morning pages, unedited


photo taken by Nancy Lennon

I pray you desire temples of peace and benevolent tsunamis of love and that you realize your size in relation to this one universal declaration:  I desire.  You are the fullness, and the space, the core, and the more, ever expanding desire.  Danielle LaPorte, The Desire Map

I want a day of treasure hunting.  Fish tacos with my love in the middle of the afternoon.  I want to be fully present with my kids.  I want more family vacations to the beach.  I want to take up dancing again.  I want to savor moments.  I want belly laughs.  Hot coffee in the morning and fires late into the night.  I want my Airstream adorned in whites and grays and blues.  I want brunch and visioning with brave hearts.  I want to write more.  I want to dive into my favorite books again.  I want to set my life on fire.  I want to tell more stories—and hear more.  I want to sit at my sister’s kitchen table.  I want parties in the backyard with home brews and barbecue.  I want to find my color story.  I want to move fast and easy.  I want to sing soul songs late into the night again.  I want a nest egg.  I want a rhythm for my days.  I want a soul practice.  I want to find my people. I want a massage.  I want to live and work and mother from my heart.  I want to come into my own. 




Go gently home.

In the dark and under stars, step over the threshold.

Paint the picture of safe in the gray.

Tangle legs under soft blankets.IMG_2335

Sip slowing.

Bathe with songstress singing.

Dance naked in the mirror.

Place balm to heart and solar plexus.

IMG_2301Adorn arms with bangles and arrows.

Stroke the curl of her new hair.

Listen wide open to his words.

Commune over chocolate.

Gaze softly.

Pull a card to guide your spirit.

Write to remember.

Breathe in again the violet and frankincense and vetimer.

Send your prayers back to mama ocean. IMG_2437

Look for feathers.

Feel the love that spreads across our brave hearts.

Hallelujah!  These are days.


Go gently.

this life now


Let me remember the tiny moments.

The moment her hand rubs gently across my cheek.  And the press of her feet on my thigh.

The sound of her cackle of a laugh.

His ask of me to rub his back.

His voice as he reads aloud to me before the lights are turned out.

Let me remember the way her round hands look cupped around her glass.  And her naked journaling under covers after bath.

Their dancing in the kitchen as I unload the dishwasher.

And their tricycle races around the table as we sip wine after supper.

Let me remember his “hey Mom…” and the soft padding of her feet against the wood floor.

Let me always remember that I chose this life.