mouth,
even this description—so flagrant and entirely lacking in subtlety,
I am allowed to say yes,
yes, it happened exactly that way.

copyright_symbol_small_sq LCS


Unanswered Questions from Dinner with the Poet

Unanswered Questions from Dinner with the Poet

“What are you thinking about now?” he asked,
across the table, over the empty plates,
into the silence of an unfinished conversation.

“Is it normal to be terrified?” I want to say. And when
will writing not feel like working a jigsaw puzzle where all the pieces are gray,
or like being in a country where my currency is defunct?

But I swallowed my words with a sip of good Chilean red, and now all I remember are these two things:

With tired eyes and a precise, compassionate voice, he looked at me and said,
“Fear is a useful diagnostic tool.”

And then, when we got up from the table,
he took my wine glass, not quite empty, put it to his lips, and drank it.




Coming Back

Coming Back

On a February morning, from which like most recent mornings,
it seemed even the most mundane joys had fled,
I stood at the kitchen window and, grudgingly,
noticed a small row of daffodil shoots under the brown boxwood.
Tiny standard bearers, standing in this garden,
this garden that simply carries on,
entirely free from any frail human dependence on willpower.

On this same morning I told my husband that I longed for more joy between us,
and he said, without hesitation,
“It will come back.”

Is that how natural it is, how seasonal,
like these humble green shoots that appear
when it is time for them to come?
They come and go; they have their season.
And who are we to expect more
or to celebrate less?
copyright_symbol_small_sq LCS

Daffodil shoots




“I’m unraveling,” she said.
“Where’s the thread?” he asked. “I’ll pull it.”

Pull a thread and this dense fear
spins out and away into gales
like bits of flying paper
like cyclones
like breathlessness.

Then my life floats down
like a clean white feather
like a line:
a declaration
a landing.

Exhaled, unraveled.




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