how do you spell WEDNESDAY?

My daughter decided today that she wants to have a party, at our house, next Wednesday. For her whole class. That meant, of course, that she had to start making invitations this morning when she was really supposed to be preparing herself to be school bound. There are plenty of little tidbits to talk about here, aside from the fact that we’re not having a party and I’m afraid to tell her.

While she is supposed to be putting her lunch box in her backpack she is stuffing crayons and note papers in her kindergarten hands. You see, she’s going to make the invitations on the way to school. Our drive to school is roughly 3 minutes give or take 20 seconds, but again…do I want to argue about this?  Not so much it turns out. Part of me is avoiding any sort of Monday morning meltdown, and the other part of me just cannot wait to see what she is going to come up with. Her invitation paper of choice is about 1.5 x 2 inches, and she is a new and chubby handed writer…so she is lucky to get more than two unconventionally written words on a slip of paper; thus each invitation to a party that we are not having next “Wasay” requires approximately 5 sheets of said note paper.

Seeing as how when I picked her up from school today she promptly resumed invitation making, I had to have a plan a bit more effective than avoidance of the party. Sis, you spell it w-e-d-n-e-s-d-a-y and, by the way, how many syllables is that? Two mama. Right, but sis we are not having a party next Wednesday.  Or the Wednesday after that. Or likely not any Wednesday. At this house. With your class. And me. So… I know, how about if you make them all cards that you can pass out, and we can put them in cute envelopes? Nope, really want to have a party mom.  Shoot…when is your birthday?  F-e-b-r-u-a-r-y? That is when we will have a party! Mom, how do you spell Wednesday again?  Is it w-a-s-a-y?  The way I see it, I have a few options with my answer. If I say yes, I am encouraging her efforts while also ensuring nobody will be able to decipher the invitation and mistakenly show up at my house next Wasay when we are not having a party. If I correct her spelling I am making the invitation to a party that we are not having that much more clear. Do quick calculations and surmise that size of note paper times size of attempted letters has potential to equal at least 3 sheets of paper to write w-e-d-n-e-s-d-a-y. I can enhance spelling and have an un-party at the same time!

At some point in the evening, she retires from invitation making and starts reading from the book of old (her words, not mine). Book of old, in real people language, is the dictionary/thesaurus. She has taken to “reading” it, spouting out directions (which sound more like orders) which she admonishes anyone listening to follow. I don’t know why it is regarded as the book of old but I can’t even ask because I like having a book of old in my house. 

And the book of old says it’s time for bed.   


melting into me

Does too much to say make the saying harder to come by? Have you consigned your will to create with the words that entice you or are they challenging you to do more and better, forcing you to feel deeper and stronger? You don’t know how to write yourself out of what you have fallen into so you simply stop writing because, maybe, if you don’t write then you don’t feel each moment as though it has permeated your soul.

You could fastidiously gather the words you love and compile them to write your story, punctiliously fashioning each chapter. But through trial and error you have learned that designing the chapters is not nearly as exciting as letting the chapters bring you to life. So you have an experience and define what it means to you; minute by minute, day by day, month by month, and you take pause with each temptation to formulate the words that will make perfect your sermon to self. Trusting and living with intention provides words abundant with which you can tell your story. 

The words that are so much a part of you are simultaneously screaming to speak and begging silence. There are lessons learned you want to share; perhaps in hopes of precluding collective travels down the same path you have found to be lackluster by comparison. You are learning to welcome love and pain, to let raw emotion consume you as it provides the truest form of living you have experienced. You have feelings so intense that they threaten the pillars of strength you have built, brick by brick, which ground you. And as each step and misstep petitions for grace as it dissolves into your melting pot of growth, you see your authentic self with increasing clarity. 

There are so many questions but you don’t know where to begin. What path led you to this leg of the journey; which choice or un-choice to this outcome. And as you think about your life and attempt orderliness of the pictures and flashbacks, of the note cards and summaries and dissertations, your omniscient core knows that the questions are not yours to have, to beg, to postulate. Journeys happen and they take you where they may and you tiptoe, run, walk and sometimes crawl as best you can in the moment. 

