How I Became Chester’s

At the age of 26 I had just moved into a one-bedroom apartment with my four-year-old cat, Beautiful White Princess. I had a new job and was spending time with my girlfriend, Rebecca, so Princess was often alone…and seemed lonely.


Beautiful White Princess in Repose

I decided she would be happier if she had a friend, so Rebecca and I went to the Adams County Animal Control Center to find her a cat. For the life of me I cannot recall why it was so specifically THAT place…but given that it was a long drive to get there, I know it was intentional.

To get to the cats, we first had to walk down THE LONGEST CORRIDOR EVER of dogs. Behind the chain-link fencing of their cage fronts they barked, jumped, smiled, or danced—so excited to see people who might take them home. This was traumatic for both of us because we knew we couldn’t help any of them, so we averted our eyes (with only moderate success) and walked like speed racers.

Three of the cat room’s four walls were comprised of perfect rows and columns of individual metal cages, each with a tiny litter box and a bowl of water. There were little cat faces surrounding us from low to high like a feline version of The Hollywood Squares.

cat cage walls

My mom had gravely and adamantly warned me away from selecting a male cat because of…reasons I can’t quite recall (but likely pertained to the possibility of spraying). Whatever she’d said, likely multiple times, had influenced me enough that I was only open to adopting a female.

The first one to capture my attention was a tiny Ragdoll who clearly was not well—her eyes and nose were runny and she seemed to feel puny. She was sweet as could be, pure fluff with only the tiniest body hidden under so much long fur. Perhaps because her need seemed the most dire, I decided uncharacteristically swiftly that she would be my new cat.

Also of note was an orange tabby who was putting on a huge show by meowing and purring, rubbing his face all over the front of the cage, and sticking his little paws out in an effort to grab us. He was so freaking cute…but unfortunately male.

I told the staff member I wanted the Ragdoll and was told that because she was ill, she would need to be tested before they could release her. I left empty handed, waiting impatiently for the phone call that would tell me she was okay.

When it finally came later that evening, the news was devastating: She had tested positive for either FIV or feline leukemia (or both) and would be euthanized per shelter procedure. I grieved a cat who had been mine only in my imagination—such a beautiful sweet tiny creature!

And still I needed a cat for my cat.

The next day was Sunday and my only chance to return to the shelter until the next weekend—and I didn’t want to wait that long. Rebecca couldn’t go with me but also didn’t need to: “If he’s still there, get the orange tabby—the guy who was rubbing his face all over the cage and reaching his paws out. He’s been on my mind since we left the shelter. No matter what else I might be thinking about, his face pops into my mind. He’s the one.”

“But he’s a boy!” I protested.

“I know, but apparently he wants to be your boy.”

I didn’t question Rebecca’s intuition; I had taken her with me for a reason and I trusted that if she felt so strongly about one of the cats, I couldn’t go wrong to follow her guidance. She had two gorgeous sister tuxedo cats, Miranda and Alexa, and I greatly respected her knowledge of and connection to felines.

I made the long drive back to the shelter, marched to the front door with my cat carrier, and was confused when the door wouldn’t open. I peered through to a darkened lobby and noticed a Closed sign hanging on the door.


“Wait, what? How could it be closed?! There are animals in there who need homes!” I was swept up in emotion, mostly frustration and mild panic. What if my cat gets adopted before I can come back? What if he isn’t even here now?

Right then a security guard unlocked and opened the door. It’s possible I was crying, or at the very least looked incredibly pathetic, because he asked if I was okay. I explained that I’d tried to rescue a Ragdoll the day before but that she’d been found to be ill and had to be euthanized so I was here to get the orange tabby (sniffle sniffle wipe tears sniffle). “I drove a long way and this is my only day off this week and I’m just here to pick up the orange tabby.”

He was incredibly sweet and obviously cared about animals because he said, “Well, I don’t work directly for the shelter but I’ve been around here long enough to know the process. Come on in, I think we can get you your cat.”

The guard walked me down the long dog corridor and hollered for someone once we got to the end. It was a different experience this time because all the lights were dimmed—like during a power outage when only the emergency lights are functioning. A young man with Down Syndrome appeared and walked me to where the cats were.

Although a room different from before, I beelined directly to the orange tabby who was, as before, meowing and rubbing his face all over the bars of the cage and reaching out with his paws.

And then he sneezed.


And then he sneezed again.


The shelter worker didn’t seem to notice or care about the sneezing as he opened the cage, grabbed the cat, and transferred him to my hard-sided carrier. Then he left the room to continue with his normal duties.

I leaned over and looked intently into the cat’s eyes, which were only tiny slits because his face was so puffy. I said slowly and clearly, “Rebecca delivered your message to me, so I’m here to take you home. Here’s the deal, though: They are not supposed to let me have you if you’re sick. And obviously you are sick. I need you to do everything you can to NOT SNEEZE in front of the security guard.”

During the entire walk along the dog corridor I spoke insistently and repetitively above the barking: “There’s only one thing I need you to do: You cannot sneeze in front of the man. You must be totally quiet. I’ll get us out of here as fast as possible. Your only job is to be silent.”

I must have told him 50 different ways that silence was imperative in front of the nice man.

When we got back to the lobby, the guard was waiting with a clipboard of paperwork for me. I set the carrier on a bench near the door—as far away as I could without drawing suspicion—and then stood at the counter writing as fast as I could on form after form. I paid $8.00, made sure all was good with the guard, thanked him profusely, and then exited as quickly as I could without breaking into a run.

Upon reaching my car I placed the carrier on the passenger seat, shut my door, and:




For the next five minutes he sneezed nonstop.

Clearly this guy was something special.



The Move I Almost Made

I’m pretty sure my lot in life is to learn the most obvious things in the most difficult ways. And of course by “most difficult” I mean “really not that difficult, but because I have a blog and I LOVE to exaggerate, I’ll make it sound difficult.”

While you might assume this post to be about dating, it’s actually about the move I almost made to Salida, Colorado.

Salida is a rural town located two-and-a-half hours southwest of Denver. It’s a small Mayberryish town filled with incredibly interesting people. The landscape is stunning; the town is situated on the Arkansas River in a bowl that’s surrounded by mountains.


Here’s what the Colorful Colorado website has to say about Salida (these photos are from their site as well):

Salida is the county seat of Chaffee County and its largest city, with a population of approximately 5,300. The city is the service, supply, and tourism center for the Upper Arkansas Valley. Salida is a REAL Colorado mountain town. Beautifully nestled between the Sangre de Cristo and Sawatch Mountain ranges, this central Colorado Historic downtown at 7,000 feet elevation boasts a liveliness driven by artistic minds and outdoor enthusiasts.

