We crossed over 72nd street and the ghosts of decades past enveloped me. Pressing in on my chest, constricting my breath, landing squarely on my shoulders and forcing me to slow down all while my senses sped up. My ears rang.

I wanted to sit down, to vomit, to run away. To get the hell out of there. Wherever there was.

The most maddening part of the whole experience is that I still have no idea where those ghosts came from.

Wisps of memories drifted in and out of my consciousness. Levain Bakery. The little blue dot on the Apple map in the wrong part of town. Central Park. But they remained wisps. Nothing solid I could put my finger on as to why I was so triggered.

I felt like a deer in the headlights- too much coming at me too fast. I felt gaunt, wrung out, also wired.

Hunted. Haunted.

Those are the two things that remained days later. After my breath regulated. After my chest no longer constricted. After I slept. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’m being stalked by memories that don’t even make sense.

That’s what’s so maddening. These are not unfamiliar ghosts-they’re ghosts I’ve dealt with through the years. Yet they came rushing in with no warning and no tool in my toolkit was equipped to banish them.

I still don’t know how to square it. I don’t want to believe I can never go back to New York, yet if there are ghosts around seemingly benign corners, and I don’t know if I can.

It’s too much.

It’s like getting a new car and then every car you see on the highway is the same as yours. Once I confirmed what I thought I remembered, the word was everywhere- on every corner store, hotel, and park sign- Chelsea. Might as well have been a red-light district for the way each version of it magnified in my mind and beat on edge of my consciousness.

Again, the urge to run was overwhelming. I wanted a nose twinkle or a magic umbrella to rapidly release me from the immediacy of the pain. To get the hell out of there. To be literally anywhere else than surrounded by a word that brought my deepest pain to the shallows.

There was no getting out. Just wading through-looking over my shoulder to see if the ghosts have followed me home. Waking up with a jolt of anxiety that I am still being hunted. Haunted. Wondering if I’ll ever truly feel safe.

There is a certain certainty that lies in never leaving one’s hometown. You are known. And for better or worse lipstick will be worn to the grocery store because heaven forbid the former homecoming queen sees your bare lips at the Publix.

In some regards I think that life would have worked out just fine. To not know any other way makes it hard to determine if that life would’ve felt small and stagnant to me. More than likely it would’ve felt safe. A closed loop of friends and family I’d known my whole life. There is comfort in that drumbeat of sameness.

But that sister life sailed away on a ghost ship almost twenty years ago. From that moment in October of 2007 and in countless moments since, my life expanded in ways I never thought to consider when I was young and gripped the certitude of that other life with both hands. And while this life hasn’t all been rainbows and butterflies, I find myself increasingly grateful that this is the actual life I have.

This life has asked a lot me. It is bigger, broader, and more global in ways that both delight and terrify. It has asked me to be confident when it was easier to be timid. It has asked to build community in foreign lands. It has asked me to be far more adventurous than I care to be most days. Also, I really can’t imagine it any other way.

The more I gaze upon this gem of a life I actually have, the more its multifaceted planes reflect back to me the brilliance, the fire, and the color that have made this life one worth living.

I don’t always see this life’s shine, but I am grateful that ghost ship left the harbor without me aboard

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1

“’But I don’t want to go among mad people,’ Alice remarked. ‘Oh, you can’t help that,’ said the Cat: ‘we’re all mad here. I’m mad. You’re mad.’ ~Alice in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll

It’s a funny thing to see the word mad and not associate it with the word insane until reading it in the context of Alice in Wonderland. In that technicolor haze the word mad seems completely appropriate for tea parties, Cheshire Cats, and the dreams of someone who has gone down a rabbit hole.

But here in the real world I associate mad with anger. Something that burns, scalds, slices through serenity like a hot knife. Yet, reading the words of the Cheshire Cat made me pause, because perhaps anger and insanity are more closely synonymous than I originally imagined.

When I’m angry my body feels like it is an electric fence, turned on high. Energy radiates from me in such a visceral way I can almost see the waves. My heart races and I have trouble finding clarity of thought and word. I am mad.

My body and mind disassociate from one another- my body reacting to whatever inputs are happening real time yet my mind stuck in a fog of past hurts or future anxieties. Nothing is clear. Everything is topsy-turvy.

In an instant I can be the Queen of Hearts screaming, “Off with their heads,” my own rage overtaking any rational thought. Or the White Rabbit frantically running in circles wringing her hands for a solution that involves more time and an authority figure to set things right. Or Tweedledee and Tweedledum parroting words and phrases I’ve heard others use in anger-my tone and tenor so indistinguishable from theirs that I hardly recognize myself.

