Living in Frames, by meshing the lyrical moments of life with the captured images of experience. This is a reverie, a journey, the fork in the road, and the never-ending story....

Tuesday, January 24, 2017

We all come here from a long way off...& I AM WITH YOU!

I wrote this back in 2015, but I feel like this short monologue is as relevant today, as it was when I first tried to speak out about the solidarity felt between women thrown into an experience like this. 

First published by The Milo Review, it earned me a nomination for the Pushcart Prize. However, I can honestly say one of my bravest moments as a writer, was reading this piece out loud to a live audience in Portland, ME (during the WORD Portland series).
Image may contain: 2 peopleImage may contain: 3 people

The Milo Review has since disbanded, but I feel as strongly about this character's voice, as I did when I first created her. 

And to the many women out there who are still speaking up today, I want you to know, "I am with you!" 

Sarah E. Caouette

      It’s not who you think turns up here to wait in this room. Empty containers decorated with real flesh and bone—almost-humanlike. Preterists. Drums kicked and tumbled down alleys, and mill yards, and the gutter sides of the street—to lie with their own, in their own refuse. That one wears her mink eyes well, the curvature of her earlobes are custom-made.
And that one there, he’s a soccer player from Belize, who smells of fried plantains and the honey-scent of cannabis oil he uses to medicate his knees. Ever since he was a boy, those yellow bags drifted up from Cuba. Water-logged parachutes cut loose and sent spoiled into the sea. He and his baby brother dug holes in their yard like a Mancala board, like they were digging their early graves. And their mother, watching her sons from the kitchen window, flicked her brittle fingernail against each ceramic tea cup looking for that genuine China. The one who dragged those boys down to their primo segundas when the disease was going ‘round. Now, it’s permanently in their bones—premature arthritis that has moved in like Strangler fig.

He winces when his carina, sixteen years old, squeezes his leg. These clinics are for the poor. The immigrant trash who don’t receive paychecks, but under-the-table wages. Who can’t cover the flu they’ve caught on The Vineyard, stacking stones without mortar, as the biting frost sneaks in through their flimsy court shoes.
Urban decay is like a cavity of the mouth—but rooted deeper.
The young girl plays with the golden bangles on her wrist. Does she know she’s a poster child for Help the Children?
She does. Jingling pleasantly with a look to pity, taught to her when learning to beg. I want to feel as sorry for her as I feel for myself. But unlike her, I was born to ignorance and privilege.

I’m here for the paper-bag prescriptions. Some calm for the nerves. To medicate away the dead pets, the date rape, the divorces. I wait and watch a parade of girls in smocks and socks make a beeline toward a set of swinging doors. Behind which they will stick out their tongues and take confirmation. For in preparation to terminate a fetus, they like to sedate them here. Though, occasionally the guilt sneaks in quicker than expected—before the drugs can really take effect. Especially, with the first-timers, and the middle-aged career women who stumble in, in their suit and cardigan coordinates, while their husbands are away on business.

I saw a girl collapse once outside the administration window, right in the middle of signing the waiver. They stuck smelling salts under her nose, and the moment she came to she cried out,
“Fuck Je-sus!” and it was his name, not the son of God, but the one who knocked her up. And I hated him too, without knowing him—her lover—because here she was alone, and no one should be alone in a place like this.
The truth is: my friends wouldn’t come here either. The ones who eat mushrooms on the beach and paint and screw. And that’s all we ever seem to talk about other than the lines we regurgitate unoriginally. Because we don’t want to be like our parents who have forgotten us since the day we were born. Who know nothing of the society of Gogol or Zola, or the hardship that comes with entitlement and expectation.
We’re pampered little beasts, pissing in the streets in our polo shirts and loafers. Whining out literature in some frustrated guild we’ve created. Our tribe: with member fees and club jackets. And it always being in our best interest to breed.

What I’m trying to figure out is if I’m here like the others. In this windowless clinic with the pillow muffled shouts of protestors coming in through the concrete walls. I’m in a porous tomb, and I’m alone. Is this what it feels like to be dead on the inside?

Achieve! is all I hear. Succeed! is the only demand.

“My mama thinks I’m at school,” the girl leans over to whisper to the man. To which he puts a hand over her fidgeting fingers, silencing the charms on her gaunt arm.
My feeling is that the mama’s not around enough to take notice, and that maybe these things we say and do is a way of being noticed. Of how it connects the two of us—me and this young woman. Coming to this city center where I’m a nobody surrounded by nobodies. And her wanting to be a somebody, other than who she is.
They call my name and I rise. I give the couple a smile as a show of solidarity, and walk toward the swinging doors.

