We sat side by side
at spinning pottery wheels  
as the teacher explained
how to center the clay,
seal it to the base,
then slowly open the well.
We locked elbows into 
thighs and let our hands
get covered as we dripped
cool water from our fingers
and pushed down then out.
We went quiet as we turned 
to our tasks, both new to this,
and I suppose I write this
because I noticed how 
his attention left him quiet, 
focused, and I watched as 
his gentle hands slowly 
molded something beautiful,
reminding me, 
when I needed it the most, 
that real men are 
first and foremost 
tender.

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and the women inside of me
are resting. One is on the couch,
dropping the book to her chest,
taking off her glasses, curling
up to nap at noon. Another is
at the window, listening to 
red tail hawk's call, knowing 
through ancestral translation
that the bird is saying, come.
Another is lighting sage 
on the back patio, circling herself, 
clearing her spirit, welcoming
whatever is to come this year. 
Another is standing at the 
refrigerator, fork in hand, 
eating cool chocolate cake early, 
frosting first, because why not? 
And one more is here writing
this poem, grateful for it all: 
her daughters, her good partner, 
her dogs and cats on the astral,
her knowledge that each day 
is an opportunity to strike the match, 
to light the lantern, to create 
something new, something
that has never existed before.

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We two went to the coast 
for two quiet, sacred days
with seagull and blue heron,
elegant tern and marbled godwit.
Each morning and all night, 
they called across the lagoon,
beckoning: return, return, return.
Nothing artificial 
about such intelligence, 
original intelligence.
Along the winding road, 
I spied one belted kingfisher, 
then another, then another, 
perched, watching water,
pointed mohawks defiant.
Declared it a banner day,
a three kingfisher kind of day, 
knowing that I’d learned
more about earth’s magic
from three punk birds
than any machine could
ever teach me. 

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Once again I am starting over
having failed yesterday 
and the day before
and isn’t it glorious?
There’s no matter in failure,
no weight or heft, only 
doors swinging wide open 
at the day’s orange end to
crows clucking, “Look!” 
As if they’re celebrating.
As if they’ve seen it all and
cheered me trying again, again.
I’ve made offerings 
to these crows for years. 
In return, they share
their lightness, their laughter
at my judgments as they gather
near when I create, then fly off 
in search of some sparkly gem
that they may never find. 
Tomorrow we can only hope
to both wake again, try again. 

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she was good at being good
& bending into a pretzel

for dipping, mustard greens
on the good bread, warm

the sweet cinnamon loaf
chewed & downed with guilt

gone masticated by now,
by all intents & purposes,

by all intentions not at all
meant to be anything worth

swallowing yet here she
is in the belly of it all

calling as loud as she can,
& she’s getting louder now

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The forest is calling
but I don’t leave the house
don’t go to the trees
for reasons unclear.
Perhaps I’ll go tomorrow,
wander, tiptoe into the 
redwood grove, apologize 
for my absence, my doubts, 
ask raven for forgiveness
make offerings to the fae
tell them I’m only human 
so unevolved, overinvolved, 
wanting only to escape 
not inhabit this life.
I can teach you, 
the trees will say,
the value of stillness,
of listening to quiet,
but I will have already left
so the ravens will croak,
tilt one sparkling eye
watch me as I drive away.

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Too long I have been listening
to the wrong voices, thoughts
slinging quiet insults just under
the windowsill, splatting loud
then running away, ding dong 
ditching, leaving me dark.
Five decades in, I remember again
how this listening led to believing
there was lead in my soul and shoes.
So I’ve been practicing hearing
anything else: the dark eyed junco,
the red shouldered hawk, branches
whistling in wind. What good is it
to listen to a fearful mind 
when crickets and katydids sing
across the midwest night and 
toads the size of baseballs jump
along the dark curb, when bat wings
blacken the navy September sky, 
eating buzzing bugs so they don’t 
bite me. I can walk this dark, 
listening to everything but me,
and remember I’ve been free 
and all-this-time, so beloved. 

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Please forgive me 
when I disappear.  
I am busy going back 
to my own drawing board,
to my soul’s instructions.
After all that has happened, 
I’ve had to dig far to remember
that I am the one who notices 
all this thinking. I am not 
the stories I’ve created,
nor am I the stories others
have written about me.
I am not the sad one  
nor the resilient one
nor the brilliant one  
nor the cynic.
I am, just like you are,  
the tiny bright spark inside,
aware again, awake again 
to the idea that I can exhale,
watch it all happen:
the lunar eclipse,
the white butterflies,
the dog’s last breath.
When I can remember,
I return to this moment,
like the one where I heard 
such joy in my parents voices
as we laughed belly deep   
on the way home from dinner. 
I am not all that has happened. 
I am the one here right now,
catching her breath in the
back seat, so grateful again
for this moment and then the next,
sighing after such hearty laughter,  
watching out the window
for the bright and falling stars.

