Ode to the mat

“There is no joy without gratitude.”
~Brené Brown

I’m not sure whose praises to sing first. My own for getting up early to drive Casey to work so that I could squeeze in a morning class in this very full day. My teacher for his faithfulness to the practice over a lifetime and the deep well from which he leads with humility and humor and grace. The ancient practitioners who created this union, this yoking–of body/mind/spirit–that we call yoga. This miracle of a body inside which an unfathomable web of communication happens on my behalf–with each breath, each movement, each prayer & intention. The bodies of the women in front of me in class, ten, twenty years my senior, shapely and supple, returning to the mat after each loss and surgery and every weekend indulgence. The blooming of the first tulips which I overlooked on my way into the studio.

(Shout out to Scott Willis at Hits The Spot Yoga at Solar Hill.)

Early-spring 2019

Note: Although this was my very first blog, I rarely post here unless a piece of writing can’t find a home in one of these blog “offspring” where I attend, like one might to children, more frequently…

This Vermont Life

The Marriage Journey 

The Empty(ing) Nest Diary 

Two Owls Calling 

Pied Beauty

Kelly and Lila

The Yoga of Lila

Writing through the Chakras

The Motherless Muse


Jesus, Mary & Joseph

I don’t know what to say about mothers & children. But to say nothing seems compliant or do I mean, complicit?

Mothers and children.

Mary and Jesus come to mind.
‘Tis the season.

I spent some of the holiday week among loved ones who voted for the current occupant of the White House. They dislike him too. They are appalled too. They hoped for the best but feared the worst when they voted along their party line. “We knew who he was,” they said. (We all knew who he was.)

Neither of us is affected by his antics, not directly; but plenty are and we don’t have to go as far as the border.

Others double down on seemingly rational explanations for each atrocity refusing to see that the Emperor isn’t (and never has been) wearing clothes. “There are hungry children here,” they say. “We need Saudi oil. Guns protect us. Trees & leaves are dangerous. Romaine lettuce too. Hillary. Hillary.”

For them, democracy has become a trophy sport and winning is what matters no matter that there is nothing here to win but heartbreak and hell and highwaters.

Jesus loves the little children.
We hold these Truths to be self-evident.
I have a dream.

Do you?

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