she calls me away


She calls me away

from the table where I work

Come, sit

with me instead

It is far better here

with my sighing body

my thoughtful head

resting in your lap



*photo by Jane Walsh

the things we are doing take time

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photo by Jane Walsh


First, a confession: I woke up the other morning feeling like a thoroughly incapable human being.

It was a wretched way to start the day, I’ll admit, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. Some days dawn ripe with opportunity for self-doubt and self-pity.

On this particular morning, the realization broke that everyone I know seems to be doing more, achieving more, and generally wringing more juice from the fragile fruit of everyday than I do.

So, naturally, I wasted a perfectly equitable sunrise battering myself mentally. What on earth is wrong with me, I wondered. Am I just inherently lazy?

Over breakfast, my daughter was gentle, true to form. Pay attention to how you spend your time today, she offered. Only consider the day before you, the moment before you. Stay away from the Internet. By the end of the day, you’ll know if anything needs to be done.

I suspected my malaise could not be eased by a day minus online distraction. Still, I vowed to honor the advice with an emergency reboot of digital simplicity.

Then, after taking my wise child to school, I picked up the phone and called Harry Bliss.

I was scheduled to interview the famed cartoonist/illustrator before his presentation at the South Dakota Festival of Books. The conversation quickly turned to, for lack of a better term, his creative process—mostly because I have a long-nurtured fascination with how artists, musicians, and writers do their work in the world.

On any given day, Bliss might spend two focused hours working on a single cartoon. Then, he surfaces from this creative depth to do something physical, such as working in the yard. Then he might return to his desk. For some reason, this image made me think of a child on a summer day (no homework, no bedtime) playing with toys for hours and then dropping his plastic cow on the rug to run outside and play.

It made me remember my own childhood days, cradled in the branches and hidden by the leaves of my favorite climbing tree. Shirking chores. Writing poetry.

And then I exhaled.

All at once I felt all right … more than all right … I felt sonically aligned with the pace of my day, as if someone had rung a bell that resounded throughout every cell of my body.

That might seem like an exaggeration, but it’s not. If the description sounds a little far-fetched to you, I don’t mind. Go ahead. Roll your eyes. The fog cleared, that’s all. And I was awake enough to notice it.

I talked with Harry Bliss for a good long time. Then I put down the phone and my pen and I went outside. I never did turn my computer back on that day.

In the evening, I found there was even more to learn, this time from my dad, who has spent most of his summer visiting with doctors, rearranging his life as he deals with the shifting sands of his health. This process, as you might imagine, has altered the weight of his “daily accomplishments” considerably.

“It’s not that I’m not doing anything,” he told me. “It’s that the things I am doing take time.”

There it was. The trifecta of wisdom I needed to satisfy my hunger:

  1. Honor the minutes, turning away from the distractions of our age.
  2. Work unapologetically on your art, on doing what you love to do, then get your physical body  moving, preferably out-of-doors.
  3. Finally, above all else: The things worth doing—creative things, sacred things, things with meaning and purpose and impact—they all take time.

What did I get done that day?

Well, I spent a lot of time listening. I spent even more time hanging out in the kitchen with my teenage daughter who, not incidentally, still digs hanging out in the kitchen with her mom, chatting about books, friends, and how we spend our days.

I spent the day writing—filling blank pages with with notes and ideas, even a few sketches. I stepped outside more than once to sit in wonder at the adoration of the bees as they bid their farewell to summer.

(My dad told me, when I was younger, that you always know summer is ending when the bees are out looking for new homes. I’ve never forgotten that. It’s not over until the bees tumble over themselves saying goodbye.)

Basically, I spent the day welcoming the voices of wisdom around me as well as the voice of my own wise self, who had simply gotten out of bed a few minutes later than usual.

I don’t know how other people have time for their abundant accomplishments. Maybe they don’t. Maybe it just seems they do when I peer at their lives through the thick glass walls we install between ourselves and others.

I only know that conversation takes time. Writing takes time. Healing takes time. Love takes time.

I only know that I’ve got plenty of time for that.



clearing the clutter of toxic emotions

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You might expect a boat made of nothing but cardboard, duct tape and dreams to be a simple thing, especially when crafted by two 13-year-olds with a limited budget and even less time.

They toss a few flattened boxes onto the driveway, dappled sunlight warming them as they work. They take precursory measurements and launch their engineering process. They’ve mastered this boat-building, so they approach the task with confidence and bonds of friendship that have been strengthening since before they were born. There will be no quarreling or disagreeing. These girls know exactly what they have gathered together to do.