People here wear smiles, the sun shines almost all the time, and you can bike, raft, hike, fish, climb, chill, whenever you want, any time of year. The townspeople are diverse so you don’t get just mountain bikers, skiers, and kayakers, you also experience Colorado ranchers and old miners, artists, and farmers, so just about everyone fits into this Colorado lifestyle.


I’ll point out that the Spanish word salida translates to “exit” in English…and that certainly was an element of what I hoped to achieve by moving there. Certainly I was looking forward to escaping the cockroachy invasion of 100,000 people each year to the Denver metro area (and that might be a low estimate). Annoyingly, I really like all the recent transplants I’ve met, which melts my bitter native stance a bit. (I’ve learned to have audio books and/or podcasts in my car at all times and to work odd hours in order to avoid the worst of the traffic.)

More than running from anything, however, I was running toward something. I was excited about the lifestyle I would have in Salida: the dog walks up S Mountain (not its real name, but what locals call it), the clean air to breathe, all that room for my spirit to expand and roam free.

My soul-family friend and muse/spirit animal, Jenn, was going to sell me her house. I love this house. It might be considered small by most people’s standards but it seemed HUGE to me (being someone who dwells in a less-than-500-square-foot place now). What I could do with another 300 square feet and a back yard! I had plans to make raised beds so I could grow some of my own food; I would create a nook where I would start every day by sipping my homemade latte and writing; I had a vague idea of colors to add to the walls, and I imagined all my books nestled into the built-in bookshelves. I was fairly sure I would add a pedestal sink to the bathroom along with some wainscoting. I would check for hardwoods under the carpet. Having spent many nights in the house, I knew exactly what it would be like to wake up in the morning and lumber to the bathroom and then to the kitchen to let the dogs out.

Here’s the sketch I made of the house to help me figure out how to arrange furniture (clearly, I was not messing around):


I imagined what it would be like to work from home. I imagined the few friends I have in Salida popping over unannounced just to say hi. I knew it would take time for my nervous system to adjust to the slower pace. I loved that I’d be able to walk everywhere. I loved that I would prepare most of my own meals, rather than being tempted to drive thru any of the 80,000 fast-food places I pass on my way to and from work every day now. I imagined the inspiration I would get from the landscape. For months I had been living parallel lives: my current life here (in my body) and my future life in Salida (in my mind).

There were many months from when I was under contract to buy the house until the time I knew I could occupy it. This large amount of time was a tricky thing for my mind. It gave me lots of time to worry about whether my choice was a smart one. On the macro level: “Will I miss everyone in Denver and find myself living in Salida but wishing I were in Denver?” “Despite the home being an amazing long-term investment, will buying it make me house poor and how will I feel about that?” “Will my 18-year-old car hold out for all the trips I’ll be making to and from Denver (for work and to see people)?” “If for some reason I needed to find a new job, could I find anything in Salida that would pay what I require to make ends meet?” “Am I committing relationship suicide by moving there?” (I had dated the one lesbian I knew in the area and that hadn’t worked…so who else might there be to date? What were the odds of importing someone?)

I found the doubts creeping in. My enthusiasm for the idea slowly and very subtly started to wane. I could hear it in the way I was or wasn’t telling people that I was planning to move soon. By then I was committed, though. I was under contract, I’d had the house inspected, my boss had given me permission to work remotely, I’d mentioned to my landlord that I might be leaving, I had my mom on board to put me and the dogs up whenever I was in Denver…

And then about 60 days from close, as I was in the process of locking my loan rate, the process hit a glitch. Not a totally insurmountable glitch, but one that could pose danger to my friend’s ability to buy her next place if I couldn’t overcome it. And the most telling thing for me—the information I most required from my own soul—was the full-body sense of relief I got when I heard I might not get the loan. It was the weight of the world lifting off my shoulders. It’s exactly the feeling I got when my ex and I finally decided to call it quits on our relationship. It’s a feeling that unmistakably means this is the right thing.

And this is where the hard part came in: letting that feeling of relief be all I needed to know. My mind felt left out! It chimed in very loudly about many things—mostly with worry about how to tell Jenn that I’d changed my mind. On the positive side, I knew that she’d make way more on the house by putting it on the market than by selling it to me, and I knew that telling her right away would give her plenty of time to find a new buyer. I also knew that telling her would be the end of the dream—one that she and I had co-created together.

As it turns out, I needn’t have worried. She took the news like a champ, because a) she never ceases to amaze me, and b) she’s an Aquarius and can roll with literally anything life throws at her. I mean, she runs a circus for a living!

It took a couple weeks to stop waking up every morning in Salida and to stop walking my dogs up S Mountain on my lunch break. I had to let my future life in Salida slowly recede from my mind.

Here’s what my heart had to say about the choice NOT to move there:

You can draw on the energy of Salida any time; it is a supportive energy for you… Change is good and moving is not necessarily required. You could do a major purge of your apartment, a deep clean, maybe get a new desk to write at… Your apartment is a blessing until the next EASY thing comes along. That which you imagined creating for yourself in Salida you can do from where you are. Cooking your meals, maybe doing yoga, long walks with the dogs, writing…

Ahhh, so here was the obvious-not-obvious wisdom in all this: I can be NOW everything I projected into the future Salida Erin. I can be Salida Erin in Denver. I can create a space and a ritual in my daily life for writing. I can draw on the inspiration of the energy of Salida at any moment I choose. I can merge the parallel lives (current Denver Erin and future Salida Erin) back into Erin-Being-Present-in-Her-Life Erin.

And the other huge lesson: I came to be even more grateful for what I currently have in my life. I have an apartment where I’m allowed to have my animals. I have an apartment I can afford. It’s near one of the most beautiful parks in Denver. I have a job working with great people I’ll still get to see every work day. I’ll still get to have weekly date nights with my bestie Michelle to watch crap television. I’ll still be near my other bestie, Katie, whose existence in my life has shaped my life more than I’ll ever truly know (and who I dislike the idea of being far from).

And most importantly, I still have Salida. I can go there whenever I desire. And when I’m there, I’ll get to spend time with my muse/spirit animal, Jenn, soaking in everything about her that inspires me and helps me live a more authentically creative life.

So thank you, Project Move Erin to Salida, for being everything I needed you to be.