Mad. Insane. The two more closely aligning the more I dig in.

Sometimes, though, I am Alice. Watching the world go mad while seeking logic and politeness. Curiouser and curiouser about the well-being of my fellow humans. Not allowing the shards of anger to pierce me, instead questioning what that anger is really all about.

Those days, the Alice days, my body is not electrified. It’s still and quiet. I am not in a haze. Thoughts and words crystalize instead of being superseded by the mist. I am at peace.

Taking time to reflect on those stark contrasts of my own internal cast of characters leave me wondering, “Who in the world am I? Ah, that’s the great puzzle!” And knowing that it’s ok to care for myself enough to find out.

The white space is overwhelming in its blankness. Twelve hours ago, these shelves stood full-awash with a rainbow of color. Now, a few hints of color from each shelf but mostly blank space beckoning to be filled.

Yet I know not to lean into the ache of immediate refilling. Refilling is the knee jerk reaction, the safety net of comfortable things. This space is not meant to be comfortable today, for it is new and this new is worthy of the time it takes to grow.

I’ve spent decades buying books that promised me change- a change of heart, a change of thought, a change of pattern. Accumulating them was akin to reading them, simply knowing they filled my shelves was a promise of better days to come-that one day, when the time was right- I would pick up the book perfectly curated for this moment-the moment of change.

I’ve spent decades packing those books into moving boxes labeled in chicken-scratched Sharpie and unloading them back onto the bookshelves in whatever new space held their shelves. Wiping their dust jackets as I placed them in their new home, was all the reassurance I needed that one day, the buy-one-get-one free deal on Amazon that landed them at my house was all going to be worth it. One day, I was going to be ready for all the change I was promised by the author and author’s friends’ endorsements. These books were life changing, I was promised.

And, as I stared at my naked shelves, piles of books toppling at my feet, I knew I’d never be ready for what those books promised. The change had to come from within me.

Ironically, it is a book that brought me to this place-this sweeping out of things that no longer serve me. I finished it at 2332 last night. A number that represents self-reflection, inner wisdom, and leadership, if you’re into that.

The book held the words of a story that closely mirrors my own-my background, my upbringing, the thoughts and beliefs I’ve held so tightly to for the last forty-three years, and a pivotal moment where it all breaks wide open and everything is askew. I finished it in a day-intentionally-wanting to glean what I needed and knowing I couldn’t drag it out. I read it like I breathe air itself. Feeling seen, understood, loved.

That this book prompted a break-up of sorts with books I’ve had a much longer history with made me giggle a little.

And I need not want for the thirty-three books now stacked upon floor. They no longer represent who I am nor who I want to be. For now, the blank space- not so noticeable to the untrained eye-reminds me of my growth, of my healing, of my intuition assuring me that I am my own best guide.

I look at pictures sometimes and marvel at the vast amount of furniture I’ve bought and sold to fit each new house plan and stage of life for my family. The sheer number of things I’ve gotten rid is astonishing. When I look at the pictures, I sometimes feel a loss- the memory of that item touching a soft spot in my mind. But mostly, I just look at the picture and wonder at the magnitude of things I’ve let go of in this life.

So, to read Ann Patchett’s quote about the love of humans being the thing that nails us to the earth- I’m almost speechless. Because it is a feeling so overwhelming in the sea of things lost. But also, the truest thing I’ve ever considered.

I have been nailed to the earth, grounded again and again by the love of my people. Their arms heavy around my shoulders. Their shoulders absorbing my tears. Their very presence keeping me present in the present-not allowing me to meander down the oft tread trails of the past nor wander into the unknown of the future.

Here. Now. Their love an anchor for my soul.

Denial, it turns out is not just a river in Egypt. It is an ever-present river that twists and turns as it flows around my brain, dampening the desires of foregone dreams.

Most of the time I don’t even realize it’s there, running through my head, downplaying something that used to matter so much.

But lately that river has slowed, it’s rushing waters no longer softening the edges of who I am and what I want. The clarity that arrived with this ebb, came with a lot of work and something that closely resembles healing. Yet, it has almost been too stark a contrast to lazy river of denial I’ve spent a lot of time floating in the last several years.

As that clarity sharpened the dreams returned. No longer dull to my own desires, I’ve begun to consider not just who I want to be -someday- but who I am, today.

At the end of 2025 I downloaded Ann Patchett’s memoir, entitled, This is the Story of a Happy Marriage. I picked it up for many reasons, mostly though, because I love her stories and I wanted to read her story. I’m always fascinated when an author who traditionally writes one genre can branch out and write something else entirely. I am happy to report I was not disappointed.