This was the second summer my daughter and her friend have entered the Great Cardboard Boat Race at Keuhn Park, and, I confess, this year was no less stressful for me than last year’s endeavor.

What could be stressful about a cardboard boat race? Perhaps you don’t know me well. Last year, you see, I was certain they were going to sink. I was convinced they would pour hours upon hours of work into their boat and then descend to the bottom of the pool within seconds.

Glub, glub.

So I became obsessed with enlightening these young ladies about the nature of the race, or, you know, life: You set a cardboard box into a swimming pool. You board the “boat,” wearing swimming suits, plenty of sunblock, and a life vest. You scramble for a few moments of perfunctory rowing. You sink. Everyone laughs. Game over.

Well, last year it turned out I had greatly underestimated the potential of two fiercely intelligent and determined girls. They had no intention of sinking. Their boat floated. When they rowed, it cut through the water. Fast. They raced in two heats, were awarded the creativity prize, triumphed in the bragging rights race and barely got wet.

So this year I could stop worrying, right?

Like I said, perhaps you don’t know me well.

This year, instead of decorating their boat with Sharpie markers, the artists opted for colored pencils. They were drawing the characters of author Kate DiCamillo for their boat’s theme. Each DiCamillo character has been brought to life by a different illustrator, so the girls were working in styles that ranged from sophisticated cartooning to fairy tale realism.

After hours of drawing and shading (Can you imagine?) they had created a gallery of stunning work—intricate lines, superb character expression—all in colored pencil on cardboard.


Cardboard about to be chucked into a swimming pool.

You can probably see what’s coming.

“Maybe you should attach the art pieces to the boat lightly and then remove them before you set sail?” I offered.

“No. They’ll be fine.”

“Right. But, you know, you could each save your favorite drawing. Remember last year when you made those gorgeous Hogwart’s house flags? You took those off the boat before putting it in the water.”

“This is different.”

“Um. Is it?”

“Mom, Edward Tulane has already been to the bottom of the sea (you know, in the book) so he doesn’t mind getting his paws wet.”

But, to my eyes, the boat was different this year—smaller, less waterproof—and there was the mouse Despereaux, dangling off the stern looking so, so … delicate.

I admit it. Despereaux was my favorite. And, through no fault of his own, he was delicate and fragile and so very, very doomed.

We arrived at the pool for the race. It had been raining all morning and we wondered if the race would run, or if a stray streak of lightning (could I be so lucky?) would cancel the event and keep all boats in dry-dock.

Did I truly want the glory of that creative energy to be confined to merely making an artful boat for display, one that never got tested in the choppy waters of life?

Sure. I could live with that.

Lifeguards asked the girls: “Are you going to take your artwork off before you get the boat wet?” Random mothers privately approached me and suggested I encourage the girls to save their art and launch a “streamlined” boat into the regatta (as if I hadn’t already tried the “It’ll be more streamlined!” tactic).

The boat builders would not be swayed. The Ulysses 2000X would sail in its entirety, come what may.

They carried their boat to the edge of the pool. They set it in the water. Despereaux’s tiny paws eased down to the chlorinated waterline.


Simplicity is about more than paring down your possessions. It’s less about having “less stuff” (although that helps) and more about creating the time and space to live a life that matters.

You can simplify your emotional life too, I have learned, by boxing up the wastefulness of worry and fear and doubt, and carting their noxiousness to the curb for disposal. Although, for me, negative emotions seem to build up more quickly than possessions and therefore must be disposed of more frequently.

Are we doomed to underestimate our own children? To underestimate ourselves? When struggling in the straightjacket of doubt and fear can we pause and ask: What is possible here? What really matters?

For example, is it “worth it” to create something beautiful when you know it could be washed away? Is it worth it to spend hours in a practice room, when no one is present to hear those rare and transcendent moments when your music flows effortlessly and without flaw? Is it worth it to care for an infant who might someday turn away from your kisses? To print words in a newspaper, only to have them crumpled up and used to wipe streaks off a window or to line the bottom of a kitten’s litter box?

Stories connect us, Kate DiCamillo says. We are here, not because the beauty of life is infallible, but because paying attention to that beauty makes the journey across the pool worthwhile.

If we aren’t willing to put our very best into the water—if we aren’t willing to take the holy risk of living fully and living well—then we are not streamlined vessels; We are hollow vessels, struggling to win a race that was never designed to be a competition in the first place.


Despereaux, Dear Reader, lived.