Achieve! is all I hear. Succeed! is now the demand.

Saturday, January 7, 2017

thoughts & resolutions.

There has been this permeating thought that has stuck with me all week, which seems to be fueling my every intention. In my last blog post, I mentioned "making room for my own wild dreams" within the day-to-day routines we create for the sake of sanity. Which as nice as this thought is, I realize I will never make the kind of room I want to make, unless some actual changes are made.

I have understood this for a long time, but have had a laissez faire attitude about "change". Especially, since I have always thought of change as something evolving to fit the need at the time --- a matter of adaptation. Occurring naturally despite the occasional barrier.

However, in this latest climate of uncertainty, I am beginning to deeply crave things that are real and true, that I can sink my energy into and will serve a purpose. And so I've begun to meditate daily on the adage: "Be the change you want to see in the world."

But what does such a thing even mean?

Well, to me it means I will never have an ounce of control over others' decisions, but I will always have control over how I let their decisions affect me, and how I choose to better myself and react.

I've spent a lot of time looking at what is important to me, making observations and taking notes. I've written about my values and have attempted to communicate what makes me happy. Neither light, nor pointless tasks. Yet, I can't say I've honestly challenged myself to the point of complete change.

So from here on out, I will give meaning to the vows I make in the form of resolutions. I will no longer live a life dictated by what society deems as "valuable". But instead, I will create my own framework developed from intention and purpose. I will minimize the material and emotional clutter that bogs me down, and inhibits me from contributing more thoughtful dialogue. I will consume less.

As with any changes, what I'm attempting to achieve won't happen over night, and it is probably wise to keep things in perspective. I will avoid using the words "realistic" or "practical", because that is the language of absolutism disguised as normative thinking.

I will continue to share my experiences through this transformative process, but I will also assert that this is by no means a suggestion or recommendation to others.

And so it begins, with Phase I.

Sunday, January 1, 2017

What a New Year looks like from a different vantage point...

Last night, I rang in the New Year in the air. As I marveled over the mosaic patterns of colored lights and fireworks winking back at me from below, I couldn’t help thinking how cool it was to take off in another country in 2016, and land back in my home country in 2017. Simply put, it was kind of magical counting down the year with strangers, and family, and an entire Boston-based flight crew. It gave new meaning to the notion of suspended time; especially when earlier that evening in a custom’s line, a man in front of me, made the comment that where he had come from earlier that day, a new year had already begun.

I had many other thoughts on that plane ride home, which I probably should have written down on my little drink napkin, but I was too caught up in the moment to care. As I held my partner’s hand and we watched drops of rain fly past us at warp speed, I drifted in and out of that dreamy place I fall into when I feel those feelings of utter contentedness mixed with excitement for the future.  If I could be in multiple places at once, there I was, taking it all in.

I can’t begin to explain how grateful I am each and every day. So, to think about the year in its entirety and try and summarize it, seems inadequate. (Writing out the Cliff notes of any human experience, would involve taking out any unique and defining characteristics and replacing those one-of-a-kind, cumulative moments with a slew of generic adjectives… like anyone’s whole year could fit into a social media post, Come’on! “If you’re happy and you know it clap your hands…”)   

There has just been so much growth inside a short amount a time, I feel silly that I ever have moments of evolutionary self-doubt. But I guess that’s what celebrating a New Year is all about—not necessarily taking inventory of what I didn’t get to or accomplish, but to take a good, hard look at what I’m about. The next step, I admittedly still need to learn, which is accepting that not everything to come will go the way I hope or plan.

I don’t know about you, but I remember hearing the saying, “A little wishful thinking never hurt anyone,” and actually took it to heart. It’s only taken me 34 years to re-imagine that expression for myself. My new mantras, being: open-mindedness and flexibility are the keys to deflecting disappointment. And: You’ve got to have a little grit, to keep things interesting.

Settling in back home is always nice. Not so much, sticking that grounding rod back in reality.  But it sure is easy falling back into routines: grocery shopping, laundry, work prep, dinner prep, “the comforts of home”… I recognize this is as part of life, but I know it doesn’t have to be the only part of the picture—that there is room enough for my own wild dreams, as well as having another person at my side. And whims! Big or small, you can’t forget the important role whims play in gaining perspective. Throw some change into a stranger’s hat, drive an unmarked road, eat something you’ve never tried before, get swept away by your passions.

