Don’t let it pass you by

I won’t let today slip by.
I won’t forget to write some words on the page.
There is something beautiful about introspection, and advice of loved ones.
And something so refreshing to see things in a different light and remember the value and worth of the tiniest grain of sand.
We build each other up until we become large hills–forged and solidified by lightening and turned into glass.
We are the grains.
We are the glass.


Blessing for the Graduate

May this blessing bring you courage.

May it lift your spirits,

And remind you of the newness of your journey.

This blessing is mean to give you space:

Space to seek, to grow, to discover

Discover who you are

Determine what is next

The blessing is one small piece

Or the ever enfolding adventure

It leaves much unknown

But so much to look forward to.

This blessing is with you,

Through every class

Every new club

Through the friendships built

The parties attended.

This blessing is your reassurance

That you made the right choice

Because the choice is always yours

This blessing reminds you to not be afraid

Your dream can take flight

Because it has secured the wings on your feet.


Blessing for the Parent

This blessing is alongside you

Through the bittersweet taste

You spit from your mouth.

It finds you twisted inside

With heartbreak and joy

Both so closely intertwined

May this blessing comfort you

As you find your new normal;

One less.

May this blessing bolster you

And remind you of the lesson you be instilled within them.

May you be assured

The tools are before them

And there is much to be proud of today,

And tomorrow.

This blessing will catch you

As they take flight

And the wind is knocked from your own wings.

A Blessing for this Day

You are my blessing.

Day in and day out,

You flood my thoughts,

Protect my heart,

And bring unending joy.

You are my blessing.

You find me in the dark places,

You wrap your spirit around me

When you can embrace no more.

You find me in times of weakness and shame,

You raise me to my feet,

And remind me of the strength within.

You are my blessing.

Lessons on end,

Teachings still to come:

About life,

About love,

About relationships

And faith.

About children,

About elders,

About spaces and in between.

You are my blessing,

My mantra,

My mama.

Will There Really Be a Morning?

There are moments you remember all your life…This is one of those moments. –Yentle

I can remember so distinctly that, all of us in blue velvet dresses with the rhinestones. Our feet crammed into character shoes and hair freshly curled. And as we wait (at LC I think) Wiehe came to tell us: there’s been an accident. A plane crash. Zach didn’t make it. I remember the shock, the confusion, and the silence that poured over us. But there was music to be sung, and what better way to honor him and begin to grieve then to make music and do our best at competition.

It was chance that we sang “Weep No More” that year. Maybe not, maybe it was fate. But emotion didn’t hit me until we got to that song. Looking straight ahead, not making eye contact with my peers, we all sang from the heart. And the tears rolled down my face. It’s hard to imagine your former student teacher and friend passing away unexpectedly. But there it was–he was gone.

I don’t remember what my drive home was like. I do remember bursting in the door, and crashing into my mom’s arms as I sobbed through explaining to her what I knew about what had happened. He was too young, there had to be a mistake, planes don’t crash anymore, do they? And there we sat together for a long while as she soothed my heart and dried my tears.

In class the day of our end of the year show Wiehe asked for a volunteer to give words about Zach. No one moved for a moment, and then a hand shot up milliseconds before mine. And even though I tried to show I really wanted to speak, the other girl was chosen. That sat heavy.

So, being me, I wrote out what I would have said. I took it home, let my mom read it, and she said, “you have to send this to Wiehe. This is beautiful and a wonderful tribute.” I knew the other girl didn’t know him very well and it didn’t seem right for her to give the honorarium–I was jealous, and pissed, and felt like she was being an opportunist . And so that night, Wiehe told me that we’d both be saying words. My words. We divvied up the sentences and read from the printout I had brought with me. My voice caught in my throat more than once that night. It seemed unreal that music he had arranged for us, that he had rehearsed with us, should be sung. But the music lives on.

I remember the visitation–traveling with one of my choir friends, driving the 45 minutes, staying just long enough to sign the book and take it in but not see the family. There were gobs of people. Even our choreographer was there. Leaving felt strange but I sent a card and explained a little about who I was.

I wrote several letters to his parents over the years–expressing what an effect Zach had on my life and my music education–what a pillar he was for my peers and me. They sent me his CD, I still have it. But time moves on and not all connections remain. After a couple years the letters ceased as other priorities took hold. But I think of them occasionally, especially as this date rolls around, and as it sometimes falls near Holy Week. I am thankful for what he taught me, for the joy and happiness he always exuded, for the Zach-isms that remain. For reminding me to live life to its fullest.

Will there really be a “Morning”? 
Is there such a thing as “Day”? 
Could I see it from the mountains 
If I were as tall as they? 

Has it feet like Water lilies? 
Has it feathers like a Bird? 
Is it brought from famous countries 
Of which I have never heard? 

Oh some Scholar! Oh some Sailor! 
Oh some Wise Men from the skies! 
Please to tell a little Pilgrim 
Where the place called “Morning” lies!

–Emily Dickinson


I told myself today that I was going to get a lot done. Cleaning, shopping, taking things to Good Will, taking recycle. And I told myself I was going to write a poem for my blog.

The first stuff happened. And then I went to lunch with some of my favorite people. And then I got distracted by a fundraising campaign (check it out here: And I didn’t create a poem. Maybe tomorrow.

I am thankful for goals and the ways I’ve been pushing myself physically and spiritually. But sometimes we need to allow ourselves to rest, to not always take great strides toward the end in sight. Sometimes we just need to breathe.

Here’s to an evening of breathing and a day of creating tomorrow.

Where I’m From…

Have you ever read the poem “Where I’m From” by George Ella Lyon?  I found out about it when I was a part of The Journey.  It spoke to my soul.  It still does.  I love storytelling, I think it is one of the most beautiful arts.  I could sit and listen for hours to people share their memories, even when I don’t know the “characters”.  I suppose it’s why I enjoy memoirs so much.  You can check out George’s poem here.

I’ve made this poem more than once, it changes as I change.  And I like remembering and cataloging new and different things.

Where I am {Currently} From

I am from bobby pins,
from Singer and Correlle.
I am from the sprinkler in the front yard
(cold, and wet
it looked like our own rain storm).
I am from the sycamore tree,
the iris bulbs
that split again each year.

I’m from Christmas light tours and games of cards,
from Granny Doris and Uncle Pickle,
and cousins so far removed.
I’m from the I’m-always-rights,
and the stubborn-to-a-faults.
From “top-lip, bottom-lip together,”
And “be kind to the little people.”

I’m from hours of grape counting
each Sunday as the minister’s sermon made a musical backdrop.
I’m from where Kessler turns and where love is always found,
From homemade noodles and never ending coffee.
From the seamstress who proved great-grandma wrong
From the human encyclopedia.

In the study were the albums
whose adhesive had aged
and pictures came tumbling about
as you leafed through.

I am from those times that made me
older than the age on the calendar
whether I was ready or not.