The girls paddled and paddled. They focused. They made the turn. Their time in the pool had a decidedly thrilling air to it, with abundant cheers, occasional shrieks, and joyous laughter and celebration from the crowd.

They nudged the finish line, disembarked, and hoisted the Ulysses 2000X from the water. Upon inspection, not a single piece of artwork was more than a trifle damp, and the boat, if anything, had sailed a bit faster than last year’s SS. King Weasley.

The girls were awarded a prize for creativity. They were invited, once again, to display their boat at the Oak View Library, where it remains today, for all to see.

Yeah. I should have seen that coming.




tending to the divine

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Simplicity is a luxury, and, like all luxuries, elusive. Often you have to make the choice to power ahead without it.

For my family, June brought houseguests, a busted washing machine, two road trips and a visiting guinea pig. As it happened, also in June, the money ran out before the month did; the dishes piled up in the sink.

But a storm also blew in during June, bringing multiple visits to the hospital and the sort of news about someone you love that you never want to imagine, let alone actually hear.

All of a sudden, the clutter didn’t matter. The dishes didn’t matter. The money didn’t seem to matter.

It’s called perspective.

That’s all I’m going to write about the hospital visits. I will be keeping that time private.

Instead, I offer a story: One day, not so long ago in June, I was driving through town with my younger brother, the one who has everything figured out. I’m not being sarcastic: He is organized. His Sioux Falls home is clean and spare. He actively maintains an honest-to-goodness savings account. (With cash in it even! Not just like my “savings account” that sports a double-digit balance. How does he do that?)

It had been a spontaneous day for both of us, but not necessarily in a good way. In other words, we woke up that Saturday with reasonable plans and ended up doing something more urgent and completely off the rails. Now the day was wrapping up and we were both hungry. I turned the car toward our favorite restaurant.

Suddenly, he remembered he had laundry in the wash. He was just reminding himself, really, it wasn’t as if he wanted to skip dinner and rush home to hover over wet laundry. But still. It hit me somehow.

“It doesn’t matter, you know,” I declared. “Laundry doesn’t matter.”

I have backup for this assertion—my Gram, whose home was relentlessly spotless and artistic and infused with the luscious smells of baking and creating and entertaining. I remember sitting at her dining room table, late in the season of her life, and allowing myself to whine a little about my own home, with its strewn-about mishmash of notebooks, toys, and—let’s be honest—dog hair and dust.

Like everything I said, Gram took my words seriously. She glanced around her own home, seeing it perhaps as I saw it for the first time—perfect. A clean house doesn’t matter so much when you don’t have anyone to clean it for, she told me, or something along those lines.

This is how I took her meaning: She had spent a lifetime keeping a lovely home, not for herself, not because, as a woman, it was what she was ordained to do with her days, not because she was twisted with perfectionism. She tended her home simply because she adored the people in her life and wanted them to feel comfortable when they woke in the morning and stumbled to the kitchen to slide half a grapefruit into the breakfast china or check the morning newspapers.

She was telling me that it was the people inside the home that mattered. Everything in a home serves them, not the other way around.

Her linen tablecloths were spotless and pressed and waiting on hangers for their next turn at the table. Years later, those tablecloths are still spotless and pressed, and they take rare but significant turns at my dining room table. I think it’s fair to say no one really needs table cloths anymore. I could release them in my quest to simplify, maybe find them a home with a larger, more elegant family. I could release myself from the entire chest of drawers I keep of her linens and handkerchiefs and cloth napkins.

Why on earth would I?

I have come to realize early in this simplicity challenge that I will never be a true minimalist. I’d like to call myself a sentimental minimalist, but that probably would be an exaggeration, because there is a whole lot that I have no intention of streamlining. There are entire drawers and closets and bookshelves of my life that I have no intention of reducing or making less complicated.

What is simplicity if not a reordering of your priorities so that you are spending the currency of life on the things that matter to you … which might be drastically different from the things that matter to me?

In June, I forgot to change the sheets on my bed, but faithfully changed the bedding of the guinea pig we are pet-sitting. I ignored a messy kitchen by anyone’s standards and chose instead to play cribbage with my mother-in-law, who was visiting from Maine. I tossed more clothes than needed, more music than needed and more snacks than was responsible into the car and scooted north (for the second time in as many weeks) with my child singing along in the back seat, happy as a lark to be on the way to celebrate her Minneapolis uncles, where we would be surrounded by hundreds of thousands of other Twin Cities Pride participants.