Meanings are myriad depending on what you choose to believe in that moment and from that experience; to where you let it guide you, to what ensuing experience you let it lead. Life has many serendipitous happenings if your mind is open to receiving them. The relational nature of life becomes vivid when you seize what presents itself along the journey. Open-minded living is joyous because the surprise of the next serendipitous moment is looming… another opportunity to make a connection on your journey of here and now. 

Life is education on your terms: you hold the power to decide how you will let each opportunity color, change, mold and improve you. Life is an auspicious exploration of self; an offer to learn, grow and attempt to understand you. One day at a time. And one day at a time really means one moment at a time, one experience and then another to form an existence, to create a story, to live a life. 

Be in love with you. Be in love with life. Be.

lotta sorta kinda

Lot of tired
Lot of 2nd grade crying followed by
Lot of lecturing on when crying is and is not effective and acknowledged
With examples…
Lot of great homework
Lot of togetherness
Lot of flag football lovin’
Little of mom actually playing football
Lot of praise on my skills (throwing not catching, just to be clear he says)
Lot of screams from the pig upstairs
Lot of ignoring of the pig by its owner
Little to a lot of lecturing on caring for pets
Lot of asking for more pets
LOT of NO to that
Lot of coloring
Lot of awesome breakfast’s (if I do say so myself) 
Lot of reading in mom’s bed
Lot of trying to stay and sleep in mom’s bed
LOT of NO to that
Marginal bed infiltration, accepted, kissed and hugged
Lot of explaining this was a one night gig to strawberry haired underpants stealing girlfriend
Marginal accidental swearing not really at (well sorta) but in the general vicinity of rule following man-child all up in my space
Which begets
Lot of pouting
Lot of talking about rules 
Lot of apologizing for being human
Lot of explaining that I am, indeed human and not an endless vat of smiles and patience
Lot of forgiveness
Lot of love
Lot of gratitude
Lot of amazement
Lot of work, but
Lot of everything life is meant to be

And I am human, damn-it (insert smile here)


it is


most definitely,


who is


even to,


still, you have

desire. of. none.

for me…

not the me, of now, for

she – in all of her


is a trigger.  that.

ignites within…

you (she hates that).

we have taken the

worst, of


to display in all

ways, to


you, and me,





blindsided, with eyes-wide

open… and,


mentor me tomorrow or always

I have been remiss in my writing.  I have no excuse other than one that is fabulous:  I have too many passions.  I am and have been trying my gosh-darndest to devote equal love to each on a daily basis but I am, as I have always been, a work in progress.

I could spend each moment of my existence happily floating amongst the freedom of art.  Creativity in motion.  In fact, I am working quite harder than is visible to the human eye (other than my own two which, coincidentally cannot see all that well) to propel my visions into reality.

And the reality is this.

I am 100% passionate about the following things:

-Spending copiuous amounts of time inside my own mind

-Writing and writing and writing my daily thoughts and observations; I have so much I want to share and so little time to put pen to paper to share it

-Each hand-written journal of quotes that I create; especially those designed for a specific person

-Every ancillary project that I have in the works under The Winking Phoenix

-Books I want to publish – forever wishing for more chunks of time in my day to free-flow my mental file cabinets

-Being the most loving, listening, kind, giving, compassionate wife, mama and general human being I can be each day

And, I am 100% committed to the  following things:

-Being the most loving, listening, kind, giving, compassionate wife, mama, and general human being I can be each day

-Being a better version of myself tomorrow than I was yesterday

-Offering the best of me to all I encounter, and absolutely to my husband and children on a daily basis

-Freeflowing my groove on a continuum that makes it all come together with some semblance of grace

So, with all that out of the way, I will enter into what propelled me from one creative endeavor to another:  What is a mentor? 