A Lesson in Shame…from Bugs

Since delving deeply into the work of Brené Brown—a brilliant and delightful academic who studies shame, vulnerability, authenticity, and courage—I now have a greater understanding of what’s happening when something or someone pushes my shame button(s).

Here’s the TED talk she gave on shame, which currently has over 6 million views. Watch it when you have 20 minutes because this is an uncomfortable subject that is of extreme importance.

Brené defines shame as “the intensely painful feeling that we are unworthy of love and belonging.”

I can identify a shame attack by its accompanying physiological symptoms: my heart races, my eyesight blanks out for a second, time stands still, tears fill my eyes, and my pits sweat like crazy. I often can’t speak for a few seconds because of the lump in my throat. And then my mind alights on the belief or old story that has been triggered, almost always related to unworthiness and unloveability.

So, looking through this lens of shame, I’ll tell you a little story that happened a few months back.

One night I was tidying my apartment, specifically the table beside the front door on which I feed the cat (so the dogs can’t eat his food) and compile towering mounds of junk mail, random paper, and books.

On this table was also a beautiful hand-woven basket from Central or South America given to me by my friend Katie. It is small, shallow, oval-shaped, dark brown, and pliable, with a handle running along its length. I love this basket and have moved it from place to place for well over 15 years. It has been where I store spare keys, pens, paper clips, buttons, and whatever else I have no other place for.

Now we all know how it is to do mindless straightening, right? My thoughts were wandering and I was chill and relaxed, heading to bed soon, just decluttering as part of my nightly wind down. I was discarding junk mail, reducing and reforming piles of paper, and wiping down the table. Whereas I typically slide the basket to clean under it, on this particular night I chose to LIFT it.

What I discovered beneath the basket caused me to simultaneously squeak (or scream, who can remember?), vomit in my mouth (or at least feel the need to), and possibly do the “Oh my god that’s disgusting!!!” full-body vibratory shake.

For there, underneath the beloved and sacred basket, was a NEST of baby cockroaches. Forty or fifty of them were crawling all over each other in panic. AAAAAHHHHHH!!!!!! So. Effing. Disgusting.

(This is where I would insert a picture…but that would be gross. I’ll let you imagine.)

Fortunately my “calm in times of emergency” mode kicked in and I very slowly (despite the screaming in my head) lowered the basket back onto the table and ran into my bedroom to fetch my handheld vacuum—the one with the wand.

OreckI turned it on and sucked up all those baby cockroaches——even though they were running for their lives in every direction possible.

Knowing that these are quite possibly the most resilient creatures on the planet, I knew I couldn’t just turn off the vacuum and think everything would be fine. Sucking their little bodies into the vacuum bag wouldn’t kill them—and I couldn’t handle the vision of an angry mob of baby roaches emerging from the vacuum tube to hunt me down in my sleep—so I kept the machine running while I grabbed packing tape. (The advantage of a tiny apartment is that everything is only a few steps away.)

As quickly as I could, I stopped the vacuum, opened it up, and slammed some tape over the opening of the tiny bag before removing the bag entirely from the vacuum. Unfortunately the tape was clear, so I could see the panicked roaches crawling all over themselves in an attempt to escape. I swallowed a bit of bile and asked forgiveness for what I was doing. Then I ran the bag out of my apartment and threw it in the trash receptacle behind my building.

I took a deep breath, physically shook off my disgust, and then headed back inside for Roach Murder Part II: Momma Roach. I knew that everyone I’d sucked up with the wand was a baby (“please forgive me, please forgive me”), so I knew Momma was likely IN THE BASKET. (I have heebie-jeebies even retelling this story—full-body goosebumps.)

I picked up the basket gingerly by the handle, made sure my iPhone was in my pocket, and headed out into the frigid black night (it was probably around 10pm when this waking nightmare went down). I headed straight for the alley, where I commenced to set the basket on the pavement and illuminate its contents with the flashlight feature of my phone. All I could see was my stuff. So item by item, very slowly and deliberately—and as though a coiled snake might attack my hand at any moment from the shadows within —I emptied the basket. Once the last item had been removed, I flashed the light all around the inside of the basket and saw panicked Momma running in circles around the inside walls like a tiny NASCAR driver.

Feeling like my actions were already damning me to hell, I dumped her out and crushed her under the sole of my shoe. No more Momma. Again I pleaded for forgiveness (I don’t take killing lightly) and did the shakeoff dance of disgust. (I also threw away the basket, which I now regret and which Katie understands is not a reflection of any lack of love for her.)

Once my adrenaline rush subsided, the shame attack began. I felt all the aforementioned physical symptoms of shame and then I became aware of the thought that was front and center in my mind: “I am a slob. I am a horrifically disgusting excuse for a human being to have cockroaches in my apartment.”

To give context for this thought I’ll explain that I live in Colorado, where roaches aren’t super common (or so I thought). Sure, maybe in restaurants, maybe downtown, maybe wherever—but NOT IN PEOPLE’S HOMES!! I’d heard of some of the older apartment buildings in Capitol Hill becoming overrun with roaches, but to my knowledge Denver isn’t a roachy kind of place (except for the marijuana kind)—unless people are absolutely filthy. Meaning that I must be a filthy slob and roaches are clear evidence of that. I mean, I do leave the dishes unwashed sometimes for a couple days too many and my tiny place gets cluttered easily…

As Brené says, “Shame needs three things to grow exponentially in our lives: secrecy, silence, and judgment.” She talks about how if you were to put shame in a Petri dish with secrecy, silence, and judgment, it would grow into every crevice and crack of your life and influence every thought you have and every choice you make.

So what was my initial reaction to the roach situation? Secrecy: “I can’t tell anyone!!” Silence: (see secrecy). Judgment: “People [in Colorado] with roaches in their homes are slobs and I have roaches in my home.”

Brené again: “Shame depends on [you] buying into the belief that [you are] alone.” I bought into being alone—hook, line, and sinker. I immediately googled “how to eliminate cockroaches” and settled into my usual pattern of solo problem-solving (using the collective wisdom found on the interwebs).

Do you know the antidote to shame? As Brené has learned from her research, “The antidote to shame is empathy.” Put shame in a Petri dish and douse it with empathy and it will have zero chance of survival. (I’m loosely quoting Brené there.)

I ended up telling my friend Michelle about the incident (a few days later?). She responded with empathy and indeed my shame diminished. (Brené knows what she’s talking about!)

