Welcome to My Reflective Practice
For as long as I can remember, I’ve turned to writing as a way to make sense of both the ordinary and the extraordinary moments of life. These pages hold years of letters, poems, and candid reflections; pieces of me working through love, loss, change, and possibility.
I invite you to explore, wander, and search for the words that resonate. May you find something here that meets you right where you are.
The Waves
She rounds the corner of the large property, fanning her teary face with both hands. She locks eyes with me, comes over and says, “it comes in waves, you know?”
I put my hands to her tear-streaked face, and say, “I know.”
Sweet Sister, let’s talk about these waves:
There will be moments of calm, but the waves will always resurface.
Some will knock you down with hurricane force, drop you to your knees holding the dinner that you’ve burned, a forever failure. They can derail plans, threaten relationships, and leave you in bed, suffering from the dreaded grief headache. You will curse these waves.
But others will come and roll over your skin. Softly, they will come, gentle, a breeze, carried by a familiar scent, a butterfly that lands on your finger, a song on the radio, a dime on the pavement, the feeling that you are not alone when, scientifically, you are. These waves bring an unexplainable comfort with them.
You may feel the need to apologize for the tears that accompany these waves, but Sweet Sister, learn to embrace them, as I have – the hurricane and the breeze.
Death is final but love will always be carried on in the waves.
Like a pebble dropped into water, disappearing from sight, it’s the ripple we watch, mesmerized. Grieve the loss of the pebble, yes, but learn to love the ripple left behind.
Embrace the waves as they wash over you: curse them, cherish them, but never, ever apologize for them.
I love you.
All The Big Stuff
I wrote, a while ago, actually, on my last trip to Vancouver, about the stark difference between two different doors in my life. Twice that I stood, consciously and deliberately and opened a door.
The first door allowed a flood of love into my life.
The second, a world of hurt.
Both helped me to grow.
Let’s talk about the first door, shall we?
At 19, I sat, across the country, on my tiny bed in my dorm room. My mom, had just hugged me, left, closing the door behind her. We had spent the day setting up this tiny room together. I was ready for her to go but not quite sure what it would look like when she did.
After a few moments, I took a deep breath, stood, and opened the door. I opened it just enough that should someone walk by, they might be able to peek in, allowing me to smile. This was my plan, to just simply smile. Sure enough, as other students walked by, they smiled, nodded, and finally someone poked a head in and told me about a pop-up coffeehouse on the green that night. I was asked if I wanted to join. I pushed down the jet-lagged, homesick feeling, and said “yes.”
That night, sitting on a blanket on the green, drinking coffee and watching the acoustic talents of so many of my peers, I felt at home.
I found my people, my girls, my tribe.
These girls, I hang onto today.
These girls, the ones who have been with me through it all.
These girls, the ones with whom distance means nothing.
These girls, the ones who made an unofficial pack to be there for all the big stuff with me.
So, here I sit, in an airport, en-route to the city that feels like home for me. I’m here for it. I’m here for more “big stuff.”
Gimme it all - all the milestone birthday surprise. Baby snuggles. Coffee. Patios. Shopping. Laughing till my belly hurts. Gimme all the pure friendship, all the authenticity. My soul craves “all the big stuff.”
I’m here for it - “all the big stuff.”
My Muse
It’s a beautiful existence, jumping in with both feet.
Before you departed, you asked if I would write for you, making you my muse for a moment. I said of course I would, such a task is easy. You are a wonderful muse.
Writing you is as easy as writing me. In you, I see pieces of myself as well as her.
You’re:
Silly
Wild
Free, and
Spontaneous
Those characteristics, combined, creates a soul who jumps, feet together, into puddles, and into life. Two feet, failure is not an option, only a lesson.
I see you, as I remember myself, as I watched her do it. Tiny red rainboots, muddy dress, skinned knees, tangled hair from the warm wind and summer rain, running towards the end of the driveway where the depression from the tires have allowed the rainwater to collect. Into this puddle we jump, red boots together, creating the biggest splash a 4 year old can muster. Soaking, we turn our face to the rain and laugh from the depths of our belly. We are alive in everything that we do.
It’s a beautiful existence, jumping in with both feet.
But sometimes you’ll feel failure. You might not stick the landing, as a result, the fall hurts that much more. This reality, however, doesn’t change your form, it’s the same every time and in every avenue – two feet, tightly together…and jump.
Every landing that you stick is that much more fantastic in nature. For you, there is no score of 5/10. Those of us who jump like this are awarded no part marks for effort. We stick the landing or we fall flat on our face.
Both are landings, both add value: When executed perfectly, the high is outrageous and infectious. But when we fail, well, our face is in the puddle and everyone seems to be watching for the splash.
There exists no one-woman show.
“If I could, I’d like just a minute longer with you. A minute longer to sit on that couch, to play this out, to understand why your laugh, your eyes, and the way you placed your hand on my arm have me spinning. The night is ending, but I’m still trying to figure out why I need more time with you.”
It’s a beautiful existence, jumping in with both feet.
Perhaps I didn’t need the book as much as I needed to remember who my people are.
Tackle the hard stuff
Move through it all with kindness
Sadness and kindness
It’s possible to be both sad and kind
To lament on the way it was
While rejoicing in all that remains
I had no idea why I was in there. I just knew that it felt safe. Smaller. Or maybe it was because I felt larger.
The green sea glass is my favourite, and, even though it’s simply the remnants of Heineken bottle, we act like it’s a rare jewel, because you never know.
You scan the faces waiting for you; family, friends, and lovers all gone long before. You tell them to wait, finding the smallest one, wrapping your warm arms around her and ushering her back through to me.
Number lines are stupid and cross-multiplication is bomb. Keep that knowledge to yourself and in September do it whatever way your teacher asks for you to do it.
I don’t know who it was for, the display of anger, because it was never put on for others. I guess, in effect, It was just for me. Look at this, look at how broken you are. Fucking clean it up.
Each year my children’s’ eyes become wider and more skilled at interpretation, for every year that I age, they do too.
Sometimes there is value in letting you vent, feel powerful, and moving forward. You’re fucking welcome.
That echo can forever live in the darkness; some messages were never intended to be received, the delay too great.
In that exhale, the feeling of defeat escaped with it - a breathy fuuuuuuuck of sorts.
These pieces, I tear off willingly, proudly, defining myself by the beauty of my imperfect and exhausted soul.
A long time ago, we would meet halfway, feet on the earth, shoes in hand, and walk together.
It’s been a minute.
Too many options can create confusion, the freezer is simply a microcosm of our larger society in all of its excess and waste.
I needed to fill some time as I watched the ambulance’s GPS tick, tick, tick along my computer screen, towards her residence.
But a little man? Where would I place my focus? How could I guarantee to bring out the good man that lies inside of this tiny human?