#3 Hamilton – My Shot [[VIDEO LYRICS]] – Bing video

WOOOOH. And also, just listened to that score from Hamilton. If you haven’t, that particular link has the lyrics so you can follow along and pretend you know your history. and rock a little, too.

Got a call on a Thursday night, had a johnson and johnson on Friday morning. Got a fever Friday night after I bought all my favorite treats to celebrate. (Kids were away, so it included stuff I don’t have to share!) Fever lasted right through to Sunday afternoon so I didn’t get out to do my farmer’s market shift for my farmer and I was in bed for almost every part of it. I did get up for a bit to move to the sofa. It was pretty damn boring, friends. Fever, chills, muscle aches. Not great. But, did I give away my shot? No!

And also? Knowing exactly what has caused or is causing a sickness? A pretty unique feeling. The science of vaccinations is so clear. (to me) The whole thing was a novel experience and one I may never have again in my life.

fever, yes. First Covid vaccination? Nah… Knowing what is causing my sickness? Probably not.

And so I lapsed on my five days a week writing plan. I’m fine. I was also recovering from the sickness days of the kids, way back when. AND you know, trauma and therapy and boredom and pandemic isolation and all the stuff that has to be done around the house in the spring that I am really not doing. I did get someone in to fix the literal hole in the side of the house though. So there is that.

But now I need to find a yellow ‘close-enough’ to paint over the fix or my house will look like a patched up car, forever. I’m very psyched there is no hole in my house, don’t get me wrong. But I spotted another one this week. The game is to not attach emotion to it. It is not a failure of mine to not maintain proper upkeep. It is just a structure, which ages, and its not personal.

Anyhow. I’m sorry this is such a rattrap of interwovens. I’ve got a list of things I need to get caught up on, and posting is on it. But yes, I’d like it to be better than rattrap. Its still poetry month, maybe I’ll hunt up something good for you. My eyebrows just wiggled, just so you know.

Love love,


traditional old house in green garden
This is not my house, but my god, wish that it were… Photo by Maria Orlova on


In it. Out of it. Whatchyougot?

I’ve been using my study for real in the past two months. For real, as in,

I am the writer who lives in this house, and this is where I write.

How incredible is that sentence? I am still feeling it guys. The incredible, the doubtful, the incredulous. Yes. I am watering the plants regularly, and new leaves are unfurling as I sit. I am, yes, still finding the Easter Candy I hid on the shelves. I am still balancing my extreme candy consumption with protein-packed lunches. I have a writing space.

And I’m writing. I’m in it. Its’ been suggested that I should be able to do it with a house full of children, but I can’t. And I’m not going to apologize for that. The way in which my brain settles when the house is empty is an entirely novel experience, and I feel the weight of it. It is an entirely different brain that I carry at those moments, as if I am an entirely different creature. And I am.

I admit, I am not a perfect at-home worker. There are times I definitely struggle to focus on the work, and I dither in the kitchen or decide to do a grocery run. And if I’m freaking out and can’t function, I’ve watched tv. I mean, I hate when I do that and I judge myself very harshly. Daytime tv watching is for sick people or thirteen-year-olds watching soap operas after school. (this is not fair, and not appropriate to the covid era, i know.)

I’m not perfect, but here I am, in a writing space. In and out of doldrums and running like spring weather all around robin hood’s barn. I’m still in it. Watch me shake it on the dance floor, babes.

love love,


Writing spot


Therapy 101. checking in.

I’ve been finding myself in need of therapy lately. And so I’ve gotten some. It took me a long time, and my sister pushed me around lovingly until I did. I used one of the new covid-era online platforms to do it, as its all virtual now anyhow and what the hell is the difference.

Probably it was a Michael Phelps ad that made me do it. Or not. I don’t care, really. I just like that he’s an unrepentant pothead. Potheads are pretty obnoxious these days. I mean, its legal. You’re not super funny anymore, just clownish. (i’m feeling judge-y today.)

The therapy has been good.

I have been in and out of different kinds of therapy for a long time now. I love the opportunity to talk to someone who is ‘on my side’ and just listens, for the most part. They can be so helpful, and hopeful, and they acknowledge pain in a way that makes it seem understandable and manageable. I do appreciate it.

I’ve been feeling lately like I’ve been regressing, I’ve been perseverating on things that are too old to care about, I’ve been hurt by things that should just be labeled ‘annoying’. Anxiety dreams from my marriage are waking me every morning, and I’m just mad when I move around the kitchen afterwards. so mad. It is all very, achingly familiar, as much of it feels like I am back in the days of a fresh separation. (THAT AIN’T A GOOD PLACE, FOLKS. AND I REJECT THAT I NEED TO SPEND ANY MORE TIME THERE. REJECT!)

but! I’m not actually the same person i was then, so there are differences. I’ve almost shed all the skin i had then. The fact is, I’m spending far too much time with and about my in-law family, many of them cause my body to think its somewhere else, at some other time. The grief is not something I can step from, but the entanglement is. Its another thing I can reject, and it is up to me to step out from consoling anyone, or even listening for too long. It does hurt, even while i’m confused about it, a real hurt. but i’m also impatient for the next moments, the next stage. Adding the impatience to the hurt is not an improvement.