One weekday morning a couple weeks later I was gifted what I consider to be a miracle (I allow them to come in all shapes and sizes). As I was leaving for work I noticed a van parked on the street. The picture on the side of the van? It was a cockroach lying on its back, dead. My adjoining neighbor’s door was open and I could hear men talking, so I hollered into the apartment, “Hey! What are you here for?” The main guy rushed out of the apartment and said in a lowered voice, “Why do you ask? Have you had any roach problems?”

Hallelujah!! The proverbial light went on and I realized how immensely self-absorbed and ridiculous I had been to assume that the roaches proved something horrible about me. Turns out this exterminator had treated two of the five units in my building not once but TWICE for roaches—and the first time he used the method of making them scatter. He said that because I shared a wall with the neighbor he assumed was the originator of the problem, it was likely that I would get some, too.

So I laughed at myself for my shame attack, I laughed at myself for my self-absorption, and I laughed at myself for NOT ONCE thinking that having roaches in my apartment was a reason to call the landlord.

(By the way, no more roaches have been spotted in my place…)

So much gratitude to Brené Brown. Check out her website HERE. She’s given TED talks, she’s written books, she teaches online courses, and (in my humble opinion) her work should be taught as part of the public school curriculum. The class could be called, “How To Be a Better Human” or “A Big Chunk of the Operating Manual for Life That Nobody Ever Shared with You.”

The Move-In Day Miracle

If You Don't Believe Miracles Happen





I see my life as a series of miracles. It’s hard not to, really. Some are bread crumbs guiding me forward, some are life saving, some make me belly laugh…and all are awe inspiring. Here’s the story of one that changed my life forever:

Sometime in late 1993 or early 1994, my mom took me to visit Whitman College in Walla Walla, WA.

Whitman Logo Walla Walla

A group of prospective students and their parents were guided around campus on an official tour. I remember nothing about the tour except for one particular girl (surprise, surprise, right?). She had a friendly demeanor and we kinda’ smiled back and forth at each other, nodding and oohing and aaahing at appropriate times for the tour guide. If we spoke, it was probably only to exchange names. She reminded me of my favorite actress, Annabeth Gish. She had dark hair and brown intelligent eyes—she seemed like the girl-next-door…with surprises up her sleeve.

After the tour each child/parent unit moseyed in different directions. About an hour later my mom and I were eating snacks at the student center, sitting across from each other and gazing out the huge windows overlooking the street. Students were coming and going, greeting each other happily, lugging heavy backpacks. And then I saw the girl from the tour and her dad—they were walking along the sidewalk outside the student center. My mom and I simultaneously waved in greeting and soon they were sharing our table.

Her name was Amy and she was from the Bay Area of California. As we were both spending the night in Walla Walla with nothing to do, she and I made plans to see a movie that evening. We chose Threesome, starring Lara Flynn Boyle and a Baldwin brother.

ThreesomeAmy’s dad, Pat, took us to the movie and then wisely chose to see something different. Before the movie started we were jabbering like life-long best friends and when the movie was over all we could talk about was how mortifying it would have been if her dad had stayed in the theater with us (due to the, um, obviously sexual nature of the movie).

Neither of us knew if Whitman would be where we ended up. Amy had other schools to tour and I (meaning my parents) had logistics to work out (financial aid and the like). Amy and I exchanged addresses and phone numbers, though I don’t recall that either of us wrote to or called the other. Remember, this was before Facebook, cell phones, and the internet…

Whitman ended up being my choice for college. I’d known it was home from the moment I laid eyes on it.

A view of Mem from Jewett Hall

In the late summer of 1994, my mom drove me from Denver to Walla Walla. Leaving home and everyone I knew to go to a place with nobody I knew was as scary as it was exciting. My head was filled with the promises that college would be the best time of my life and that I would meet the friends I would have for the rest of my life. I really wanted that to be true.

I showed up at Whitman 9 days before the other freshmen because I had signed up for a “scramble.” Mine was 4 days of backpacking and 4 days of kayaking in the Cascade Mountains. It was a way to get a jump on the year, have a self-esteem building adventure, and meet some classmates. I was so grateful for the experience—it was challenging and breathtakingly beautiful. I had blisters on every surface of my feet. I’d never smelled so bad. And I learned that not all cheese needs to be refrigerated ((mind blown)).

I don’t think the scramble made official move-in day any easier, though.

move-in day

While I had been on my wilderness adventure, my mom had continued on to Sequim, WA, to visit her parents. On move-in day she came back to Walla Walla with all my stuff still tightly packed in the car and helped me drag it all up to my room in 3-West of Jewett Hall. I arrived before my roommate, so I took my pick of bed and started unpacking. My mom needed to get on the road for her long drive back to Denver. She maybe didn’t have to be in such a hurry, but I could tell she was fighting back tears…and my mom does NOT like to be seen crying.

Before I knew it, I was alone…watching out my window as my mom got into the car and drove away. It physically tore at my heart to see her drive away—like taffy being stretched to its max and then breaking. I lost it. I sat down on my bare mattress and sobbed. I’d never felt so alone. I could hear other kids and their families carrying things through the hallways, bumping into walls, bumping into each other, laughing, talking loudly. I didn’t know what to do so I continued unpacking.

About 5 minutes later I walked out of my room to see what was happening in the hallway. Towering there before me was the happy and familiar face of Pat Vallely—Amy’s dad.

My face lit up and with open arms I almost tackled him as I yelled, “Paaaaaattttt!!!” We hugged and I panted, “Where’s Amy?” He said, “Just a couple doors down! Follow me, I’ll take you there.” No joke, she was 4 doors down on the opposite side of the hall from my room. Given that there are at least 3 dorms on campus where freshmen might end up—and multiple floors in each of those dorms—the odds of being near each other had not been in our favor (nor was it a given we’d both end up at Whitman).

With the tiniest flick of its wand, the universe assured me at a time of intense fear and loneliness that everything was going to be okay. Amy was just down the hall.