I am not certain about much, but this year in particular has made me really appreciate taking on life’s whims, curve balls, forks-in-the-road, and the day-to-day with my partner. So, putting any doubts at bay, I truly believe 2017 is going to be a different kind of special.

Saying It

Saying it. Trying
to say it. Not
to answer to

logic, but leaving
our very lives open
to how we have

to hear ourselves
say what we mean.
Not merely to

know, all told,
our far neighbors;
or here, beside

us now, the stranger
we sleep next to.
Not to get it said

and be done, but to
say the feeling, its
present shape, to

let words lend it
dimension: to name
the pain to confirm

how it may be borne:
through what in
ourselves we dream

to give voice to,
to find some word for
how we bear our lives.

Daily, as we are daily
wed, we say the world
is a wedding for which,

as we are constantly
finding, the ceremony
has not yet been found.

What wine? What bread?
What language sung?
We wake, at night, to

imagine, and again wake
at dawn to begin: to let
the intervals speak

for themselves, to
listen to how they
feel, to give pause

to what we’re about:
to relate ourselves,
over and over; in

time beyond time
to speak some measure
of how we hear the music:

today if ever to
say the joy of trying
to say the joy.

“Saying It," from Lifelines by Philip Booth, copyright © 1999 by Philip Booth.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

What does having a full range of emotions feel like?

Last night, before all the ballots were counted and the numbers were in, I went to bed with a sinking pit in my stomach. Anxious about what the next day would bring, I tried to rest my tired head, but even in my dreams I was dreading what was to come.

I woke this morning, still sick to my stomach, and reached for the first device that I could find, hoping beyond hope that it had all been just a nightmare. But there it was, all in bright red, glaring back at me in my dark kitchen.

It was an immediate response for me—the tears came first, as I crawled back in bed beside my husband, and gently woke him,
“Trump,” is all I said, still processing the news myself. He reached out to comfort me, but I was already jumping away and onto my device, to read as much as I could about how others were taking the news.

Then came the anger, all at once. And again, my husband tried to comfort me. But it was no use. I could only blame. “I hate the system” and “All of THEM!”  I became unhinged, as a sinking sense of terror and fear settled within me.

“We can’t stay here,” was the last thing I said, as I left our house a complete mess. Which at that moment, I was hoping my husband would agree and say, “Yes, you’re right. This is no longer the place for us. The future is bleak, and it will be no place to raise children (should we decide to have them).”

Shaking and crying, I drove to work. My husband had begged me to stay a little later than usual and settle down before I got on the road, but I couldn’t hear him in my blind anger. I had to get to work. I had to get to a place where I could think about something other than how awful I was feeling.

When I got to work, my colleagues and I tried to go about our regularly scheduled morning meeting, but from the look on most everyone’s face, I wasn’t the only one who felt defeated. And when we started talking about the challenges that some of our students have been facing, I completely lost it. I bee-lined for the bathroom, to try and catch my breath.

Not only did it feel like the wind had been knocked out of me like a giant kick to the stomach, my hope was knocked out of me too. All I could think about was the students. Especially, the ones who had told me, just a day before, that if they were old enough to vote that they would never vote for Trump, “Because Trump doesn’t like people with special needs.” And that got me thinking about all the others too… All my friends and family, and even those I don’t even know, who will be affected even more than I am by this decision.  My breaking heart went out to all of them.

At the sink, as I splashed my face, I prayed for the strength to go on. I prayed that somehow I will learn to accept what I have no control over, and that I won’t let my anger taint my own morality, compassion, or judgement. I prayed that I could just get through the day, so I could go home and give my husband that much deserved hug.

When the kids arrived, I tried to be as present as I could be. Both for them, and for me. I tried to be more patient, and a better listener. And for a good part of the day, it was easy to let those kids teach me a little more about the simple joys that will continue to exist, despite politics and perceived chaos.

Sure, for a moment I thought, “I could quit all this and run away. I could join a revolution. I could wave my fist in solidarity with all those already out there on the front lines fighting.”

But I didn’t. I stayed where I needed to be, and quietly admired my colleagues and the good work they do every day. I even felt a pang of guilt, when the afternoon bus driver who was driving our students, admitted to me that she had voted for Trump; and that she, like me, also wanted to have hope that change was good.  

