About Me


 The greatest thing we can do is to show up for our lives and not be ashamed.

 -Anne Lamott


I'm a creature of the word, learning to tell my honest story.

I offer it here because I think we're meant to live out in the wide field, barefoot and open-hearted.

Life is about showing up.

For ourselves and for each other, without apology or excuse or half-hiding.

Life is about the hard work of becoming awake.

And then waking up some more, and waking up some more.

Life is about the unbecoming.

It's in the in-between where we find our SOURCE, our SOUL, and our SISTERHOOD.


Motherhood is not a biological designation
Search This Blog
Books that shifted paradigms
Walking Barefoot on Facebook

People who climb down into the hole with you

There have been so many, strangers even, who have entered into the blackness with a meal, with a check, with a coffee, with a knitted blanket, with an offer to babysit, with a show up on your doorstep unannounced kind of care.

They could have, when they heard the story at church, or read it on social media, or overheard a friend's conversation, thought something like, "I want to help, but I don't know how.  Giving someone a Target gift card when their house just burned down/their mother just died/ they just got a life-changing diagnosis is going to seem like I'm making light of their pain. Like I'm slapping them in the face with my stupid gift card. 

Daunted by the hugeness of the world, and by all of the suffering happening all of the time, and by how maybe they haven't lost that particular loss yet, which would only add insult to injury, they might have walked away. And if they did, if they let it all get the better of them, then what?


What happens to us when, in the face of the pain, we let fear of making the wrong choice keep us from making any choice?

Maybe we are afraid our offering will feel like pity, and maybe that is something to fear. Because pity says, "Poor you."  Pity stands outside of the situation looking in, believing the lie that there's an us, the ones who don't suffer, and a them, the ones that do. Pity thinks that just because the ground you stand on is solid right this minute, you are safe, so go ahead and pat yourself on the back.

When really the truth is, it's not your right choices or your positive thinking or your good deeds that have kept your ground solid, that have insulated you from pain.

It's just that for some reason, it's not your turn yet. Which you really can't take credit for. 

Nobody can earn a pain-free life. 


Maybe the hard thing about jumping into the hole is the leap admits all of this. It's the free fall truth that we are in this together.

That your pain IS my pain, not just because we are connected body, and when one falls, we all stumble, but also because I have no guarantee that I will not someday walk through what you're walking through.

Is that the fear?

Not so much that we're going to do kindness and support the wrong way, but that if we enter in, we are admitting the great and terrible truth of our lives? "That we are so ruined, and so loved, and in charge of so little?" 

Seeing others suffer reminds us how slippery our grasp on "making it" really is.  How little our maps and our spinning wheels get us much of anywhere we expected to go.

It's a scary truth to face, and add to that the sense of impotence in buying someone a coffee when they just lost a loved one.  How pathetic, right?

But it's not. It doesn't matter what you offer; it matters that you offer. Offer your scared self. Offer your best lasagna.  Offer your tears and your lack of words.  Offer your total inability to make anything better.

Because your offering says that you get it. 

You get that the world is entirely too huge, and entirely too full of grinding griefs and immeasurable losses.

And you get that it is also entirely full of the kindest of people, the kind of people who do not give darkness a wide berth, who do not stand on the edge of sadness shaking their heads and whispering condolences.

You get that while pain will happen, loneliness doesn't have to. 



Before you know what kindness really is
you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment
like salt in a weakened broth.
What you held in your hand,
what you counted and carefully saved,
all this must go so you know
how desolate the landscape can be
between the regions of kindness.
How you ride and ride
thinking the bus will never stop,
the passengers eating maize and chicken
will stare out the window forever.
Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,
you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho
lies dead by the side of the road.
You must see how this could be you,
how he too was someone
who journeyed through the night with plans
and the simple breath that kept him alive.
Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing. 
You must wake up with sorrow.
You must speak to it till your voice
catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,
only kindness that ties your shoes
and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,
only kindness that raises its head
from the crowd of the world to say
it is I you have been looking for,
and then goes with you everywhere
like a shadow or a friend.

-Naomi Shihab Nye


Holding space

"Loss transforms perspective.  

The pain of loss can be staggering.  

This means we must focus our attention on the present moment, scanning its particular delights even if from an emotional distance.  

In severe seasons of heartache, we are asked to protect and care for ourselves

like vulnerable children taking a childlike delight in the tiny joys of life."