Amy ended up leaving Whitman after sophomore year to move to Alabama to be near family. The distance has never been an issue—over twenty years later, she’s one of my closest friends. Our lives have tracked very similarly, in a macro and micro way. No matter what’s going on, she’s always there with love, support, words of wisdom, and a book recommendation. Here we are at her wedding, a long time ago:


I could write 80 posts about how much I adore this woman and about the serendipity that nips at our heels. There are so many memories: that time freshman year when we were studying for Spanish and she realized I didn’t understand what it meant to conjugate a verb; the time we mistook the clock on Mem for a full moon; spending Thanksgiving with her family in California and experiencing her mom’s yummy southern diabetes-inducing sweet potato casserole; meeting in Columbus, OH, for a weekend to get caught up and being surprised by how much we liked it; meeting both of her children as babies and watching them grow up; the thrill of seeing her name on my caller ID when she’s calling from her “phone booth” (aka car)—especially when I can take the call; the gift of having witnessed her as a mother and a wife and a daughter and the rock-star employee of the ages…


Early 2015 in Denver, CO

I knew the immediate impact of the miracle I experienced on that move-in day, but I had no concept of how much fuller the rest of my life would be because of this amazing woman. To have a friend who has seen the best of you, the worst of you, and everything in between…and loves you no matter what…that’s the miracle that Amy and I have in each other.

Although I missed it by a few minutes with this post–Happy Birthday, my friend. May our 40s be exquisite. I love you.

When the Obvious Is Too Obvious

Hello again, my friends!!

I have not written a post in many a moon and none have suffered as much as I.

Ugh. See what happens when I get rusty? I start channeling some past incarnation of myself…or something.

I’ve attempted this very post—the big I’M BACK!! post—about four times over the past couple weeks. All crap. All lacked flow. And that might be true of this one as well. Damn it, though, I’ve gotta’ get back on that horse somehow.

The good news is that I’ve had many comfort-stretching adventures in the time of neglecting this blog. For starters: I joined the circus, I attended workshops in two different styles of clowning, and I made a valiant and flawed attempt at dating. I will write more in depth about these endeavors later but for the moment I’ll just say that I had many opportunities to witness myself writhing in anxiety and discomfort. And we all know how much I enjoy observing myself squirm.

I’ve also come to learn something so terribly obvious about myself that I’m embarrassed to admit it to the people who read my blog. I hope you’re sitting down for this because it’s pretty shocking.

I learned that I MUST WRITE.


My life works better when I’m writing. I am happier when I’m writing. Writing is not superfluous. Writing is not optional. Writing is essential to my health and well-being. Writing is an act of self love.

From every direction for the past few months I’ve been hearing the same message loud and clear: Write. Write. Write. Write. Write. Write. Write. Write. Write. Write.

So I started writing again in November—for myself. I reignited my journaling practice as a way to process the plethora of uncomfortable situations I was choosing. Each experience left me a little more open, a little more vulnerable, and a little more confused. Writing created a sense of peace I couldn’t find any other way.

And when I didn’t process an intense experience on the page? Ah, yes. That was when I found trouble. That was when I felt so uncomfortable I wanted to crawl out of my skin. That was when something as simple as making eye contact with people was difficult. That was when the A-Bomb (as in Awkward Bomb) fell on my fledgling relationship and blew it to bits before it even had a chance to get on its feet.

So this year I will focus on consistency. I will build systems into my life that encourage writing. And I will share with you both recent and past adventures…in whatever order they demand.

Thanks for hanging with me after many months of absence. If you’ve seen me around and asked after my blog and said you missed it…thank you. Sometimes we all just need a little nudge to get us moving again in the right direction.

What’s the thing you do that feeds your soul, glues your pieces back together, and gives you immense joy? If you’re not doing it, consider this your nudge.

Transcending the Illusion of Adulthood

I turn 39 next week. Do you know why that’s crazy? That’s crazy because I feel NOT A BIT different than when I was in my early 20s. I’m still me, looking out the same two eyeballs, and I’m fairly convinced that this age business is the best trick of the matrix.

Sure, becoming an adult hopefully comes with emotional, mental, and spiritual growth. We get jobs and places to live and cars and we have friendships and intimate relationships…and for some of us, shit gets serious. We give tremendous meaning to things like marriage and acquiring possessions and climbing the corporate ladder/making enough money to support our basic needs. We get buried under the tedium of shoulds and have tos.

I’ve learned from observing myself that if I’m not vigilantly choosing joy, my spirit can lose its light and life can become dull and tedious.

It’s often at the very times when things are lifeless and dull that a little miracle happens and everything gets bright again. Like last night. I was at the bar supporting the re-election of a smart and motivated city councilwoman when a beautiful woman came over and asked if anyone would like to play pool. My immediate inclination was to say “No” but then time stopped for a second (like is does when I need to become aware of something important) and I realized that the better choice was to say, “Yes…yes, I would love to play pool.” And it’s those little moments of saying yes that can change everything.

I ended up having an outrageously fun evening of being drawn into the fold of three flight attendants who were laying over in Denver for the night. One from Chicago, one from Dallas/Fort Worth, and one from Puerto Rico–they barely knew each other, yet there was a camaraderie that was undeniable. And you know what it reminded me of? Being a kid. You can set two kids down near each other or put them on the same jungle gym and in no time they will become friends. When are adults going to get over themselves and realize that they are still those same kids who could literally become friends with ANY OTHER KID?

Last night, having three instantaneous new playmates on the adult playground (aka bar) reminded me how fun life really is. We spend so much of childhood imitating our parents and pretending to be adults–dreaming of having a house and a car and a job and someone to smooch and welcome home at the end of the day. And then we finally have all those things…and they seem to come at the expense of being able to appreciate them. They come with the stress of paying for everything, maintaining everything, checking off long lists of to-dos…and the joy gets sucked up into our overpriced Dyson vacuum cleaners.

I remember as a kid wanting so badly to be able to drive a car. I acted out the shifting of the gears and I made noises that mimicked the sound of a car. Then as an adult, driving lost its glow a bit and I started to complain about traffic and potholes. But in another instance of the small miracles that can change everything, one afternoon I experienced a time-stopping moment with my friend Michelle. We had been at a function at her daughter’s school and we were driving separately to a coffee shop afterward.

When I pulled into the parking spot beside Michelle’s car (somewhat dramatically because I was being silly) and waved over to her, I was overcome with pure joy as I realized that my dream had come true! Michelle and I were grown ups, each driving a car, about to enjoy the adult treat of coffee that we would purchase with money we earned. It’s hard to describe how profound this moment was for me. It was like my adult reality folded onto my child reality and I was able to see my adult self through the eyes of the little Erin who yearned so badly to be able to drive a real car and pull it into a parking space next to my bestie (like all the times I’d played out that scenario on my Big Wheel).

So here’s to the grown-up kids of the world and to the small miracles, the glitches in the matrix, that incite joy and gratitude and reignite soul lights. And here’s to friends…new and old…because, really, what would life be without them?