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dressed in a black cloak
and I let him pass through.
When he arrived too early,
I opened the door, offered
the best seat on the couch,
sat with him in the dark,
lit a candle for my beloved.
“I always feared you’d come,”
I said. He asked how I liked
all that worry, and we laughed.
“How silly was that,” I said, 
smiling, damp cheeks glistening
in candle light. We wept & laughed
both nearly  falling to the floor,
because here I was in my house,
safe, breathing, on the best couch seat,
okay today. On my left, warm coffee.
On my right, a window to morning sky,
clouds huge and white, a miracle–
just like every other living day.

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“MacGregor’s reward had been the work itself, the daily doing of it, the achievement made of a million unremarkable days.”
	 ~ Jeffrey Eugenides, The Marriage Plot


Let this be the remembering.
That it’s the work itself.
That the reward is no award.
That it’s the daily waking,
the daily paying attention,
welcoming each uneasy,
unremarkable feeling.
After the mourning came 
the day, and then the night,
and then, behold, another 
night where perseid meteors 
showered through ink black sky 
while I lay inside, unready to see, 
but knowing that stars were 
falling all around me, that
light was blazing through,
that white-gold streaked across 
new moon just because it was time–
not to be seen, not for show, 
not to prove their brightness. This.
Let this be the remembering.

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Hi friends,

Thanks for your patience as I quietly muddled through these last grievous weeks. Grief is a beast, isn’t it? I am aiming to write again this week. Thank you so much for your continued kindness and warm wishes as I drag my broken heart back to the page.

What would I do without the page? At least I know that it won’t die. There will always be a blank screen, an empty page, a rock and a piece of charcoal with which to write it all down. Today I’m thankful for that.

Much love,
Julie

Hi friends,
I have been away for a week for the saddest reason. We lost Sunny, our six-year-old golden retriever on July 26th at 3AM. Our hearts are broken. If you know me, you know how important my dogs are to me. This loss hurts a ton. I will be okay, as will Greg and Rachel and Lucy, but I’m feeling a new kind of sad that is born of how much we loved our Sunshine.

Here’s what happened: She had a stricture in her colon that would periodically get so tight that she’d be unable to poop. She had three surgeries after blockages where they’d open her up and squeeze everything out, and when she had a fourth blockage, the veterinarians said we had to try something else, as she couldn’t continue to have these surgeries. We did a colonic re-sectioning where they took out the stricture and hoped that the healthy parts of her colon would successfully heal together and she would finally live a normal life. The first week after surgery, she was so great. Then the poops started getting smaller and then she stopped being able to poop at all. We took her to the vet last Friday and they said there was nothing more we could do, to take her home and give her the best weekend we could, then say goodbye. She had the best day on Saturday and got to eat all of the things she was never allowed—cheese, human turkey, dog bones, and steak. She pranced around with her bone like it was Christmas. But by Saturday night at 2AM, it was clear she was in so much pain that it was unfair to try to ask her to continue living. We took her to the ER vet and while her passing did not go how we’d hoped, we had to do what was best for her in that moment. Greg and I are replaying it all in our heads, trying to grapple with the guilt, while knowing we didn’t have any other choice. Her pain was too acute.

It’s a new kind of heartbreak I’m feeling. Losing a dog at six years old while also contending with middle age and the empty nest is pretty rough. We also lost two other dogs and a cat in the last year. Two of the dogs were quite old. Holly was nearly twenty and Jackson was eighteen. Their passings were sad but beautiful too, in the sun in the backyard surrounded by all of us. They had such long and great lives. But then our beloved cat Gadget died in January, very quickly of cancer, and now Sunny is gone. I wake up and still expect to see her. Greg and I are just trying to hold on to each other.

All this to say, I’m experiencing a new kind of heartache and have been unable to write much. I am going to try to write next week, so hopefully you’ll see new pieces then. I called this post 21 sunflowers because so many kind people brought bouquets and almost all of them had sunflowers in them. I counted and there were 21. Such kindness from friends (and even chewy.com) really meant so much to me. And to the friends and neighbors who offered cookies, hugs, phone calls, texts, cards, I am so grateful for your kindness. You’ve taught me something about how beautiful it is when people show up. Thank you.

To Sunny, I am so sorry we couldn’t save you my angel. We tried so hard. I miss you so much. Our morning snuggles (that you insisted on) were the best starts to my day. Thank you for gracing our family with your soul for as long as you did. I hope you’re with Bunker and Jackson and Holly and Gizmo and Gadget.

With love,

Julie

My life waits for me 
patiently in the doorway, 
checking her nails,
glancing left then right,
sighing as the focus 
slings elsewhere, as the 
spotlight swings so fast
past her, no sound,
just the not quite gone
hope that someday she 
will be seen, that she, 
this future self, who
has been waiting so long,
can leave the threshold,
finally enter the room.

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Young friend, I am not 
who you think I am. There’s
a punk rocker in my mind
knocking shit over, 
breaking the necks
of perfectly nice guitars. 
Meanwhile, I look like 
the nice middle aged lady
in a sundress going to 
buy a loaf of bread, 
because that is what we do. 
Today at the bakery,
I recognized my kin. 
She wore a red dress 
and combat boots,
age creeping in on her too,
and she said, “Fuck yeah,”
when she saw that dark
ginger cookies were
not sold out, still warm. 