I bought an extra outfit so I wouldn’t have to go to the laundromat as much. On credit. The opposite of simplicity, some would say.

And I ate one of the most satisfying dinners ever with my younger brother, even though he could have been finishing his laundry and I could have been cleaning one of my perpetually-overrun-with-detritus closets. We turned off our phones. We took our time. I listened to him well, something I don’t do nearly often enough. We’ll remember that meal forever. I bet he’s already forgotten that he went home and finished his laundry.

At the beginning of 2014, I was paranoid that something would happen to me, and my loved ones would struggle to clean out my cluttered house. That seems flippant and silly now. Have you heard the Ukrainian folktale about a woman who is invited to visit the Christ child at his birth, but stays behind to tidy her home? She misses the child, not because she is tending to those in need or even because of doubt. She misses the arrival of the Messiah because she has chosen to dust the mantel of her cottage—to tend to the transient rather than the divine.

Yes, we must address the details of daily living: the dust-darkened corners, the mountainous paperwork, the dog-drool-smeared window panes. And yes, the more organized and simplified you can run, the swifter and lighter your journey may be. But in June, I ignored all of that.

In June I tended only to the divine.

lost in the trees

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We didn’t plant the trees and flowers of our backyard. A woman named Ruth lived here before us, and for 14 years we have been blessed by the simple act of trying to not undo what Ruth had done.

We have, at times, failed at this, though usually through no fault of our own. Last year we lost our mulberry tree in the great ice storm, an event unspeakably sad for all of us. This tree was the shade—a treehouse-with-no-boards. Her sweet berries fed not only us, but multitudes of robins and, recently, one lucky tortoise.

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Other growing things thrive in spite of our ignorance and Mother Nature’s caprice. Today, they blossom, reminding me to step out my own back door and stand fully in wonderment.

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Finally, I catch sight of something deep within the branches of the lilac. It is my daughter’s skipping rope, laced upward and wrapped round the handle of a metal pail—a pulley system, perhaps, or some other keeper of benevolent secrets.

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When I at last come inside to write (dog flops at my feet—she sighs her disappointment that this exuberant morning was not celebrated by the tossing of a certain tennis ball) a small brown stick shakes itself loose from my hair and tumbles onto my notebook. Apparently I have been burrowing deeper into nature with my camera than realized.

And so it goes.

Welcome Saturday, a day for getting lost in the trees.

2014-05-24 07.09.38



hanging up ~ a month of digital simplicity


I’m not addicted to my cell phone.


Unfortunately, other people are addicted to my cell phone—as in, they expect me to answer said phone when it rings, and to respond to the various flashing and clicking of text messages that pose smoldering questions:

“Where are you?”

“Are you at home?”

“Can I call you?”

Other people expect me to receive email on this device (“Class is canceled” would have arrived 15 minutes before class was set to begin) and to keep my calendar updated electronically, mostly so I can confirm my availability without undue delay. To them, my phone is a computer … a lifestyle manager … a tracking device.

To me, my phone is … wait for it … a phone, albeit with a (Bonus!) zippy little camera.

This month, when I decided to turn my focus to simplifying my digital life, I knew where the struggle would lurk. I turned off my computer on the weekends (easy), eschewed electronic books all together (relieving), embarked on a blogging sabbatical (refreshing), and crafted all my writing by hand or on my manual typewriter before tackling revisions via word processing (time-consuming, yet awesome).

By mid-month I had also scrubbed my email inbox, my computer desktop, and the downloads folder on my laptop. For the record, I was not actually aware of the existence of a downloads folder on my laptop, so if we’re awarding points here, that should count for extra.

Chucking old computer files turned out to be much breezier than shuffling through boxes of paper. You click, you swipe, you empty the virtual trash. Whoosh! Celebrate with chocolate.

Sorting hundreds of digital photos proved more daunting, so I settled for backing those up via Dropbox and calling it good. Maybe I’ll learn to scrapbook someday. (Though I would almost certainly turn scrapbooking into a dizzying hobby of hoarding pretty paper and fancy cutters, so, best to avoid.)

Back to the cell phone. Because, as I said, no matter whatever mostly-feigned front of irresponsibility I submit to the world, my phone just keeps ringing and dinging.

Not too long ago, I didn’t even have a “mobile device.” I remember driving with my daughter when she was four or five and singing to herself in the back seat. Suddenly, she wanted to call my sister. We can’t call her, I explained. We don’t have a phone in our car. We giggled at the silliness of it all.