My Initiation and Rebirth: Binge-Watching The Walking Dead While Almost Becoming The Walking Dead

I was just recently ill for a very long ten days and in those ten days I watched 63 episodes of The Walking Dead (an American post-apocalyptic horror drama set in a world overrun by flesh-eating zombies, aka “walkers”). For a couch-bound ill person who can’t handle anything requiring brain power, binge watching a great series is a logical way to pass the time. My choice of series was interesting, however. I realized all too quickly that my constant headache and half-dead state were mirrored perhaps a little too closely by those walkers.

Obvious signs I have been initiated into the cult of The Walking Dead:

  • I immediately assessed how inept I would be post-apocalypse. Most obviously: I have very few survival skills such as making fires and hunting small rodents, I do not know how to repair automobiles, my medical training is lacking, I neither own guns nor have experience shooting them, I neither own a sword nor would be very graceful (at first) wielding one.
  • I then assessed ways I would be bad-ass post-apocalyse: I’m strong. I’m fast in short spurts. I lean way more toward bad-ass than coward. I’m naturally paranoid (in a way that is helpful to staying alive). I think ahead. I would never leave a friend behind. I’m a pretty accurate judge of character as long as I’m not trying to date the person.
  • I now see walkers everywhere (and they were even more pronounced through my haze of sick exhaustion). The grocery store near my house is known to host some strange characters; now I know many are walkers. I was following a woman who has clearly always had an awkward and lopsided gait. Walker. The old woman who I almost collided with turning the corner into the aisle who just stopped and stared at me, eyes glazed over; I stepped around her. Walker. The guy at self-checkout…beep…beep…beep…beep…beep…the rhythm steady, his back arched, eyes staring straight ahead. Walker.
  • As my wise friend Sarah warned: “You can also expect to assess every structure, neighborhood, and geographical location for survival probability, along with any new person you meet.” Truth. Every word.
  • Although I have real stress in my life and actual things to worry about, my greatest worry lately has been what would become of my animal companions. I think I’ll need to get a dual compartment backpack/baby carrier to hold my cat and small dog (who amount to about 25 pounds, which means I need to start lifting serious weight). My medium-sized dog will be a companion warrior obviously. The small dog: How do I get her to understand that barking will just draw them closer? Her early warning signals could serve to get us all killed. Any input on this matter would be greatly appreciated. You don’t see anyone in the show rolling with their companion animals, that’s all I’m saying. This is more distressing than the thought of the world being overrun with walkers.
  • My initiation into the cult of The Walking Dead has actually uplifted my faith in what is possible post-apocalypse. I know I would find myself among a tribe like Rick’s in which everyone looks out for each other. I might not be the last standing, but I’d have love and give love until the end.

 10 Days of Illness Can Only Portend a Rebirth

The illness didn’t come as any huge surprise. I’m under stress at work and I haven’t been taking great care of myself. Two nights before I came down with the plague, I’d gone for a massage at the inexpensive Chinese reflexology place I love. It was a great idea gone wrong. As it turns out, I hadn’t received any type of therapeutic touch in longer than I could remember. The poor guy, Tom, pretty much felt compelled to beat the crap out of me—he was working SO hard trying to loosen the cement of my upper back and shoulders. He even leaned over at one point and said in a concerned voice, “Why so tight?” It was painful in a way that almost made me tear up a couple times because of whatever emotions were hiding inside those muscly knots. I knew upon leaving that shit got stirred that I couldn’t unstir. And sure enough, I had a headache all the next day and two days later I left work early because of the onset of the plague.

The funniest thing about not feeling well was the way I could have entire conversations with myself using only the word “okay.”

For example, faced with the daunting task of getting dressed, I sat on my bed for a minute and gave myself a pep talk much like this: “Okay” (said with resolve, meaning “I can do this”). “Okay” (said as though it were already done, like, “I got this!”). “Okay!” (said with the false enthusiasm of a cheerleader, as in, “I can do this!”). I pulled on socks, pants, a shirt. “Okay” (said exhaustedly, meaning “Mission accomplished.”).

Pep talks like these were commonplace before attempting almost anything: making tea, getting more water, moving from the couch to the bed, feeding the animals, walking the dogs, etc. I knew that as long as I could still talk, though, I had not yet become a walker. My poor dogs, though. They would cock their heads to that magically cute 45-degree angle every time I said “okay.” They had no idea what I was talking about because usually “okay” is a good thing and precedes phrases like, “Wanna go for a walk?” and “Want some breakfast?”

My sense of vitality will return and it will feel like a rebirth…but it might still take a while. Today I noticed that my emotions are flushing out—anger and sadness most prominently. Tricky how physical things are never just physical and emotional things are never just emotional. But hey, at least I’m alive. Unlike the walkers, whose brain stems are firing despite no one being home, my brain and body will recover…and I will enjoy a couple more thrilling episodes of The Walking Dead before the season ends.

My Dysfunctional On-Again / Off-Again Relationship

I called my friend Michelle early this morning (called, not texted). This is unusual behavior for me so she immediately had a bit of concerned confusion in her voice: “What’s up?” Me: “Well, I’m having a bit of a crisis.” Michelle: “Yeah, what’s that?” Me: “It’s about my mattress.”

You see, I have this inkling every now and again to get rid of my mattress (the last time I failed was about a year and a half ago). I think it’s partly the influence of the brilliant marketers on the radio telling me that I should have tossed it four years ago when it reached the elderly age of 8. It may also have something to do with the fact that I shared this mattress with my ex-wife (who I like, but, well, you know, it could still have “ex” energy—including a couple nights with Cruela!—despite multiple smudging attempts). I also just generally enjoy getting rid of things, to keep the energy fresh and invite in the new.

About a week ago an attorney I work for said she was selling her condo and had a queen mattress and box spring to sell (slept on only about 20 times). I knew for sure I needed a box spring. Mine was a creaky old man, keeping me up at night with his complaining. Maybe box springs age faster than mattresses? So yesterday my sweet, sweet, sweet nephew met me after school with his pickup truck to help me load, transport, and then unload my new mattress.

Upon arriving home, nephew and I were met with the additional help of my handsome and strong neighbor, Ben—most likely at the insistence of his gorgeous wife, Roxy. He not only helped with heavy lifting, but he drilled new holes into my headboard so that the new frame could attach to it, allowing me to keep the headboard but be able to ditch the footboard. It’s a small change that makes my small bedroom feel much bigger.

