Walking Miss Daisy

The foolish man seeks happiness in the distance; the wise grows it under his feet. – James Oppenheim

Walking with a dog is something I never thought I could love. My family’s dog is anxious and desperate, constantly pulling at his leash, choking himself as I grit my teeth.
And yet here I am–happy–walking an old, loving Golden, watching our feet blur in tandem, feeling my nose grow stiff in the cold. The neighborhood is laced in fall colors, a dusky blue sky pronounces the cool perfectly.

I lose track of street names, how many times I’ve turned right or left. We are in a maze of cul-de-sacs and developments and then, this sudden, almost misplaced hill on our right. Maybe it’s part of someone’s yard, maybe not. Either way, it is so strange and disconnected; it seems fair game for footing.

I find myself speaking aloud to the river of gold-auburn fur beside me.  “Do you want to go up Daisy? Yea, girl?” She lunges ahead.

I agree. Something feels right about climbing to higher ground.

It’s a steep climb, requires a lot of toe and calf work, even a bit of deeper breathing.
I find myself imaging a giant tribal chief buried beneath the soil, remembering the Indian
burial mounds on the land where my father grew up.

At the top, I turn and look.

It’s not looking down the tops of red and brown-tinted trees that gets me. Not even how wonderfully part of the elements I feel–the wind abrasive and untamed. It is nothing I can define or express. I am glad for no other reason than simply being.


trying to write

Sometimes I just need to listen.

To the Spirit, first,
who is always whispering
Come, Rest
and today is saying
I am always the river, running through
your dry riverbed

To the lake, hushing itself in the breeze.
And the four year old, who takes my hand before she sleeps, holds it to her cheek

To people…

“sometimes God seems so far away i feel i have to yell myself hoarse to get him to hear me. and other times, he seems as close as a bird on my shoulder, singing beautiful songs to me, and softly touching my face with his feathers.”
-emily wierenga- inked…

our very bodies bear the mark of our interdependence.

permanently pressed into our skin is the sign that we belong to one another,

tara pohlkotte- intertwined: on why we have bellybuttons


Suddenly I had the urge to write. Anything and everything and not really care how put together it was. I realized I often have this urge. So I created a new category of things and words that are very unrefined. Have fun.

The pages of your mind, unfolding,
are covered in dust.
You are taught to think in alphabetized ways. Or not taught
at all.

You could blame them–someone–
for feeling so upside down.
But you know you’ve been
standing on your hands when they bring
the spoon to your mouth.

It’d help, if they could read you. And you’re easily read
left to write, top to bottom,
like stacks of old encyclopedias.