has writing become a luxury?

I haven’t “updated” my blog substantially for more than year now. A new job and slightly revised life has turned my focus elsewhere, often for the best.

And yet.

There was a time when I called myself a writer, mostly because I could. When people ask these days (they rarely do, it’s a question that seems to have gone out of style) I tell them I’m a radio host and journalist. Sometimes, through the flow of conversation, I reveal I used to be a writer. And lately I’ve been troubled by what that mini-confession says about the condition of my soul.

“I used to be a writer” is a fairly straight-forward way to express my transition from writer-paycheck to public-broadcasting-paycheck. It’s not a transition I regret or plan to undo. I adore hosting “In the Moment” on SDPB Radio. I love the deep conversations. I love the rhythm of thoughtful pursuit of truth and connection. I love the moment when the headphones block out the rest of the world and it’s just me and a guest and the listener, unseen. Magic.

But I admit there are days when I feel I am slowly relinquishing one of the finest parts of myself — the part willing to spend a few blissful hours crafting a more beautiful sentence.

Before you remind me (and oh, how people love to remind me) I do write for work. Every day. But at work I write quickly, fervently even, in order to dodge the tumbling boulders of daily deadlines. Stand still and you are crushed. At work I become the writerly waterbug, skipping along the surface, never pausing long enough to descend into the cold abyss.

I’ve created some good work this way, and it’s taught me much about focus. But I find that no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, something is missing.

And then, earlier this week, I found myself puzzling over a decision. I received an email reminding me to update the annual payment for my blog before deactivation.

Update or delete?

Refocus or allow this online presence to fade into the Internet oblivion graveyard?

Write or wither?

As you may have surmised by now … I have decided to write.

(No, I’m not changing anything about my actual job. My “In the Moment” focus is stronger than ever. I’m just refocusing my personal time to include more writing.)

There are days I look at this blog and realize there isn’t much here. A few scattered thoughts on a life well lived. A middling online scrapbook. It could be so much more than it already is. It needs to be so much more than it already is.

Other days I discover, in previous posts, glimpses of the person I was sending messages to the person I am today. I am deeply grateful for her. Perhaps today I am writing for my future self. Perhaps I’m writing for you. Perhaps this correspondence is enough.

We don’t need our creative expectations to be set even higher than our professional expectations. Expectations are already too high. What we need — what I need, at least — is simply the time and the permission to slow down and enjoy the scratching of pen on paper, the swooshing of paint on canvas, the clicking of a camera shutter.

Permission granted, if only for a little while longer.


braiding, memory, and the landscape of a simple vacation


I took some time away.

On Friday, setting down the yoke of daily deadlines, I turned from work and toward my own vacation.

It was easier than I thought, this transition. I didn’t worry much about what would happen while away or what might be lurking in my email inbox when I returned. I slipped silently into the promise that whatever lessons awaken from this absence, I intend to receive with grace.

And now I stay home.

No travel. No adventures. No expectations.

Waiting for me is time. Time with my daughter as she prepares to shoulder the yoke of another school year. Time to sit outside and allow the trees to remind me who I am.

There are books to be read, notebooks and pens waiting to marry. There is grass I have decided to walk barefoot through rather than mow. Tasks unfold in their own time instead of wedging into an exhausted weeknight.

Robin Wall Kimmerer’s “Braiding Sweetgrass” comes alongside. Here is the first, luminous line:

“Hold out your hands and let me lay upon them a sheaf of freshly picked sweetgrass, loose and flowing, like newly washed hair.”

As I read the first chapter, my child, 16 years now, asks if I will brush and braid her dampened hair. She offers her locks to my palms and stands patiently before me as I twist shimmering strands into place.

In these hands I hold memories of hours of brushing and braiding. This girl has always sat without complaint as I brushed out the leaves and sticks and petals that inevitably traveled with her, clinging like offerings to the hair that tumbled to her waist.

I remind her that her hair is like spun chocolate. She reminds me that mine is spun gold. We laugh at this ritual of language that pairs with the physical ritual of braiding. She has brushed and braided my hair as well over the years, her designs growing more intricate and elaborate along with the imaginings of her remarkable mind.