So great, right? All went smoothly and easily…why the need for a blog post? Well…yeah. That’s because I woke up at 4:30 this morning—BEFORE the sun was even up!—feeling like I’d been body slammed against concrete all night. I immediately flew into an anxiety attack and yearned for my old mattress. I even got up, no joke, and peered out into the night to see it forlornly abandoned by my back fence. Oh how I longed for it!

I returned to bed with a sense of pure dread about having to lie down again—though I sure as hell didn’t want to be awake for the day yet. Then I got a flash of inspiration and realized I should switch to a bulkier pillow. It worked! It felt like my head was on a cloud and I immediately fell into a deep dream-filled sleep and woke up a couple hours later feeling a bit more rested, though still sore.

Now, mind you, the woman who sold me the mattress warned me that it’s hard. In preparation I ordered a mattress topper, which is set to arrive Monday. But then I got to thinking, “Is it stupid to get rid of a SUPER comfortable mattress that I already own, to instead use a mattress that’s too firm and needs to be supplemented with padding to make it comfortable?” And then I thought again of my lonely mattress in the back yard and I got sad. And then I felt silly for anthropomorphizing a MATTRESS.

So then I called Michelle because I just wasn’t sure what to do. She agreed it might not be horrible to bring my old one back into the house to give me more time to decide. So I put shoes on and asked my neighbor Roxy if she’d help me haul it back into my house. She very wisely said, “I think you should let it snow on your mattress. It’s time to move on. Let it go.” To which my eyes teared up and I turned away before she could see me crying about a MATTRESS (which never works—she totally knew I was crying). So then I got dressed and fretted a bit more and made a pathetic attempt at getting quiet so I could listen to my heart. And then I walked my ass into the back yard, threw the mattress over my back, and hauled it BY MYSELF back into my bedroom. To get it out of the way of the animals, I tossed it on top of my new mattress, like so:


Sofie thought this was great fun. Here she is frolicking like the joyful creature she is. Chester found it to be a curious-yet-comfortable choice.

Now here’s a picture of how I’m going to sleep tonight:


Princess and the Pea, baby!! Two mattresses and one fine strong box spring! I’ll put a chair at the foot of the bed so the pups can jump up. Until I figure out how to proceed, this’ll work just fine.

What object in your home do you have an odd relationship with? Please tell me I’m not alone here!

The Vagina Rewind

I just performed in three shows of The Vagina Monologues. I feel like I could write that sentence fifty more times and still be surprised by it (as I’ve only ever been on stage one other time and it was almost 20 years ago). It was a soul- and heart-expanding experience. It required stepping into a world completely unknown to me. It required looking fear in the face and saying, “I just don’t care” (that’s a nod to “Glitter in the Air” by P!nk—her wisdom just intruded upon my thoughts). It required relying on skills I developed playing sports. It required leaning on those around me. It required saying yes to the very thing that simultaneously made me almost puke from nerves and yet has been a secret dream of mine for ages.

I Am Athlete, Hear Me Roar

Instead of choosing a happy-go-lucky family that encouraged personal expression in all its forms, I chose the All-American Athletic Family. I grew up on soccer fields and basketball courts, spent summers getting up at the crack of dawn to go to track practice, spent winters resisting my dad’s attempts to put a stocking cap on my drenched-with-sweat head when leaving the sweltering gym and heading out into the freezing night. I spent my youngest years following my brother around like a puppy dog, wanting to do everything he could do as well as he could do it (pogo stick, big wheel, bicycling, baseball, basketball, soccer, jumping off the swings, ping pong, sprinting…you name it).

I was molded by playing sports—physically, mentally, and emotionally. And what I learned from my experience with The Vagina Monologues is that doing theatre is based on similar principles. It’s about practice, practice, practice (rehearsal, rehearsal, rehearsal). Listen to what the coach (director) tells you. DO what the coach (director) tells you. Play well with others. Like, really, PLAY with the others and enjoy their company in the down times—standing in line during practice waiting for your turn to do the drill (hanging out in between the times you’re on stage), donning the uniform and all required athletic equipment before a game (getting all dolled up in stage-bright makeup and curling/straightening hair and putting on costumes before the show), and carbo-loading the night before the game at a teammate’s house (loading up on alcohol after the last performance). The following are what I fell back on to help me adapt to the new experience.

How You Practice Is How You’ll Play

This one snuck into the foundation of my consciousness without me realizing it. It was only last year that I came to understand how much this concept continues to shape my life. Last year when I was training for the couch-to-50-mile run (that actually became the couch-to-50K run), I knew in my bones that if I did the runs as instructed by my coach, I would build up mileage safely and I would succeed at the goal. I refused to shave even 2 minutes off a 2-hour training run (even if only I would know) because that’s how committed I was to maintaining the integrity of the training plan. I knew that building little success upon little success upon little success, integrity upon integrity upon integrity, would allow me to sail through the final goal with auto-pilot strength rather than fuck-I-wish-I’d-stuck-to-my-training-plan struggle. Wow, youth/high school/college sports taught me all that?!

So with The Vagina Monologues I knew that even though I might be shitting-my-pants scared to go on stage for the first time, I would be okay if I practiced the hell out of my lines to the point where the screaming of my nerves wouldn’t pierce the tightly grooved neurological pathways carved into my brain by the words written on my cards. And it worked!


Ah, this is the one that challenged me most during my years of playing competitive sports. And I realize now it’s because I believed in my young brain that if I didn’t perform perfectly, I would not be loved. I connected the dots to believe that my family’s love was conditional based upon my ability to perform at sports. And guess what? It was sometimes more than I could deal with. I seriously choked sometimes, like when I missed the game-winning penalty kick because I didn’t maintain composure, or when I played horribly in the state finals because I’d psyched myself out and couldn’t figure out how to recover. I even hyperventilated once on the pitching mound when I was 8 or 9 because I’d somehow convinced myself that if I didn’t strike everyone out, I would be considered a failure. (Why my parents didn’t start contributing to my therapy fund then, I will never know.)

So for The Vagina Monologues I did a lot of positive self-talk before the first show. I knew that a lot of my friends (my “posse,” if you will) would be in the audience and I used that to bolster me. I thought, “You know what, Erin? You’re grown up now. You now have the ability to know that your friends’ love is not conditional based upon how well you perform right now. No one will die if you suck, no one will die if you forget a line or stumble on a word or freeze under the lights or squeak into the microphone. Your friends are here because they care about you and want to support you in doing something new and fun. They will tell you that you were amazing no matter what happens—just because you got up there and gave it a go.” Might as well have that little voice inside my head be a friend rather than a frenemy, right?! (FYI for those not up on slang: frenemy means “one who pretends to be a friend but is actually an enemy.”)