But more than that-it’s not just that I wasn’t disappointed- I was something else entirely- alive.

I lay in bed each night with my Kindle aglow and read her words on life and writing and I felt the thing I feel when I write. The spark. The buzz. The creativity. And I thought it’s not too late. I’m not too tired or too sad or too old. And even though I have been so consumed with trying not to drown in the river, I have, at least for today, made it safely ashore.

On this shore I’m more present with myself, not swept away by the rushing current; not having to paddle so hard to stay afloat allows some time for creativity, for intention.

Writers write. That’s what Ann told me.

It is with great abandon that I return to the dream of being a writer. Of doing the thing that makes me feel alive, connected, both grounded and aloft.

With my head clear of the river of denial, I have time to dream.

“…and not one of them is worried” …or concerned or torn up or confused or lacking trust. They just are. Because loss is such a natural cycle for trees.

But loss is also a natural cycle for me, so why do I worry? Why do I care- become confused or torn up or lack trust? Why can I not just be?

Last weekend I went for a walk on the beach. The Nor’easter that was blowing into town was still far enough off that the beach was windy and the waves were rough but there were still streaks of light breaking through the gathering clouds. Those streaks of light a comfort against the coming storm.

I’ve been a beach person my whole life. This particular beach is the one I went to every summer as a child. It is a place of comfort for me. My shoulders relax and my breath regulates as soon as I feel its sand between my toes and hear the rhythmic waves upon the shore.

So, it was no surprise to me that as I picked my way through the ribbons of seaweed the storm was washing in, I heard very clearly, “Whatever you grip tightly, you will lose.”

I knew immediately what “it” the message was referring to and that I’d already lost it. I gripped it so tightly for so many years that it was dust. And strangely, I was at peace. Like the trees, I was not worried, or concerned, or confused, or lacking trust. I just was.

That moment-a blip in time-monumental in my heart and mind.

Even now, a week later, I keep replaying that moment and I feel nothing but peace.

Much like the trees losing their leaves, this loss did not take me out. It just fell away leaving me bare, yes, but also allowing for growth. The hope for greater foliage in the coming years.

For all the years I thought this particular loss would incapacitate me -to know that it did not- feels something of a miracle.

Walking the beach the day after the storm moved through, I surveyed the beach-the trash line of debris was well up over the dunes. The wind still whipped out of the north, making it difficult to walk northward. I trudged ahead anyway, my hair failing to stay in its bun, my clothes rippling in the gusts, cold air slicing through my sweatshirt and under my hood. But it was not with grim determination. It was with peace.

The beach was different-sure. But it was just different. Not better or worse. It also just was. It just was the place where the waves continued crashing, where the seagulls soared and sand pipers ran around on their skinny legs pecking at freshly washed sand. It was not worried, or concerned, or torn up, or lacking trust. The sea and the sand and the creatures continued their course.

I have learned a lot from the trees and the beach.

Coming through the concrete, are the signs of life where there shouldn’t be. In the cracks and the nooks shimmer the promises of new beginnings.

I been feeling golden- glowing from within. What is this feeling? Not joy, exactly. Is this what it is to just be? Golden?

Knowing that You got me is where this golden feeling comes from. The cracks and fissures are where you actually get in -you collect in the places that should hurt the most-just like gold on the surface of bedrock that has been changed.

Found out I was broken- not a revelation. But to truly crumble, to shatter, to fall apart, these are not allowances I’ve made for myself. Being a reliable and capable human has often stamped out my own humanity. Broken, was not a thing easily admitted, yet longed to say out loud.

Found out You’re the remedy- this is not a secret. Yet, why? Why does this happen every time? I think I can do things on my own- of my own strength and capacity. I am reliable and capable after all. Yet time and time again, I reach my end. And You are there, arms open, waiting for me to walk in.

Put me back together better than I could ever be-healing-flowing through my wounds like gold through shattered pottery. Each twist and turn of the gilded wound reflecting back to me my own strength and value. This is art of the Maker, one who finds great the beauty in imperfection.

Now I can see the roses. The things formally overlooked now in focus. Sharper. Crisper. Clear.

Now I can see the roses and the dragonflies. The butterflies and the bees. The flowering bushes and the trees.

I can see the roses.