-Julia Cameron, Transitions: Prayers and Declarations for a Changing Life


I read this passage this morning, and called a close friend going through terrible loss.  

I know it's likely too much for her to answer phone calls, so I've been leaving her messages throughout these awful days, of my thoughts, and prayers, and love.  I want her to know she is not alone, that I am thinking of her always, even though we live far away and I cannot show up at her door to hold her.

I do not have a holy "me too" to give her. I have not experienced the grief she is walking through.  But the griefs I have known have opened up before me like a limitless abyss, and I can guess she is staring into that same inky black darkness.

I know the vertigo that happens when you stare into the great black hole of loss, when you know all you have to do is lean in to the void, and you will become the void, and that will mean you don't have to feel anything anymore, and that seems like a very blessed release.

I called my friend and told her I know words are inadequate, and that I know she is staring into the void, and that today I wanted to offer her my very inadequate and tiny view, like a child would, of where I was sitting in the room when I called her.

I described my sheepskin rug and the ponytail palm that sits on top of my electric fireplace. I talked about finding my "electricplace" on Craigslist for $75.00 and how I sanded it and painted it white. I described the Diebenkorn poster from the Dallas Museum of Art that I bought at Goodwill for $7.99, and how it hangs next to the two black and white photographs I took of bison in Yellowstone Park.  I talked about the books on the coffee table, and the coffee in my mug with a tiger on it.  I rambled on about the camp chair I brought in from the shed to use as my second accent chair next to my white sofa, that, surprisingly, isn't showing much wear and tear even though it's pummeled daily by dirty child feet.  

I read her a passage from the Julia Cameron book on prayer, and even though I wanted to skip the last part about "taking a childlike delight in the tiny joys of life" because even the suggestion that there were tiny joys right now seemed like the most callous thing I could possibly read, I read the whole thing anyway, and told her I thought the message might be to care for herself gently, to let her world get very small, severely short-sighted, like a child.  That I might call this being present, and that I think it's probably the only way to survive.


It's awful when people you love experience the void.

You'd give your anything to make the pain go away, but you know you can't fix it, and it sucks so bad to sit with that feeling of helplessness. It's petrifying.

How can the world become in an instant just entirely too much to handle?  And if it can for them, then it sure as hell can for you.  And there it is.  The awful truth of all of our lives reveals itself: the world truly is entirely too much to handle.  It's hard not to freeze up on the best of days, and now this?  All of our ideas for comfort seem so ridiculously pathetic, insulting almost, and so it seems better to do nothing, and at least not make it any worse than it already is.

How could describing my living room help AT ALL when you've lost what she's lost? 

It doesn't.  My living room description doesn't do jack squat. 

But me calling might do something.  Me, inserting myself, between my loved one and the great awful hugeness of the world.  Me, showing up, even if I have no good ideas for how to make things better.

It's called holding space.

They can't hold the space. It's everything they can do just to keep on breathing.  Just to try not to topple into the vast blackness.  So you do it for them.  You fill the space with your presence.  Even if you feel stupidly small to fill the space; even if you feel like a pipsqueak with a toothpick for a sword.  It's not about you.  


She's done it for me, from across the country, in my black void times.

She called with nothing to say, but she called.  I cried, and she cried just as hard.  I held the phone in silence, and she stayed on the line and breathed with me.

And when she could, she bought a plane ticket and she showed up and she cooked me Thai food.

She helped me paint my bedroom orange, and didn't ask me why I needed to do that.

She laid in bed with me and watched weird indie movies and got popcorn in between the sheets.

She wiped my counters clean, and intercepted all my phone calls so I didn't have to pretend I was doing fine. 


She pulled me back into the present with her presence.  

She was good to me not because she magically figured out the right thing to do when someone you love is suffering, but because she knew what every child knows who has ever skinned a knee and had it healed with a kiss: we don't need someone to make it better; we just need someone to show up.



Wild Geese 

You do not have to be good. 
You do not have to walk on your knees 
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. 
You only have to let the soft animal of your body 
love what it loves. 
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. 
Meanwhile the world goes on. 
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 
are moving across the landscapes, 
over the prairies and the deep trees, 
the mountains and the rivers. 
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, 
are heading home again. 
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 
the world offers itself to your imagination, 
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--
over and over announcing your place 
in the family of things.


© Mary Oliver. Online Source