Have Fun Out There!

This one sounds so incredibly trite, for sure, but if this one gets overlooked, what’s the point in doing anything? My friends Sue and Carla live a pretty damned magical life. They work incredibly hard but they also take magnificent care of their bodies, they take magnificent care of each other, they travel, they’re the biggest cheerleaders for their friends, and in everything they do, THEY HAVE FUN. Carla emailed me early on the day of the first show and simply said, “Just a quick note to say have fun today.” And it was a great reminder! I kept that in mind during moments when my body acted like it was being sent to the guillotine rather than to the microphone. It helped me keep proper perspective. And it helped that the stage manager is a super fun woman who enjoyed slapping my ass as I went on stage. That certainly lightened me up!

The Miracle of the Human Body

I enjoyed observing my physiological responses throughout the three shows. I had three small parts that required me stepping up to the microphone at the very beginning of the show, during the middle, and then near the end.

Show One: The undulations of adrenaline were like mountain-top highs and ocean-bottom lows. Just before I took the stage for the first time, my heart was beating at least double time and I kinda’ wanted to cry and puke and shit and jump out of my skin—all at once. When I got done with that first part, I rejoined my peeps backstage and it took a few minutes for my heart rate to return to normal. After my third time speaking, my job was to remain on stage for 7 or 8 minutes while my comrades did their bits. During the first show, no joke, I felt like I was standing on a full-body vibration machine—every muscle fiber was jackhammering up and down. I focused on my breath and bringing my energy lower into my body but mostly I just stood there and shook and hoped nobody noticed.

Show Three: My heart-rate increases were still pronounced but their onset was only immediately before going on stage, I didn’t do the full-body shake after my third time speaking, and my heart rate returned to normal almost immediately upon leaving the stage. I no longer felt the need to compulsively review my lines—in fact, during the third show they seemed to be delivering themselves. I was also more relaxed in general and talked to the other cast members more and laughed a heck of a lot more.

While I can’t really say (because I don’t know) how my performances varied from the first to the third show, I can say that I really appreciated how quickly my body adapted to this new type of stress.


The entire experience left me with a deep sense of gratitude and I feel like my love tank (and no, that’s not a euphemism for vagina…but perhaps it should be) has been refilled. I have no doubt I won the Lotto by getting to be part of this production—mostly because of the people I met and can now call friends. The experience was like a giant feedback loop of love, extending out in all directions. Hopefully everyone, whether audience or cast or crew, left with just a little more love in their hearts and a little bit more of a skip in their step. Also, immense gratitude to Lannie for hosting us at her Clocktower, thanks to Elana in the sound booth (is that the correct terminology?) for being so supportive and reminding us frequently that she’s a lesbian (that made my heart smile), and to everyone at The Gathering Place for doing great work. And to Coach Angela and Coach Cara—thanks for giving me time on the field and telling me exactly what to do. My only suggestion: maybe more ass slapping. 😉

How to Hear What’s in Your Heart

In my last post I shared the best dating advice I’ve ever received. This post is about the best method I know of to access what could be called one’s deeper knowing, one’s heart wisdom—it could also be called Conversations with God and published as a series of best-selling books. I’m an explorer and observer of my own psyche and my own life and my own behavior and when I stumble upon something that works, I’ll be damned if I’m not going to share it.

This is the most ridiculously SIMPLE thing you’ll ever hear and yet it’s totally miraculous. I learned this from my friend Joey—a quirky, gorgeous, intuitive woman. One night we were sitting around talking and she asked me something about “what was in my heart.” The question immediately pissed me off because I believed absolutely in my inability to access such information. I worshipped at the shrine of indecision and self-doubt and I couldn’t imagine that there existed some method by which I could hear anything other than the constant jabbering of my mind. I explained to her that I had no effing clue what was in my heart and when she really understood that (for once) I wasn’t exaggerating, she became a little sad for me and energetically put me on her knee and hugged me. And then she changed my life forever.

So here it is: Grab something to write with and something to write on. Get comfortable and then move your attention to your heart. I imagine an elevator descending from the middle of my head down into my heart, if that helps. Then, ask a question from your heart—so the words are literally emanating from that place. And then listen from your heart, as though it’s the receiver on a telephone. Write down what you hear. That’s it!

You’ll know when your rational mind is interfering because the words you hear will suddenly be coming from your head (whether when you ask the question or receive the answer). You will notice the words coming from a different direction or a different angle than the direction or angle your heart wisdom comes from. You’ll be amazed at how quickly you start to recognize whether it’s your head or your heart speaking. If it’s not heart-centered, hop back in that elevator and get back down into your heart again.

And don’t make this a chore or something really serious. Ask about fun things, ask about stupid things, ask about serious things. It’s a conversation and it’s building the habit of speaking and listening from the heart. I always start with the simple greeting of Hello and I get the funniest Hellos back–sometimes long and drawn out, sometimes in a very deep voice, sometimes a giggly voice. Being greeted by a silly Hello tells me I’m on track, but I bet everyone has a different telltale sign that they’re on track.

When I’m writing what is coming through, I just let the information flow out of my pen without any attachment to it. I’m not even consciously digesting it as I write it—I’m just letting it out. Then the next day or days later I’ll pick up my journal and read what I wrote and wonder, “Where did that come from?!”

Here’s an example of a recent conversation:

“You want everything tied up in a bow before you’ll allow yourself happiness. That’s not how it works. Tied up in a  bow is for gifts being given at baby and wedding showers. I’m talking about living. Getting messy. Taking risks. Loving fiercely. Taking loving care of your body because you realize it’s a miracle and a gift and it’s perfect and beautiful. Reread His Dark Materials trilogy. Revisit the daemons.”

Then I asked, “What animal is my daemon?” I wrote: “An eagle. You have broad perspective, killer instinct, and unbounded joy. You are untethered a bit, in a good way.”

Then I asked, “If I were to get a tattoo, what would it be [to signify blah, blah, too personal for a blog post]?” I wrote: “It would be a kite with a string of bows on it. It’s a subtle reminder of everything the eagle represents with the added meaning of “that’s where bows belong–not on your life.”

See, silly. Or very, very serious. However you roll. Please give this a shot even though it’s so simple. It might just change your life.


Please share in the comments if you have a particular way you access your heart’s wisdom or if you’d like to share your experience of doing this exercise.