I make phone calls, i send short texts, I know the recovery is coming. Yep, I laugh and snuggle my beastly children. I do all the things. I snap the withered stalks out of the garden space. snap. snap. snap. I need some work on boundaries, and maybe building a new chicken run (even if i can only manage to imagine it happening) will get me halfway there. wobbling walls are no good, you see.

i might even rake. which is the sweeping of the garden tasks. And I’m writing. And I’m figuring things out daily. Its slow work, and it can make me crazy. But here we are.

(who am i kidding, i’m going to make the kids rake. COME ON. Probably.)

today is a slow day, worried about stupid conversations about custody/childcare/trying not to live overwhelmed changes. There is just so much fear when you live on alimony and child support primarily. The fear that it can be taken away willy-nilly is real, legal pieces aside. Its a hard fear to talk your way out of, and trying to get up and running as a ghostwriting/editing supergenius is not especially lucrative and not really easy. Sigh.

Damn. I do go on.



sharp nails on sadhu board for meditation
Sure. Rest. Its the new self-care, right? Photo by Mikhail Nilov on


Don’t Give Up

(These are not subsistence, safety or emergency directions. These are directions of immense privilege, once the other ones are addressed.)

Instructions on not giving up:

(idea from an Ada Limon poem, found here, and in yesterday’s post, here.)

  1. Call a friend or put the phone down. Like, an actual phone call, not a text. Voices are so good, and so are faces. You can even look at them while you talk if you want. Totally Jetsons.
  2. The second part of number one is important for me. If I can shove it off, the phone, I’m better for it. Really. All the damn scrolling! I can see it for the damage its doing. I can SEE it. goddamnit.
  3. Read a book. Don’t just say you are going to, do it. Don’t do it with the phone in your lap. Don’t feel guilty the whole time you are doing it. There is enough time. Laundry will always be there. So will the fucking game of uno and/or the epilogue you’re supposed to write.
  4. Fucking phone.
  5. Go outside. Look at things that don’t care who you are or what you are worth to worthless people. Just go stand next to a tree. It’ll love you or drop a stick on your head. Clear. (Don’t chop it down, or accept its giving its life to you. No, Asshole. Don’t ask it to, Creep. Just stand there.)
  6. Make a list. Listen when your friends tell you not to give up. Don’t read into it, just listen. Make another list.
  7. Lose yourself in the shape of a leaf. I mean, go for it. Pick an interesting one or just the nearest one. Imagine standing on that leaf. Spend some time there. I mean, try.
  8. Go water something. Be it a kid, or a pet, or a plant. Go feed something a truly nourishing drink of sustenance. Tell yourself how you are keeping life.
  9. Don’t clean anything, for godssakes, unless it makes you feel good. If you want to break a plate instead of washing it, go for it. Just wear safety goggles or real shoes maybe.
  10. I do like to sweep something though. I’m a fan of the sweep. Amazing how many things get caught up in that.
  11. In your moment of quiet, ask for help, guidance. If you don’t believe in a bigger thing, than make the ask to your own higher self, the pieces of you that want to be the best thing. Make it personal. Make it. Your act of creation, in asking, is a waterfall of possible. Rumble.

Do it all again the next day. Give yourself time in the morning, even if it means lying in bed thinking. Or staring at the coffee. Just be. Recognize how fucking awesome that is.

(if you can’t. call me. i’ll take the call, because the phone is still in my fucking lap. And I’ll take the call.)

Don’t Give Up.




Its poetry month, y’all.

And, inspired by Cynthia Lee, I’m sharing a good one with you. This poet is younger than I am, and there is part of me that is shocked by that. Age!! she yells and shakes her fist at that slate sky!!

(if you click on the website, you can hear Ada Limon read it herself, which is always nice.)

Instructions on Not Giving Up by Ada Limón – Poems |

More than the fuchsia funnels breaking out
of the crabapple tree, more than the neighbor’s
almost obscene display of cherry limbs shoving
their cotton candy-colored blossoms to the slate
sky of Spring rains, it’s the greening of the trees
that really gets to me. When all the shock of white
and taffy, the world’s baubles and trinkets, leave
the pavement strewn with the confetti of aftermath,
the leaves come. Patient, plodding, a green skin
growing over whatever winter did to us, a return
to the strange idea of continuous living despite
the mess of us, the hurt, the empty. Fine then,
I’ll take it, the tree seems to say, a new slick leaf
unfurling like a fist to an open palm, I’ll take it all.


now, me. not poetic today. well, i mean, i am. i always am. but i don’t want anyone holding me to it, no feet to the fire, not today. I am proud to have produced another holiday for the kids, strange as they are, happy to not cancel, happy to not have throw up laundry still to do, happy to have been surrounded by candy, family and a beautiful sunny day. As the green of the tree says, in resignation and pride, ‘I’ll take it all’.

I’m doing better than surviving, loves.

love and bursting love,


burning bengal bombs on shabby surface
Photo by Griffin Wooldridge on