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Hello friend! I’d love for you to join me for in my weekly Write Club. You can sign up for one class or all five. Our first session is tomorrow the 22nd, 10AM-12noon PST! It’s an informal, poetry led practice with pen, paper, community, and where everyone has the opportunity to share. Would love to have you! More information here and feel free to email me if you have questions.

Oh poem, take me home. 
Reel me in from dark shores, 
rescue me from wild wind 
while miles roll under my wheels 
and you wing across the desert
helping me see that the sun
leaves a watery illusion,
reminding me 
nothing is ever truly as it seems.
Poem, it’s you I return to
while walking the dog,
when falling asleep, you always 
help me reveal what’s here.

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Dearest reader, I’d love for you to join me for in my weekly Write Club. You can sign up for one class or all five. Our first session is this Wednesday the 22nd! It’s an informal, poetry led practice with pen, paper, and good community, where everyone has the opportunity to share. Would love to have you! More information here and feel free to email me if you have questions.

after W.S. Merwin

Thank you this cool July afternoon
in this summer that has no name
for my loves laughing in rooms below
for how my fate line led me West
to a man who soothed my static
for he who held my hand through
barren caverns and never let go
for the friend from age five who
showed up again age thirteen
twenty-two then every year after
for forgiveness for sorrow
for forgiving such sorrow
for the finch’s instinct to build
a nest outside my bedroom window
thank you for tending to the helpless
featherless needy and trusting that 
they too will learn to fly

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Friends! I’m hosting a few drop-in summer writing classes online. All you’ll need is a pen, paper, open heart, and a healthy dose of vulnerability. Classes will be held July 22, 29, August 5, 12, & 19. Come to one or come to all. I’d love to have you join me. Go here for more information or to sign up.

I need to be reminded that
I was given one body 
to look after, that I must 
tend to it like it’s a rare plant
or beloved pet. I must
feed it well, strengthen it. 
I need to be reminded as
I’ve been too long punishing, 
hating, denying, overdoing.
Or, I was born female. 
I need to be reminded how
year eleven or twelve, 
after hearing so much talk 
of bodies, of good versus bad,
desirable versus disgusting,
I divorced head from belly,
leg, crotch, foot, heart, lung. 
I need to be reminded that
the way back is like this:
Consider the seed, how it
needs water, sun, nutrients, 
how it consumes, how it
takes what it needs then 
swells before it blossoms. 

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At the 24-hour animal hospital, 
late, dark, quiet, only one woman
waits silently with us. We say
nothing to each other.
No one wants to be here. 
We scroll on our phones. 
It’s dark outside the glass door
when my husband sees two ears 
and a squished face peer in.
A man walks in with his two dogs,
a french and american bulldog.
The dogs greet us one by one
and we coo and laugh at their
snorting and butt wiggles.
He tells us he works here, 
was just taking his babies out. 
After they’re gone, I see that
we are all lit up from the inside.
The woman smiles at us, tells us 
about Gus, her 16-year-old pug
whose back legs just went out. 
We tell her about our Sunny 
who had to have abdominal
surgery yesterday, how we 
are here to take her home. 
Then a tech brings Gus out, 
walking just fine now, and 
we all gasp, cheer, and 
there are tears in her eyes. 
All it is is love. This night,
like so many others, it's
dogs who show me the way. 

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The light in the oak
lasted mere moments
and that’s all we have
so short this time
let’s admire it
dance under it
nothing’s done wrong
that is done with love

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Hi friends,

Today’s poem is a shortie because Sunny, our sweet golden retriever, had to have a third emergency surgery this afternoon. She was born with a deformation in her intestines, and we’ve almost lost her a few times. It looks like she will pull through (again), but today was a day. She’ll be in the vet hospital tonight and maybe tomorrow, then hopefully home for a long recovery.

Tonight after take out burritos, we played scrabble to try to distract ourselves. This oak tree is outside of our dining room window, and for a brief moment, the light came in so beautifully. The telephone wires look, to me, like lines on a page. The fourth line down is my favorite section. I wrote this little poem on my phone in between scrabble words, because difficult times like these remind me how important it is to be grateful for even the shortest blips of beauty. Below is a picture of our sweet girl.

xox

Julie

The cat sits in the yard
watching a shadowy tangle 
inside the pittosporum. 
There’s likely a nest hidden
in that briary thatch of limbs. 
Dark-eyed juncos chatter
in the tree above, warning. 
Everyone wants to protect 
their young, and it’s no good
worrying what could happen
though we do it anyway.
We plan seven steps ahead
in case this disaster, in case that.
Meanwhile, the cat’s no athlete,
can’t climb a tree if he tried,
and saunters away wondering
how long until his human
opens another can of 
mashed up salmon. Part of 
this burden of making life 
is the deep instinct protect it,
calling out to all the birds around
to watch out, help, be careful.

Hi friends, sorry I missed so many days! I was on a family vacation and didn’t write much. I really missed it, though, and you guys. Glad to be back.

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