I consider, for a moment, how her father enjoyed braiding her hair too — pulling firmly so the finished braid read like an accomplishment. The result mimicked a sailor’s rigging, perhaps. Or rope worthy of rappelling from a tower. He would show off his effort and declare “a nice, tight braid.”

It occurs to me that he never braided my hair, or brushed it, and I wonder if this was a harbinger of our eventual divorce. I consider briefly how his gaze was captured by other enchantments, laid upon the palm of his hand. Or perhaps it was that my hair defies tightness. It is perpetually loosening, slipping all bonds to become, again and again, undone, and therefore … unsatisfying.

These thoughts are probably unfair, and they pass quickly through my mind. Perhaps hair braiding rests firmly in the domain of women (or parents) at least in my cultural memory. No matter.

What matters is this:

I am still welcome at the ritual of braiding my child’s hair.

I can still become captivated by the first sentence of a book.

I can love my job and still drift unapologetically over a new landscape that unfurls itself before me. I slip the bonds of work and linger in this place called “time away.”

The view is lovely.

on brokenness and soup


On October 5th, I broke myself.

What happened was this: I went running.

Actually, I’d been running injury free since July, and things had been going well. Three miles turned into four, and the splits on the clock began to look promising. Everything seemed possible with my running shoes laced.

I felt good.

I felt so good that I started remembering my days of running across the state. I remembered long runs on the bike trails and how after I passed the “Happy Face Bridge”  (my father called it that) I always knew that six miles had fallen away and my brain could finally turn off.

I could relax and just be.

Maybe I could get back to those long runs, I told myself. Maybe I could do another half marathon — a goal for springtime even. Maybe I could run long and well enough to finally call myself a real runner.

An athlete.

Long ago I used to train with a lot of people faster than I. They’d say — not entirely unkindly — that it hurt their knees to run at my pace, so they’d sprint ahead and I’d push to keep them in sight. Frankly, this didn’t used to bother me, but all of a sudden it does and so this year I decided to push my pace. All at once I needed to eradicate the memory of girl outpaced, girl left behind.

I decided to run faster.

You can probably guess what happened next. My shin started to ache. I took a few days of rest paired with a few doses of Advil and then got back on track. It hurt again. I rested it again.

I ran again. It hurt again.

And then I got sick of it. I got sick of waiting and I repeated to myself what I have been told countless times over the years: Sometimes you just have to push through the pain, no matter the consequence.

Listen: They are wrong, the people who tell you such things. It turns out there are precious few times when you should push through physical pain. I once walked around with a ruptured appendix for three days before admitting I needed a doctor. This experience almost killed me, so I should know better by now.

Why does it take me so long to learn my lessons?

On Monday, I ran until I could no longer walk. On Tuesday, I limped into the doctor’s office. I hobbled out on crutches.

For an added dose of idiocy, I didn’t tell anyone I was so badly hurt because I was afraid my friends would show up at my doorstep clutching containers of autumn soup in their hands.

This secrecy makes no sense whatsoever because the good people of South Dakota make excellent soup, and why would anyone decline the opportunity to have such delicacies delivered to your door by people who care about both you and soup?


I am broken. Limping. Aching.



This beautiful fall week has been lived mostly in bed. When I drop my daughter off at school, at orchestra, at play rehearsal, I don’t get out of the car.

I wave and I smile. Waving and smiling is enough.

The world rushes by swiftly when you can’t walk, I have noticed. During this week of mandatory rest, I have also noticed that my dog can no longer leap off the bed particularly well. Sunset fades more quickly in the fall compared with the lingering of summer. It’s been a long time since I dusted the ceramic birds perched on my windowsill that once belonged to my gram.

I have been unfocused, it seems. Distracted. I wonder what else I have missed.


Most significantly, I noticed that my hiking shoes are beaten and worn and faded and repaired, but they held their own on the trails this summer … unfaltering. My running shoes, on the other hand, are obnoxiously bright and new-ish, but will need to be replaced in a few months all the same.


And so I made a decision.

I put the running shoes in the closet.

I set the hiking shoes by the front door.

My shin will heal. And when it does, however long it takes, I know what my feet need this season. I know what my soul needs this season.

In the meantime, I probably ought to figure out how to make soup.

in the company of bees

First, this …

My father used to say you could tell when summer was ending because the bees were out looking for new homes.

