I recently read Brandi Carlile’s scrappy and gorgeous memoir Broken Horses. But as I slid it onto the bookshelf, I couldn’t help but grumble, “You little shit.”
Whenever I sit down to write, I often overthink how to start. And when that perfect first line doesn’t come, I hesitate and second-guess myself, the resistance builds, and I get up from my desk to make a sandwich. Author Natalie Goldberg offers gentle advice to keep writers in the chair.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” asks poet Mary Oliver. When our kids leave home, it’s not just them flying from the nest, testing their wings. As parents, we’re fledging in our own way, too.
If you’ve ever walked deep into a cornfield when the stalks are taller than your head, it’s easy to feel claustrophobic and panicky, lost and alone in a sea of dark green. Overwhelmed by the writing task at hand, I turn to Grandma Jensen’s old saying and find my way.
He cleared his throat and then declared with great ceremony, “I have a trail name for you, that is, if you wish to accept it.” This post is about earning my trail name, and finding meaning and friendship in the smallest of moments.
It was the last Sunday in July, and I had already hiked more than 350 miles on the 500-mile Colorado Trail. In a matter of hours, I went from sipping tea at sunrise to feeling like I might die alone, face down in the mud, on top of a remote mesa.
How do we tap into our creativity, our wisdom, our capacity for wonder, our well-being and our ability to connect with what we really value? Solvitur ambulando.