*Created using the chorus of the song “The Roses” by Blessing Offor

I can see the roses
Coming through the concrete
I been feeling golden
Knowing that You got me
Found out I was broken
Found out You're the remedy
Put me back together better than I could ever be
Now I can see the roses
Now I can see the roses

-Barbara Kingsolver, from High Tide in Tucson

And onward full tilt we go, until we don’t, until we crash into that new shore, exhausted, broken, and needing to be held. To be comforted and met with compassion so extreme it feels radical in its ability to love.

Making good on the new shore we will. After we thaw. After we heal. After our wounds have scarred over and we’re able to walk again even though it’s with a limp. We will never be the same- not after that calling- whatever that thing is that pitched and wrecked us.

That glorious debris, it’s me.

The pieces of myself that no longer fit in my former mold. Wading into that mess requires a resilience, a courage, I didn’t know I’d have to exhibit. Hell, more than that it requires a love of self -unfathomable- and support beyond the standard beams.

To withstand the high tide of myself, I cannot be alone. There is no space for loneliness and isolation in this place.

Hopeful is the heart that is surrounded by friends. They are the ones whose hands offer comfort, and words offer possibility. Their belief is the thing that allows me to take this life for what it is-messy, brutal, beautiful, and sometimes hilarious.

It is because they meet me, here in this space of almost and not yet, that I am able to wade out into the debris-to scoop and pluck up the pieces of myself that are worthy of the journey forward. It is because they are near that I am able walk in the dark.

The debris, while messy, is worthy of my time and attention-of my comfort and compassion- of my review and my reckoning.

And onward full tilt we go, pitched and wrecked, sure. And absolutely resolute in the knowing that this is the beginning. The way forward is through.

Painting by Jean Pierre Marques Fine Art

What keeps me sane in the midst of insane times? I’ve thought about this a lot since first reading the prompt, mulling over whether or not I even have a thing, because to be honest, I haven’t felt sane in a long time. I’ve felt chaotic, burnt out, overwhelmed and a lot of other words that essentially mean my life is unmanageable. But what I never felt in the midst of all the insanity was powerless. Every day I’d wake up, armor up, and meet the day and the world with my arsenal of tactics to manage all that was thrown my way. So much power- the power to bend the will of a surly teen, power to mentor and guide, power to manage multiple home projects, power to power through anything and everything. Except with all that power I was miserable and alone, isolated and frustrated. I kept trying to meet insanity with more power, and that is the definition of insanity- doing the same thing over and over again but expecting different results. Showing up armored and alone is never going to make me feel sane. It may make me feel powerful for a hot second, but never less insane. Which is what let me to remember that I do have a thing that keeps me sane, that makes me feel right, good, and real.

That thing is community.

It’s Twelve Step meetings in dusty church libraries. It’s mocktails at a friend’s house. It’s having the ability to sit quietly and color at a friend’s dining room table when I needed some space. It’s texts and phone calls with people I love. It’s zoom meetings with faraway friends who have a shared purpose.

Community has always been and will continue to be the thing, the space, the people that keep me sane. I just forget sometimes. So, the next time I go to armor up and battle the insanity, I hope I remember, I don’t have to do it alone.

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On this, the 847th of January the beginnings are solidifying. The things that began coming undone or dying off last year are being uncovered almost daily. New behaviors. New attitudes. New ways to lead and grow. Less fucks given. More naps taken. Growing in community and program. Building healthy schedules and touch points with people that matter. Honestly there is not a single aspect of life that feels untouched by these beginnings. Everything feels new. While there is some cautious optimism and hope swirling around in my soul, mostly I am afraid. New and I are not often friends. Every duty station we’ve PCS’d to I’ve met the new with pints of Ben and Jerry’s and consecutive nights on my couch staring at my own unfamiliar four walls. This is not a practice I cherish, but a practice nonetheless. But in this season of beginnings where neither dairy nor sugar are my friends, that practice is of no use. So mostly I read and journal and go to be early in hopes that tomorrow won’t feel so beginning-y. Yet I was reminded the other day that I belong to a fellowship of people who believe we live one day at a time and that on days (most of them) where my anxiety runs the show right into the worst case scenario ground- I need to begin again- to be a beginner-to start with Step One, admit my own powerlessness, and come to terms with where my life is unmanageable. This is not a reminder nor a practice I love. Yet it is one I know I need again, and again, again-so much so I tattooed it on my wrist five years ago after I thought the worst days were behind me. But I get so stuck in the chaos of unmanageability I forget that I chose a permanent reminder is inked into my skin- Be Still. Breathe. Begin Again. I guess this lesson of beginnings is one I’ll continue to revisit. Perhaps once this season ends I’ll ink something equally as helpful. Until then, one day, one hour, one moment at a time, I’ll begin again.