Today, a mere eight years later, I am expected to have a phone in the car, in the backyard, or somehow lashed to my body with elaborate cords of near-desperate connectivity—at all times. This expectation is not self-imposed. It is served with relish by a society that has come alarmingly close to perfecting instantaneous thought transfer from one human brain to another via overpriced technology.

Mostly I go along with this expectation with good enough humor. Other times I feel dangerously close to losing my mind. A few weeks after “upgrading” to my current phone, I was still frustrated by its tangles of noise and confusion. Learning how to use it made me feel snared, motivated, and inadequate at the same time.

“I don’t love it,” I admitted one day.

To which my daughter simply replied, “You’re not supposed to love it. It’s a phone.”

Wisdom. There’s no app for that.

Recently, this same child performed in her first official cello recital. I figured I’d better turn off my cell phone before the music began. The problem was, I didn’t know how to turn off my cell phone. I knew how to silence the ringer. I knew how to switch the setting to “Do Not Disturb.” But I had not yet mastered the art of making the little green and black rectangle that carries my address book, my alarm clock, and my most recent family photos actually power down into complete darkness.

Am I the only one troubled by that?

And so, I seriously considered reprogramming the thing to its factory settings and dropping it into the nearest trash receptacle or potted plant.

But, you know, my calendar is on there now, so how would I … oh wait. Maybe this addiction is mine to claim after all.

When my child started playing her cello piece, I naturally forgot all about the buzzing and blipping that is supposed to streamline my life. It turns out I don’t want to streamline my life. I want to live it.

The cello was invented in the 17th century. (For the record: I looked that up in an encyclopedia. Made of paper and cardboard and ink.)

My daughter, born at the dawning of the 21st century, coaxed such lovely and compelling music from the strings of her life that day—had one single note been interrupted by a mobile device I would have calmly ground the glass and metal and whatever-else-is-in-those-things to powder beneath my heel.

The other cellists from the school likewise blessed us with the eternal. Mozart (1756-1791). Bach (1685-1750). Boccherini (1743-1805). Shostakovich (1906-1975).

I didn’t take a single photograph or video of the cellists as they released lifetimes—centuries, really—of dedication, passion, and creativity. I was transfixed. Enchanted. Present.

I can easily describe in words the interruptions of today’s technobabble—the chimes and the blips, the dings and the beeps. I cannot, however, adequately describe the resonance of a cello. I cannot describe the surprising (and delighted?) chirping of the baby chickadee who hopped in front of my window this week trying to discern the nature of raindrops. I cannot adequately write about the rhythmic flapping of my dog’s ears as she shakes off motion itself and eases into a deep, deep rest at my feet.

These are sounds that must be settled in to with intention. These are sounds worth powering down to experience.

Perhaps the most radical act of simplicity in this culture of ours is to simply be—without recording or sharing or interrupting the unfurling of the present.

As another school year is folded away, so is my daughter’s school-district-issued Chromebook. She, as of yet, possesses no cell phone, no video games, no Facebook or Instagram account. What she does have is a bicycle and a backyard. A library. A cello. Time for the flowering of imagination. These gifts are among my best for her. She uses them abundantly, and she uses them well.

Welcome Summer. I hope you are not the last of your kind.

welcome the flood


*the following essay appeared in the Argus Leader as part of A Simple Year


In 2011, an artist named Candy Chang created an outdoor exhibition with the words “Before I die I want to _______” stenciled again and again across an enormous chalkboard wall. Passersby were invited to fill in the blanks with their own aspirations.

“Before I die I want to … tell my father I love him.”

“Before I die I want to … write a book.”

“Before I die I want to … clean out my basement.”

Okay, no one really wrote that they wanted to clean out their basement, as far as I know. But, just a few weeks ago, if faced with such a wall, I would have clutched the chalk in my hand, grinding it to powder as that very thought floated in my head, crowding out anything significant or less ridiculous.

First of all, let me add here that my father knows that I love him, so telling him doesn’t need to go on a dying-wish sort of list. Plus, I’ve already written a book. (Published, no. Written, yes. It counts.) But for whatever psychological reasons I have yet to fully come to terms with, the condition of my basement had become shameful to me, and I desperately wanted to be free of that shame.

Try to understand, just a few short weeks ago, my basement housed every decision I had been unable to make, every extraneous purchase I had ever fallen into, every broken thing I had failed to fix, and every manuscript I had been too afraid to send to a publisher, for fear of a phenomenon I’ll call “monumental-rejection-and-artistic-humiliation.”