Then, this …

A friend texted this morning to remind me:  Today is the final day of summer. Enjoy it.

And so, this …

I take my work outside and flop onto a blanket under the trees. I wish my dad was sitting beside me. I wish my friend was sitting beside me.

Instead, I find myself in the company of bees.


We are never truly alone, are we? I lie here in the grass, sun warming the soles of my feet, because someone who cares about me turned my gaze to the gentle passage of another season. I lie here in the grass, a handful of leisurely bees hovering about (and I, hoping they find what they’re looking for) because someone who cares about me taught me how to be in the world.

They are both with me now. My father. My friend. More so because I have scribbled their names into my notebook. I close my eyes and my blanket overflows with beautiful company.


This morning I took a walk with my dog. Her paw is infected, I’m nursing a shin splint. We explored slowly, gingerly.

The neighborhood was wrapped in fog … a parcel bundled in damp gray paper. I half expected to stumble upon a white loop of string binding us all together. Yet each time I glanced at my dog, fur graying, limping slightly, she appeared as if inside a bubble of clarity — no fog pressing upon her at all.

She stops for every smell — this dog who knows her purpose — every taste, every texture. She turns to look at me, check up on me, smell me, as if to say, “Are you still here? Are you still yourself? Are we still on this journey together?”


This is what we do for those we love.

We walk with them. We share their stories and their sunsets and we hold their hands on the last day of summer. We love their gray hair and worn away hairs,  their slightly battered bodies, their lines and their scars.

We close our eyes and hope they are capable of knowing us this much in return —  that this unconditionality will somehow continue to make us real.

It’s been almost a year since I had to say goodbye to my father. I haven’t seen my friend in more than two decades. My dog is graying, yet I have not yet begun to gray. Sometimes I swear she notices this injustice, notices this inconsistent aging process between human and canine and it bothers her as much as it bothers me.

And so it goes.


At my dad’s funeral, one of his friends told me: “How you feel about your dad  — the way you looked up to him, the man you knew he was — that’s how your own child feels about you.”

I replied, simply, “I find that hard to believe.”

I am not my father. I am not that resilient, that indomitable. In some ways, however, his friend was right (of course).

And so I am left to wonder. Will my own child remember, long after she is grown and living on her own terms, to sink into a blanket in the grass with a journal and an afternoon stretched before her?

Will this girl, born on the vernal equinox, remember to pause and see, really see, the nuanced changing of a Dakota season?

Will she close her eyes and wonder, “Are you still with me?”

“Are we still on this journey together?”



for love of january

january sunset

photo by Jeffrey Paul


My friends think I’m crazy for loving January.

In fairness, my fondness for the month didn’t start until I lived, for a time, in California. It was the rising of a new year and I suddenly found myself staring into the Pacific, longing for a cold slap of Dakota air to keep things around me a little more honest, a little more real.

Then, after four gorgeously redundant Januaries in Hawaii, I finally knew it was time to turn homeward. I needed to live where Mother Nature lets her hair down and gives it a gentle shake now and then.

So here I am. January in South Dakota.

Sometimes, it gets so cold around here the citizens throw their hands in the air and decide to just stay home for the day. School is cancelled. Businesses close. And there it is—the curving of a perfectly fine morning and you find yourself holding a book and a blanket with no particular place to go.

Hello, couch. It’s been a while.

Of course one must, more often than not, march boldly into that glaring whiteness, wisps of danger curling beneath your tires as you squint at the road and accept, if not exactly welcome, the aching chill that haunts your bones the rest of the day.

We pat each other on the back for this, this surviving. No one pats you on the back for enduring January in Hawaii. What would be the point?

These are the mornings we appreciate our cars, our furnaces, the sturdy men and women in Carhartt overalls who repair our cars and our furnaces. These are the days we utter clumsy prayers and mantras and benedictions for the things we normally take for granted.

Bring her home safely. 

Please start, please start, please start. 

Stay warm. Be safe. 

Reality is heightened in January. The air bites and stings and reminds you of the delicacy, the fragility, of human skin. And yet, January, perhaps, is the simplest month of twelve. For one frozen moment, we neither over-plan nor over-schedule, if only because we are stunned and humbled into accepting our own limitations.