When I got home, at the end of this very long day, the first thing I did was hug my husband. And after some comfort food and some conversation, he finally shared with me his secret of how he is so accepting: “What you have to remember, is that you don’t have to do something memorable and fix the world. You just have to be decent.”

Of course, I cried, again. Because, what would a full range of emotions be without a few happy tears at the end caused by a full heart?

I feel grateful for knowing how today felt, and for knowing that I’m not alone in this. We'll get through this together. 

Sunday, October 23, 2016

appreciate the fact you feel things at all.

How freeing it's been; this latest epiphany. I'm still here in the background writing and living, if you weren't sure if I evaporated into thin air with all the other bits of internet dialogue. I'm here to tell you, yes, you can do both simultaneously: live a rich and inspiring life, and find the time to write about it. Go ahead, feel that sense of fulfillment! Appreciate the fact that you feel things at all.

As a writer who eventually wants their writing to be read, maybe I should feel more of an obligation to stay connected. However, I'm pretty darn adamant in my belief when I say, it just isn't natural to have every minute of your day broadcasted, shared, and commented on. Since when did every-day Joe and Mary wake and say, "I need more public relations in my life." I won't bore you with my own theories of detachment and lack of empathy, the detriments occurring in real relationships and interactions, or what is really happening to the wiring of our brains... **Just read Nicholas Carr's, The Shallows

What I really want to know is: Does getting a daily ego-boost from an "audience" really give anyone the affirmations they seek? Does having a social media platform actually motivate, encourage, or enhance one's work, creative energy, or intellect? And what does it really do to one's confidence?

Today, I reached a small goal in my personal and creative life. (Yes, I can still say there is no division between the two, and I hope to maintain my autonomy from that corrosive mindset that an artist must love their art first and foremost, and of course sacrifice everything else and sell their souls.) I say this is a small goal, not to minimize it, but because I recognize it as another step in the direction I envisioned for myself, years ago. I also wouldn't call this goal monumental, by any stretch, for it is something I have accomplished many times over. What I can tell you is different about this goal is that it comes with its own sense of accomplishment.

I don't typically share what I do to make money day in and day out, over the internet. As some of you have already put together, I don't pay my bills by being a blogger, or a published short story writer. The truth is, like so many other dedicated writers, I have yet to actually get paid for any of my fiction. Sure, I've written little bits here and there for local papers that were happy to cut me a few bucks per inch, but that's not where I'm going with this, when we have more interesting things to cover.

So, here's the thing, what I do every day is work with kids who have really been dealt some of life's toughest cards. Needless to say, this isn't just some job for me where I punch the clock. These are kids that have seen horrors and hardships that most of us could never imagine enduring, let alone surviving. They are also some of the most beautiful human beings I have ever met. They trust without question, love without judgment, and are capable of the purest kind of joy. (If we could ever be so lucky, right?)

While there are definitely moments of great introspection and wonderful successes I get to be part of, there are more days when the work I do feels thankless and overwhelming with its challenges. And those are the days when I get home and all I want to do is turn off. Those are the days I can't even clear my tired head enough to put together a meal, or have a coherent conversation with my partner. Those are the days I can't even imagine sitting down at a computer and trying to make sense of this crazy world we live in, let alone be creative in my vision.

But I do. I make that meal, I talk to my partner, I sit down at the computer, I write. I'm not saying it is easy, or that there aren't days where I just want to give something up to catch a break. And I certainly get frustrated and angry, and sometimes start crying when I feel like I have nothing left to give. But after that good cry, I come around, and with the support of my partner I am able to redirect my focus to what I do have and what I can say about the world we live in, and get away from that sinking hole of what I don't have, right now. I am then able to see that just because I might not be exactly where I thought I would be at this point in my life, it doesn't mean I will never get there.

It takes steps. It's a process. Whatever you want to call it. So, I work toward finding that balance. I set small goals that are reachable. I celebrate every day successes. I thank people who help me along the way. I stay open to the possibility of change.

It seems simple, but I can tell you it is not. There was even a time in my life where I actually thought I had to live selfishly to take myself seriously as an artist. This, I assure you, is an absurd fallacy. A self-absorbed lifestyle is one of emptiness and loneliness, and lacks the true grit of life that ultimately inspires.

Now you're probably wondering what was this goal that got me on this long-winded backstory and lament. Well, if its okay with you, I'm going to now go quietly and celebrate the way I do. In real time.