All that gunk lurking beneath the surface of an otherwise luminous life had begun to pull me under in ways I never expected. Worse yet, it was a problem I seemed unable to solve on my own.

Maybe you don’t believe in God. I do. And I believe God has a sense of humor.

He sent a flood. You know, one of those just-to-your-house kind of floods. And, since God can be pretty … um … specific … the flood arrived in my basement.

It happens like this: I walk downstairs to check my laundry and plunge into ankle-deep water. My washing machine is pumping, pumping, pumping with a maddening mechanical monotony. The floor drain stubbornly refuses to drink any more, seizing up and blocking the water’s exit.

As I dash to punch the button on the machine, stopping the madness, my daughter’s kindergarten photo drifts by in the wake of my sloshing.

(All right, I made that last part up. It only felt that dramatic.)

Everything in the basement had been stored haphazardly, and much of it on the floor. Worthless things. Priceless things. Things I had been looking for. Things I had forgotten I had been looking for.

And now, all of it was drowning.

I will spare you the details. Many who read this will have survived much worse, of course. I, in fact, have survived much worse. But still. It was a pretty crummy wakeup call.

The cleanup began immediately, first the soggy items, then the years of accumulated “other.” My husband worked by my side. My daughter worked by my side. My father drove over to lift and carry and advise, though he had no obligation to do so. (I mentioned loving my father and telling him so often, didn’t I?)

I cried. Once. For a good ten minutes, as I peeled a soaking, bleeding photograph from the inside of a cardboard box—one of those black and white photo-booth strips of me and my daughter hamming it up—I allowed myself to become thoroughly overwhelmed by the task ahead of me. I sat in my basement and wept while others walked by with dripping rugs slung over their shoulders.

When I decided to simplify my life, I imagined slowly sorting through a box or two every other Saturday, pulling some unread books off the shelf, erasing the black from a few calendar squares. I did not imagine a flood, not even for a moment. Nor did I imagine: Two pickup trucks full of garbage, six carloads of donate-able household goods, a bulging recycling bin, and weeks worth of mind-numbing, back-bending, increasingly solitary work.

As of today, I’m about halfway to my goal of a sparkling, spare, and organized basement.

Life has a way of getting your attention when you least expect it, but when you’re the most ready to actually handle it (even if you think you’re not). Problems, I have discovered, don’t tend to fly away on their own—you have to release them, no matter how painful that might be.

For me, every trip to donate perfectly-good items from my basement felt like a stabbing confession: Here are my extras, my castaways, my redundancies. I have bought and been given more than I can use, more than my share. There are people without, but I have drowned in abundance.

I am part of the problem. 

But then, on the way home, a new feeling—one of lightness, freedom, forgiveness. I am also part of the solution … the moment I choose to be.

Life is full, glorious, bustling. I was busy, so I stuffed the details into boxes and stacked them out of sight. There would always be time (later) to deal with the extra toys, the report cards, the outgrown clothing, I reasoned. I had more important things to do.

But life blossoms within those details, doesn’t it? Behold: The life insurance policies tucked into their protective plastic—a gift to our newborn child. The letters we wrote to one another, back when we wrote letters. The crayon drawing of a blonde mother and brown-haired girl holding hands, surrounded by a meadow of flowers and fairies. The hundreds of scraps of poetry—words strung together like miniature lights, twinkling with hope and gratitude.

It is slipping too far down the rainbow of hyperbole to say I have been honored to clean out my own basement—to hold in my hands, once again, my grandmother’s organ lesson notebook or the baby clothes that still (miraculously!) smell like baby?

I’ve been through the flood. I would be a fool not to bask in the rainbow.

the road to simplicity is paved with failure



*the following essay appeared in the Argus Leader as part of A Simple Year


What is the stuff that makes a life? How much is enough? How much is too much?

I began 2014 asking myself these questions. I wanted to live more simply. I wanted to live with less: Less clutter, yes, but with fewer expectations as well, fewer distractions, fewer anxieties and doubts.

I think I had the idea that cleaning out my closets would somehow clean out my schedule and my perpetually racing mind. Actually, a mere two months into the living simply challenge, I can’t quite remember what I was thinking when this all began.

I only know how often I have already failed.

It happened like this: One of my first “homework” tasks set forth as part of the online course “A Simple Year: 12 Months of Guided Simplicity” was to thoroughly clean out my car.

My car. In January. In South Dakota.

To be clear, I do not have an attached, heated garage. Around here, it goes without saying that if your car is a mess in, say, November, you probably won’t vacuum down to the last stray Cheerio until, say, May.