Instead, we adapt. We overcome. We check on our neighbors, jumpstart the cars of strangers, pass out extra mittens.

In January, it is enough to survive.

And, of course, we have now also entered the new year—the season for dreamers. Everything is seen afresh—how to eat, how to breathe, how to make the closets airy and sparkling by Easter.

In January we leap from the ledge of optimism, gracefully kneading a smidgen more sunshine out of each day. For we are the people of the warm socks, who stand in knee-deep snow in order to spill birdseed into our backyard feeders. We are January people, loosening our white-knuckle-grip on destiny for the momentary pleasure of imagining a life lived free and light and clean.

Perhaps one can never convince those who hate winter to appreciate how the sunset looks different—sacred, glasslike—at 30 degrees below zero. That’s all right.

A simple life isn’t one where you scream at the world to change its mind.

In January, the only mind worth changing is your own.

a simple grief

2014-11-25 17.32.00

It is two thirty in the morning and I find myself suddenly and irreversibly awake, accompanied by the aching dread of realization: Tomorrow will be exhausting if I don’t somehow fall back asleep.

Yet something feels wrong. For reasons unknown, my mind is obsessing over the fact that my refrigerator seems to be perpetually running out of milk. I buy the milk, really I do, but moments later it vanishes, leaving me with the uncomfortable inkling that perhaps I left a cold gallon in the shopping cart, or on the roof of the car.

Who is drinking all this milk, I ask the night. Is there a platoon of kittens stationed in the fridge, waiting for the door to close so they can lap up their rations?

No. This is just me, losing track of the days again, waking up on Monday and blinking to find it is already Friday night, blinking again and discovering another Monday morning.

And now we enter Advent, the season of waiting. I have cleared the kitchen table to make room for the Advent Calendar, dusting and discarding what is no longer needed in exchange for the hope of a new season.

I started the year with a longing to simplify, and believing, naively, that simplifying meant getting rid of clutter. I immediately fell short of my goals, was slammed with a flooded basement, and was rescued from the disaster, in part, by my father.

Not what I had planned.

Then my dad became ill, more so than any of us fully realized. He died in early November.

Not what anyone had planned.

One of the most difficult (and blessed) moments of grieving has been standing face-to-face with others who have, at some point, lost their own fathers as they reach out to me. I look them in the eye and see suffering reflected.

This doesn’t ever go away, their eyes reveal. The sorrow. The joy. The crushing humility. All are here to stay. Welcome them. Shake their hands.

My friends have showered me with gifts. Hugs. Vegetarian chili. Letters and cards. Memorials to my dad. All useful. All deeply appreciated. In a crisis, everyone seems to know exactly what to do, even if they didn’t believe that to be true when they got out of bed that morning. In a crisis, minutes unfold in sacred order. The patience, the kindness, the ability to mourn—all arise without summon and blanket me.

When you are wandering through a shadow season such as this, you realize how few disasters there really are in modern, American life. Most of our perceived suffering is unnecessary and absurd in comparison.

It doesn’t matter if I run out of milk or have yet to adequately cull my collection of books. Extra weight. Debt. All are laughable distractions compared to the twisting ribbon of life now unspooling before me.

In January, I will carry on. But now, it is December. I will listen to music. I will drape the hooks through the ornaments as my father did when I was small. Now, when I awake in the middle of the night, I will accept the invitation of darkness and curl up next to the Christmas tree, bathed by the moon and by the holy twinkling of lights.

One of my dad’s friends told me this: “The way you watched your father … that’s the way your own kids see you.”

If he speaks true, then my own child sees me thus: Larger. Than. Life.

So I have cleared the table for her Advent calendar and pared my schedule in December down to a few essentials. Minimal entertainment. Minimal shopping. Minimal baking. There will, however, be hot chocolate. There will be stories of Christmas past and present. There will be snuggling.

I will not lose track of the days, for the days are never so careless as to lose track of me.

I began the year wanting to live simply. I enter December knowing it is enough to simply live.

a day without planes


It’s been almost a year since I first decided to forgo holiday shopping in order to begin simplifying my life. Now, the heady sweetness of November once again alights upon the upturned faces of the city. Have I abandoned the quest to launch my Christmas shopping yet?

Um … no. Looks like this simplicity thing is going to stick.

