A life lived in poetry is 10:08 pm on Monday night with my journal and pen and a restless, racing mind over tired shoulders that carry the weight of baggage I can’t seem to release. A life lived in poetry is the alchemy of this, the transformation of dying into living, of rumination into red

Monday Morning

Monday morning at 7:03 am. A layer of gray is settling across the heavy closed sky and threatening Monday rain. The water creeps into my cold bones that yearn only for the warmth of sun. A pause now to touch paper, hold this pen, see what grows from the heart. Before long, night will arrive,

Waiting For Perfect

I am just sitting down in the early hours of Saturday morning with a cup of coffee and my journal.  My plan is to meditate for a few quiet moments, read a few pages of inspiration, do some morning free writing, and then get outside for some fresh air and a run. What is that


Dear friends, I am sitting down in front of my laptop at 9:30 pm on Tuesday evening, writing you to say hello and let you know that I am thinking of each and every one of you.  Today was a day full of seeing patients, and I walk away from the office, inspired by the


Anyways, breathe. Breathe. Pausing here, as I write the words, to feel the oxygen filling me as if for the first time. Noticing. This is life. The day to day, hour to hour, minute to minute. The waves of exasperation and irritation, and yes, shame and guilt and uncertainty too, dancing amongst the touches of