Furthermore, I do not have time to clean out my car. It also turns out that I do not have time to exercise, to take my dog to the vet, or to, ahem, pay my bills on time.

Kind of sounds like a problem, yes?

Enter Courtney Carver, author, teacher, and creator of the blog Be More With Less. Various writers/bloggers take turns leading “A Simple Year,” and Carver’s February message followed up January’s clutter lessons with a look at the snare of busyness.

Since I had already failed the January module because I was too overwhelmed, I was eager to hear what Carver had to say about how (and why) to release busyness from my life.

“When I was consumed with being busy, I would complain and simultaneously justify my busy life, because I thought that was the way my life would always be,” Carver writes. “I convinced everyone around me that I was happy being “crazy-busy” all the time and spent any downtime I had convincing myself.”

You can say that again, sister.

Carver says her wake-up call to perils of chronic busy was her punch-in-the-face diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis. Her words were compelling, so I immediately cut back my to-do list. It wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t particularly painful either. I resigned from a committee. I dropped one of my daughter’s after school activities. I said no to a few things when I would have normally said yes.

Then I had a really, really nice weekend where I folded laundry and read a book and basically patted myself on the back.

Guess what happened next? Fueled by rest and a sense of empowerment (or possibly self-righteousness), I tumbled immediately back into the busy trap.

Because March is … you know … March. I have things to do in March. Things I promised to do last month. Things I promised to do last year.  I quickly realized that if you want a clearer schedule in March, you have to start saying no to things in January, hold fast in February, and cling like grim death to empty calendar squares in March.

By March first, all my calendar squares had filled back up. I liked what was in those squares, mostly. But there I was again, staring my busyness addiction in the face. The moment I said no to one obligation, I said yes to two others, thereby effectively sabotaging my own quest for a simple life.

I don’t even like being busy, and I’m not particularly good at being busy, so I’m still not sure why I do this. I only know it’s time to make a change, and the only way to do that is to begin.

Following Carver’s instructions, I created a “slow space” in my bedroom. In my case, that meant tackling the inhabitants of a three-drawer nightstand. I emptied everything out. Sorted. Threw away. Relocated.

It was a small thing, for sure, but looking at a clear space beside my bed did allow me to breathe a little easier. My reading glasses are there. My journal. A pen. One book. That’s about it. The drawers hold things that are precious to me—a handful of letters, notes I wrote when my daughter was an infant,  a few pieces of jewelry.

That’s as far as I’ve gotten in decluttering my life. For now, this is enough. I allow it to be enough.

I have realized a few things about myself in this process already. First, I don’t like to face my clutter. I used winter as an excuse for a perpetually messy car, when “winter” is a fairly lame excuse, as excuses go.

Second, I learned that optimism is not always my friend. I say yes to things because I am, for the most part, smart and creative. Also I apparently expect myself to wake on any given day with superpowers, because then I will truly be able to do what needs to be done in my life. Why else would I schedule myself to be in three different places at the same time on a day that also happens to be my birthday?

Maybe I will be able to work it out, I tell myself. Maybe by then I will be more capable than I am today.

Or maybe I’m just afraid. Afraid that if I say no to a request now, the phone will stop ringing for good. Afraid that no matter how much I accomplish, my work in the world will never be enough. I will never be enough.

Yeah. This is going to take longer than I expected.

quest for a simple year


*this column originally appeared in the Argus Leader newspaper as part of A Simple Year


For me, it began in October, during a conversation with a friend.

“I’m not even going to think about Christmas until after Thanksgiving,” I confessed. “No shopping, no planning. Nothing.”

Blank stare.

“I mean it,” I said. “I’m just going to sit back and enjoy November. I’ll practice gratitude all month long.”

(Cue sound of crickets chirping.)

Finally, my beloved friend overcame her shock long enough to say, “You’ll never get away with it.”

What she meant was, if you don’t start at least making your list in November, you won’t have time to check it twice in December. The holiday season will exponentially expand into one enormous stress ball cascading down a hill-of-your-own-making, slick with good intentions.

“It’ll be all right,” I assured her. “I’m not buying presents for anyone this year anyway. Not even my nieces and nephews. And I’m not baking anything but Chex Mix. Things will be fine.”

She shook her head and turned away, muttering. I’m pretty sure she pitied me for at least five minutes before she went back to executing an elegant and memorable holiday season of delight for her family. She’s kind of awesome like that.