But first, I will leave you this note:

"Recognizing the poetic possibilities of this temporary affliction, I attempted to rein something in, treading my internal haze in search of elemental creatures, or the hare of a wild religion." 
                                                                       Love, Patti Smith

Monday, July 18, 2016

I wake to the sound of chaos: a flock of birds in conflict over the bitter taste of wild grapes. Yesterday, I was ecstatic to discover the fruit growing rampant along the riverbank behind our house. Today, I realize my partner was right—it will take a lot of dirty, back-bending work to tame this undomesticated vine and turn it into something palatable. And yet, this doesn’t seem to discourage either of us from the prospect of trying.

I’ve stopped apologizing for who I am not, and it feels good. I no longer wish for things to be any different than they are. Even when there are challenges, the burden doesn’t feel so heavy, knowing I have the support to tackle most any undertaking I choose.

My desire to be a writer hasn’t waned, either. If anything, it has been magnified. I work, and try to live out my dreams every day, while attempting to be a decent human being. And that should be enough…. But what I can’t do anymore, is partake in that comparative, over-analysis of what others are doing with their livelihoods. I applaud anyone who has made a go at the artistic life. I know it isn’t a walk in the park and yet you forge ahead, each day, knowing that it isn’t some easy, formulaic thing—but a gut-wrenching, ego-smashing pursuit that tests your patience and your soul.  That is, in itself, a beautiful thing.

I just want something more out of life than to be labeled. And I think feeling loved and loving myself for who I am, is a start in the right direction. I am learning to embrace all that I can do and all that I strive to do, allowing this worthwhile life to present itself in all its forms. A grandiose idea, sure, but it is one of the few things I actually have control over—welcoming life to the table, and enjoying the company while it lasts.

Tuesday, February 16, 2016

surrealism as free-association.

Much of my writing, particularly my short stories, tend to be surrealist in nature. While some writers gravitate toward more realistic or fantastical themes and concepts, I ended up somewhere in the middle stylistically. This was a natural progression in the creative process for me, and I have some thoughts about how and why this happened that I would like to share. But first: what is Surrealism, really?

Early-surrealists wanted to start a movement and revolution. In France, in the 1920’s, artists and literate luminaries adopted a philosophical manifesto that opened up a world of possibility when it came to creative expression. Surrealism transformed the way people thought about art. Art was no longer just about aesthetics and making something beautiful, but it was seen as something that could be powerful, filled with emotion, meaning, and many layers of belief.. 

Surrealists understood that there was a liminal space between reality and fantasy, where they could fully speak their minds and remain untouchable to persecution. They wanted to break away from conventional ideologies and normal-thinking, by drawing inspiration from within this space—a place of no specific perimeters, expectations, or exactitude. In turn, artists discovered a new kind of creative freedom, which gave them license to explore the many realms of the psyche, without needing hard proof, or relying heavily on imaginary constructions.

Unlike the early-surrealists, however, my writing didn’t evolve the way it did, because I wanted to make any progressive waves or grand statements. If anything, my writing developed the way it did, because I felt limited in my ability to write in a strictly confessional or realistic way. I also found it rather difficult to inject my ideas with elements of fantasy, because of the artificial mood and feeling it produced. 

I have always been insecure about being perceived as strange or unusual, especially when it comes to expressing certain beliefs and perspectives. Yet, I have this need inside me to capture and share my thoughts, in order to make sense of the world. I don’t know how other writers/artists connect their perspective of the world to their work, but for me it is a constant relationship—a matter of seeing.          

Every moment I catch myself in awe or conflict throughout the day, I know that this growing awareness will find its way into my art in various forms. In turn, every time I focus in on an aspect or detail, I can be sure that this is shaping and sharpening my overall vision. And for every feeling and belief that rises spontaneously and uncontrollably within me, I have no doubts they lie at the root of all my inspiration.

 My world is not made up of simple black and white reasoning, and edges that divide. My world is like the nature of the trees, becoming one silhouette in the fleeting light. It is continuous like time and energy, while I know I am here, only temporarily. And it is looking at the ethereal outline of distant mountains, and knowing they will manifest the closer I get—like God, pulling at every part of my soul.
I know this about myself, and I know this about my writing. And I guess I’m finally learning to accept that what works for others, doesn’t necessarily work for me. That it is okay to see things differently, and to connect to the world in your own way, whether that is critically, romantically, or freely. 