It’s not that I’ve “arrived,” not by any means. If you showed up at my door, you’d find a dog whose collar I removed for a good neck scratch (a week ago) and still can’t find. (I can’t find the collar. The dog, thankfully, possesses the amiable quality of always finding me.)

My plan for this evening is to remove some books from a shelf, dust, sort, reduce as many titles as palatable, and line the shelf with books that are more beloved. The beloved books, alas, are mostly in piles on my living room floor. And, in spite of good intentions, I recently found myself wondering, “How did October become so busy?” because I had, once again, over-scheduled myself.

For me, simplicity is still a process. Last week, standing upon the glossy floors of Target, I got a little further insight into why.

I only needed one thing at Target, maybe two. Household basics. And yet there I was trying on fall jackets. I don’t need a fall jacket. I already have one. So I walked away, because, you know, I’m all about self-discipline. (You know by now that’s a joke, right?)

I wandered the aisles, going over my mental list (of two items, you’ll remember) because if there is one thing I loathe it’s going to the store and having to go back again the same day to retrieve some forgotten necessity, which by the way, happens to me pretty consistently. I am the kind of person who buys the cereal and forgets to bring home the milk.

A year of simplifying has brought unexpected benefits, namely paying down a certain amount of credit card debt. All at once I realized that I had a card in my pocket with a zero balance. New fall jacket? Possible. A present for my daughter? She deserves it.

My unexpected good fortune rushed over me and, frankly, threatened to pull me under. It was smartly followed by my old friend—fear.

What if my current jacket rips and I need a new one and then I can’t find one I like? What if December arrives and I’m out of money? Hadn’t I better stock up on gifts, just in case?

Justification, slipping towards fear, cascading into panic. Soon I was wondering where the money would come from if I lost my job, the car breaks down, our decades-old furnace refuses to stumble through another winter. And, sure enough, I began feeling like I had better buy anything I (might) need right now, before it’s too late.

I don’t mind telling you, deep breathing and a sanity check were both required.

When did I start believing that there would never be enough—enough work to sustain a family, enough time to sustain relationships, enough activity to contribute to a community? When did I start believing that everything was so fragile and could somehow be made less so by squirreling away supplies, tangible and otherwise? When did I start thinking that saying yes to every request would somehow increase my value as a human being?

I’m not sure, honestly. By way of extended metaphor, however, I’d like to offer the morning of September 11, 2001. I was home with my daughter, just an infant then, with not even one year of knowing each other tucked away. I plopped her on a blanket, turned her away from the television, pushed the mute button and wept as the second tower crumbled into dust and ashes and bones.

I was alone. And, like everyone else in America, I didn’t know what was going to happen next.

But there was this child of mine, perched upon the floor, turning over the pages of a board book, oblivious to the vastness of the world into which she had been born, except for a few touchtones. Her book. Her blanket. Me.

I turned off the television and took her outside. We walked and walked; I’m not sure how long we were gone. I kept watching the sky and whispering to myself “no planes, no planes” as a reminder that my family, my city, was not under attack. Something bad was happening. But it wasn’t happening here. It wasn’t happening to me.

I could keep walking. I didn’t have to run.

Sometimes there seems to be such a heaviness of tragedy and threat in the world, we all stand moments away from toppling into panic. Panic can manifest itself in some rather silly ways. Shopping. Yelling. Obsessing. Refusing to help those in need in order to protect our own sense of security and order.

This year, more than any other, I have learned the things you think make sense don’t always stay that way. People who spend a lifetime taking care of their health tumble into disease. Relationships you thought would sustain vanish like vapor. Work becomes a twisted game of corporate Candy Land, with some colleagues swooshing up to the castle, while others swish off the board at the flip of a card.

Deep breath. Sanity check.

Today, I turn again to picking the books off of my living room floor. Why? Because it is the task in front of me, and because I can do it with love. I hug my child. Stir the soup in the pot on the stove. Call someone I love. Say thank you.

Today, I do one thing at a time. Without fear for what comes tomorrow. With only the blessing of today to sustain. It is enough.

The leaves are falling, and they are beautiful. The weather is inviting, as long as you have a good fall jacket, which I happen to have.

One is all I need.

the things we are doing take time

2014-06-09 10.48.26

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

2014-07-11 17.52.48


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.

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