This is how naïve I am: I thought people would encourage my “simple holiday” inspiration. I suspected everyone needed a pause from the breakneck speed of November/December, and that lots of my friends would enjoy stepping off the merry-go-round with me. We’d stand off to the side, mugs of steaming hot cocoa in hand, and say, “Well, if this isn’t nice, then I don’t know what is.”

I was, as you might have surmised, mistaken.

The world rumbled along, as the world tends to do. People shopped. They called me for gift ideas. They texted me with gift ideas. They emailed photos of the gifts they had already bought for one another. They invited me shopping. Wouldn’t you rather hang out over some hot chocolate and watch the snow fall, I wondered?

No. They wouldn’t.

The first thing I learned about simplifying my life was that it’s none of my business if other people don’t want to simplify theirs. Nobody is going to cheer me along or affirm me. December blessed me with extra time for concerts and music and holiday lights. It was lovely. I drank plenty of hot chocolate, usually with my daughter, listening to the news of her day. Other times, I drank my hot chocolate alone.

All that time I spent not obsessing over Christmas gave me time to obsess about something else. My life is way more complicated than it needs to be. Too much time in the car, too many deadlines, too much debt, too many unanswered emails. I’m stressed. And I’m not okay with that.

So, if December can be simplified, why not January? Why not, say, 2014?

For that kind of endeavor, I would need help. I enrolled in A Simple Year: 12 Months of Guided Simplicity, an online course led by renowned writers, bloggers, and minimalists. I’ve been following select minimalist blogs lately, and some of what they encourage simply wouldn’t work in Sioux Falls, at least not in the Sioux Falls I know. One of the questions I hope to answer is: What does simplicity look like here, in this city we call home?

I hope you’ll join me. Each month, I’ll write about the simplicity challenges ahead and what I’m doing to adapt the advice of national simplicity experts into a Sioux Falls family lifestyle. You don’t have to sign up for a course, but you’re welcome to join me online.

In the meantime, there’s a thought that has been haunting me lately. The first challenge of the year deals with possessions, specifically with those possessions that have clouded the shine of life and become little more than clutter. Not long ago, someone asked me what I would do with my time if I had six months left on earth. (That’s right, I have those kind of perky friends.) Naturally, spending time with my family was top on my list.

Another thought kept rising to the surface, however—a thought I was deeply ashamed of. If I had six months to live, one of my top priorities would be … wait for it … to clean my house. I wouldn’t want anyone to have the burden of digging through these closets, poring over those notebooks and letters, deciding (through their grief) what to keep and what to release.

I wouldn’t want anyone discovering the presents stuffed into the back of my bedroom closet. I want to give those gifts while we can all still enjoy them. I wouldn’t want my beloveds to stand in the basement and weep because so much work lies before them. I would want them to remember the living we did together, not the (very tangible) mess I left behind.

The way I see it, if one of your dying wishes would be to sit at home and sort through your overblown collection of books and magazines, your life is not what it could be. I can do better. I deserve to do better.

You don’t have to step off the merry-go-round with me. But maybe you’d like to try—just for a rotation or two. I’m guessing the view has something wonderful and unexpected to offer.


our poets have no time for poetry

2014-04-02 09.58.33

Our Poets Have No Time for Poetry

by lori walsh


Our poets stand in their kitchens, hands,

wrists, elbows plunged deep into sudsy water,

hot as they can tolerate,

Red sauce loosening and lifting from

the plate, leaving a gleaming disk of white

But no pen. No paper.

White plate skipping to the countertop

White towel lapping up those unwritten words


Our poets work as bottled water salesmen,

hawkers of the clean and the clear,

Their names embroidered onto patches sewn into Carhart jackets

They blow their lunch breaks in the children’s section of

Barnes & Noble, shopping for their kids, passing the poetry section by

as the tintinnabulation of their cell phones wages its delicate battle

Their clipboards pinch carbon copy forms with deliciously blank spaces—

Client name. Delivery date. What will you do with your wild and precious life?


Our poets are children, breathing shallow and deliberate

under the weight of expectation

Binder, backpack, water bottle sloshing for maximum hydration

because school is an endurance sport

Topic sentences, Annotations, Double spacing, Conventions

and Voice, oh yes, don’t forget Voice

You have none. You should really work on that.

Their jeans are stained with ink, their skin, stained with ink because they still

have so much to say they cannot help



Our poets have no time for poetry

And we have no time for our poets


We stand apart, All of us,

Noticing nothing,

Save the fact that we are, All of us,


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