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Pete

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I entered the memory care residence, my bag of sheet music slung over my shoulder, ready to sing and play some piano for the residents. Right inside the entryway folks were gathered in the living room, some watching TV, some dozing in their chairs. I greeted everyone as I began turning the piano around to face them.  Just to my left, I noticed a disgruntled man with long blond hair sitting forward uncomfortably in an overstuffed recliner. He appeared to wince in pain. “Where are my meds?” he yelled gruffly to the staff across the room at the nurses station. “It’s 1:30!”  “It’s 1:25,” she yelled back. “You’ve got a few minutes to wait!”  I became uneasy as the shouting back and forth continued. Would I only upset this man further by bursting into song in his living room? I set aside my fears and cautiously turned on the digital piano, situated not two feet from where he sat.  When you're down and troubled And you need a helping hand And nothing, nothing is going right...
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homecoming

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It's been a long time coming, this process of coming home. I used to believe that "home" was a physical street address, a GPS coordinate. And yes, of course, it can be. But in this case, the GPS coordinates are at the center of my very own soul.  Coming home to myself has taken time. Patience. Grit. Years and years of consistent, attentive inner work. It's taken a willingness to leave behind the perceived safety of "right and wrong" and wander without a compass in the dark.  Brandi Carlile, in her song " Harder to Forgive " sings:  Yes, my life has seen some wasted time I have suffered for the peace inside my mind... Me too. Me too.  And yet, I have a sneaking suspicion that my current homecoming wouldn't be happening - at least not in the profoundly beautiful way it's now unfolding - without every single "wrong" turn, every time straying from the pack, every dark night of the soul.  And so, as poet and playwright Derek Walcott wr...
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Location: St Paul, MN, USA
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"feel like a kid again"

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I'm having SO MUCH FUN these days! I'm taking an online, self-paced collage camp through  the create everyday classroom . And for the first time in such a long time, I'm enjoying the process . The destination (the completed piece) is just the icing on the creative cake, so to speak. Today's warm-up started with circling words in a newspaper article. I literally just pulled an old newspaper from the recycling bin. The instruction was not to OVERTHINK it (which can be a challenge for me!) Just circle the words that pop off the page: (By the way, this was a really sweet story - you can read it  here ). Next, I jotted down the circled words on a fresh piece of paper, clipped them out, and rearranged them into this: Taking this collage camp is SUCH good medicine for me! Not only am I having "good clean fun" (!!), but I'm rediscovering and expressing my creative Self again. The "critic" takes a backseat when I'm present...
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"...the soul of a poet"

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My 11th grade Humanities teacher, Ms. Westerberg, was right: I have "the soul of a poet." She wrote those words on a report card and sent it home with my parents, who later shared the compliment with me. From time to time, over the years, I've recalled that phrase, never quite feeling it resonate as my truth. Until recently.  You see, back then, as a sensitive 11th grader in Trigonometry class - and someone for whom math triggered extreme anxiety - I struggled. I just didn't get  trigonometry. Nor did I really, in my heart of hearts, want to. But all of my friends were really smart and taking the class, so if I quit, I believed it would prove my theory that there was something innately wrong with me. This fear was only magnified when I worked up the courage to let my Trig teacher know I might want to drop the class. His words haunted me for years, "You'll never amount to anything without math or science."  And I believed him. Until recently. I ...
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Location: St Paul, MN, USA
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