And you know I have a ton to both share and ponder.  And it was witnessing a mentor-in-action tonight that really got me thinking about the concept of mentoring, and what a true mentor does for others – and I am really excited to talk about it.

Stay tuned for my next post which promises to explore the many facets of mentoring.  I am tempted to start now (that passion thing is a killer)…but I am exhausted and it wouldn’t be as good as it could be for any of us…so after some much needed sleep I shall make my way back to these pages :-).


pain in the deepest blue-gray swell of ocean crashing on cliffs and exploding in my head. beg to leave, go, settle into calm, peaceful sky but no.  medicate without true placation i breathe in and breathe out mindful of each ocurence as it needles and gnaws, clawing at each part of my body wearing me down to nothing more than a staccato reaction of myself.

my words not heard in your ears the final wild-card for a perfect storm and i break in that moment.

only to pick myself up and be whole.


Saturday morning.  Sunrise.  White froth thrown from cliff-crashing waves dances before me, as if to say ‘Good Morning’.

Sun threatens to pierce through the morning clouds – her hue sure to influence the direction of my thoughts.

I am the grand crash splashing myself about the rocks; the uneven yet consistent tide; the fluid combination of darkness and light.

Leather & Lace.

These cliffs are my spiritual home.


He needed the $60 cash I had in my wallet, so he could get a hotel room for his wife and toddler-aged daughter.

Her name is Faith, he said.  Wounded war vet with no help from the VA; struggling to survive day-by-day, he said.  His name was Johnny.  I don’t remember his wife’s name, but I found it uncanny that they had named their daughter Faith.  Faith, who was conceived when he returned from war.  Faith, who was conceived while he was wounded, and after 15 years of marriage to his wife with not a pregnancy prior.  Faith, who has been living in a car and random hotel rooms for the better part of her short life.  I wonder if Johnny and his name-I-can’t-remember wife had any idea how poignant faith would be to them so shortly after the birth of Faith.  Johnny is worried she will remember these horrible times.  He does not want her to know this part of her life.

I am a sucker for the human experience; this I know.  I rank a tad high on the scale of naivete.  Regardless… Johnny seemed genuine.  Johnny seemed I-don’t-know-what-else-to-do true.  I had to act in faith for Faith.  Faith that goodness still exists in this human race of ours.  Faith that his Faith will sleep tonight in a warm bed with clean blankets, after a warm bath.  And perhaps a bedtime story.

Johnny left with a piece of my heart.  A bit devoted to faith; the remainder devoted to Faith.  Best of luck, Johnny.  Keep the faith, and Faith, in the foreground as you press on.  I believe in you.


from the ashes of her deconstructed being,

she learns to take hesitant breaths.

from the fears that left her knowing nothing of herself,

she sees glimmers of enlightenment

and love for her soul, and

lightness in her dark.

sate amid her famine

tears with a purpose, she knows,

but is still to weary to define.

from the ashes of her deconstructed being,

she learns to see herself as beautiful again.

from the fears that left her knowing nothing of herself,

she repurposes her heart

she walks with less trepidation, and

does not convulse

does not regurgitate

signs of healing, she knows,

and she allows herself to slumber.

click and send

My biggest regret is that I did not apologize the moment I knew my words hurt you.  That I did not immediately recant…and tell you that none of what I retaliated with mattered, because I cared not about being right…I cared about you.

But I let that be the end.

Click and send.

We had nowhere to go from there except better.  Back to us.

But I let that be the end.

Click and send…hiding behind non-vocal words.

I wanted to get back to us.  I wanted to tell you I was scared, and vulnerable, and that the slope was a bit more steep than I was able to traverse.

But I let that be the end.

Click and send.

We could have mended, I think.  We could have been more kind.  We could have opened our souls and bared our collective beauty.

But we let that be the end.

Click, send, click, send, click, send…


My biggest regret is that I did not apologize the moment I knew my words hurt you.  That I did not immediately recant…and tell you that none of what I retaliated with mattered, because I cared not about being right…I cared about you.

I care about you.

Click and send.