Saturday, January 2, 2016

what she says...

I write in Vermont, and live with enhanced and sometimes, distorted perceptions. I’ve earned a degree and been published, but mostly I just care about connecting with other human beings through various forms of expression. Breathing is essential, and curiosity is my second-nature. And you’re probably better off looking elsewhere for answers.

I spent many years and lots of money on education, now I’m a writer who moonlights as a lower-middle class employee. Sometimes, I do other things like laundry, watercolor painting, photography and walking outdoors. People mostly fascinate me, but I don’t always like them.

I am a writer who occasionally impersonates someone who writes mediocre poetry. I believe in God, most of the time. I would like to think I’m a better person than I am an artist, because I would prefer it that way.

I don’t have this writing thing quite figured out, yet. And I’m really terrible about writing about myself in the third-person.

I dream in two-parts, and usually in the second part I’m stuck in a place I can’t get out of.

What would you like to believe about me?

Its way past noon and I’m still wearing my bathrobe, trying to sound like a progressive and productive artist……

So, these were my attempts at writing a bio today. Every so often, I entertain the thought of updating the profile I send out with my literary submissions, thinking it is a good idea. Though, realistically, half the time good ideas occur to me, I end up with a half a page of nonsense.

I’ve always found it awkward writing my own bio. Sometimes, there are days where I just don’t have it in me and I’ll send submissions along “bio-less” with only my contact information included, as though it was one of the guidelines I overlooked. Maybe I am shooting myself in the foot writing this, but asking anyone to describe themselves in the third-person is terribly uncomfortable for people who don’t have giant egos.

Trying to make yourself sound unique or avant-garde or intelligent (or should I say, intelligible?), in a way that doesn’t seem like you’ve worked too hard at it or that you care what people think, is plainly, absurd behavior. It’s like some weird kind of self-preservation for those anticipating criticism. And how much effort do you think novice writers put into those quippy or irreverent lines, hoping to catch someone’s eye? Example, Joe Schmo was a fellow of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and he also likes cheese.

How about the writer’s profile that’s much more intriguing than their writing is? Which doesn’t surprise me all that much, because it affirms my belief that we are a society that encourages and rewards people for selling themselves to get ahead. Talent or skill? Who needs any of that if you can talk the talk...or, shall I say, write a damn, good profile. 

Wednesday, December 30, 2015

saying 'goodbye' to 2015

In just a few short days, it will be 2016 and this makes me a little sad.

For 32 years, I was one to look forward. There were parties and intimate moments to ring in the New Year, there were reasons to say ‘goodbye” and times where it was nice to hold someone’s hand. And it was never really about the passing of time on a calendar, but it was about having an optimistic outlook, starting another year on a fresh foot, and setting goals that would bring out the best, possible version of yourself. It was as though by honoring the New Year’s tradition a “free pass” was granted for all the shortcomings, mistakes, and things given up on too easily. “Look forward and try to not make the same mistakes again,” was the message. All in good faith and tidings, I’m sure.

Charleston, SC 2014
However, over the last couple years I have noticed something very different about my attitude in regards to celebrations. As time has gone on, life has becomes richer and fuller to me, and it no longer feels that I’ve lived a thousand lifetimes (a series of starts and stops, turning around and going the other way), but that the narrative is in fact, seamless and interconnected and filled with purpose. My experiences are not separate incidences from my mistakes, my beliefs are not separate from my fears, and what I can offer others is not separate from any other part of me. This lesson has had such a profound impact on me, I can’t remember any other time in my life where I’ve felt so immersed in the present. 

Too many years I wanted something else for myself and in turn felt a lot of pressure in not being quite good enough. Even the years that by all accounts were successful, to me it always felt as though I could’ve done better. Not that we shouldn’t always be striving to be better people all around, what I think people do forget sometimes is to take the time to slow down and appreciate what we do have.

When I look around me, I see a home filled with love. I see a place brought to life by people who wanted to create something special. Where I am now, is a place I couldn’t have dreamed or imagined, even just a year ago. And every day, I say to myself, how could this possibly get better? If anything, I worry that someday I might lose this, and should that happen I don’t want to ever think that it was never enough—that there was a time I couldn’t wait for these years to pass… No, I will savor this year, like I hope to each and every following year. I will resume cherishing these days, until my cup runneth over.

our first garden, 2015
Reid State Park, ME christmas day stroll
photo credit: Dave Cleaveland

Tuesday, December 29, 2015