Thursday, April 24, 2014

Thrifted Sister: 9 to 5 and Happy Hour

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This is our third Thrifted Sister Challenge where my sister and I unite our thrifting powers, from two different states, and each create 2 looks with only $20 in our pockets.

This week's 2 styles: A 9-5 look and a follow-up one for a post-work happy hour.

Also known as the one where we ironically thrifted the exact same shoes, 1388 miles apart.

9 to 5

Carin's look: Express Turtleneck, $1, paired with my own jeans, Leather boots (made in Italy!), $3.99. Total: $4.99
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Kelle: Damn, girl. You have that look-off-to-the-side look down. You look like a Blair model from the Sunday Value-Pak. 
Carin: Now that you say that, all I can see is Blair model. I hate that turtleneck now. My girls would say it looks like crust. And, it looks like you used some app on my chest. You're right - this photo reeks of Blair.
Kelle: Hi, Blair.
Carin: This is a great example of thrifting too far. Your standard changes. I would have never bought this had it been at some retail store. 
Kelle: I know. I've done the same thing. Unless it's something awesome and crazy like a faux fur vest or studded leather. I wouldn't pay full price for a fashion experiment, but I might jump down the rabbit hole if it was a thrift steal. And just to clarify, Blair turtlenecks don't qualify as a fashion experiment. See, we learned an important thrifting lesson today.

Kelle's Look: Sweater (no tags, but it's not acrylic, it feels nice and heavy and I love the little sleeve gathers that give it an itty bitty poof at the shoulder), $5 paired with my own pencil skirt; Black leather heels, $5 (these heels are one of my favorite thrift buys now--they go with everything, perfect height), Total: $10

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Carin: Can you imagine where you'd be without your morning planning time? Without your new planner? You should teach some classes on Planning and Organization. 
Kelle: Oh, and I'd like to see yours, Miss Apple-Who-Fell-From-the-Same-Tree. I'll have you know that I showed up to two appointments this week with five minutes to spare.

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Happy Hour

Carin's Look: Mint Cotton Express Tank, 25 Cents; J Crew Cardigan, $2.99; H&M pants: $2.99; Black Leather Bandolino Heels, $3.99; Neon Target Belt, 99 Cents; and finally, (drumroll), Black Leather Hobo Purse, $2.99. Total: $14.20
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Kelle: I think it's so nice that your airport opens up a runway for happy hour. Also, yellow belt pop of color for the win. This outfit is awesome. And you look totally confident wearing it.
Carin: Airport...that just made me laugh.

Teenage daughters capture great moments:
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Kelle: Nice stance. So Lady Di of you.
Carin: I was rushing to meet important clients. 
Kelle: Does your business card say Blair?

Kelle's Happy Hour Look: Striped Silk Blouse, $2.99; Mint Green Gap Skinny Jeans, $5 (I wanted these jeans when I saw them at Gap!)

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Carin: I think it's so nice that Heidi opens up her lanai for happy hour. You should seriously wear these pants every day. J Crew trumps Prairie.
Kelle: I should tell you that I almost didn't buy this shirt because it smelled old and funky, but I washed it by hand with lavender soap, and now it smells like flowers. Also, this isn't really a happy hour and I'm sipping straight olive juice from that glass.

Monday, April 21, 2014

Little Easter Moments

Little Easter Moments.

What I remember...

Getting ready for church.
Mom ironing new dresses.
Searching for tights.
New shoes if we were lucky.
A hot skinny-barrel curling iron.
Two bang curls up, one under.
Comb, comb, comb it out.
The Aqua Net Mist--one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four.
Comb, comb, comb it out again...until all hairs line up perfectly, no funky spaces.
Feeling really special, really pretty, really important.
Running out the door to make it to the van before it beeped.
Walking into the church foyer.
The smell of the sanctuary.
Lilies at the alter.
Stained glass windows.
The banners--"He is Risen" in gold glittery felt.
Wooden pews and the wine-colored cushions.
Worn red covers, The Hymnal in rubbed-off gold letters.
The Old Rugged Cross, Worthy is the Lamb, Because He Lives.
Hands raised, eyes closed, lots of Amens.
Purple grape juice in tiny plastic cups,
Crunchy white bread squares in shiny gold plates.
Hands stretched and feet nailed to a cross.
Feeling loved, wondering if I was loved, knowing I was loved....
Because He Lives, Because He Lives, Because He Lives.

Twenty Years Later.

Little Easter Moments.

What I know....

Getting ready for breakfast.
Searching for cream.
More cream if we're lucky.
We're lucky...more cream.
One baby up.
One soggy diaper.
One arms-around-my-neck close cuddle.
Two babies up.
Another soggy diaper.
Another arms-around-my-neck close cuddle.
Three babies up.
Another arms-around-my-neck close cuddle.
I hum.
I remember The Old Rugged Cross and Worthy is the Lamb and Because He Lives
But I hum The Beatles I Will because the lyrics hold more truth than confusion.
Kisses on cheeks, breath on my neck, hair in my hands, weight on my chest...they fit perfectly into me...
A faith I know.
Tulips on the table.
The smell of French Toast.
Wooden chairs and floral cushions.
Laughter. Little laughter.
Tiny scraps of lettuce leftover from what the Easter Bunny ate.
Wicker baskets, shredded paper grass.
An Origami set, chocolates, new colored pencils, beach shovels, marshmallow Peeps.
Plastic pastel eggs broke open with jelly beans, coins, connections between their childhood and mine.
Worn couch cushions.
Hands held, lots of Wows.
Diluted orange juice in small plastic cups.
Warm French Toast squares swimming in syrup puddles
On pink puppy plates.
Sticky hands stretched,
Feet crossed under the high chair.
Feeling love, knowing love...

Melding the faith and religion and tradition and confusion and foundation and love of my past with the solid comforting truth of my love them. To love them as best as I know how, with everything that's in feel love, to know love, to give love...

Knowing it's enough.

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Our Easter cake...we massacre a good cake.

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And a text from my dear new friend, late at night,
When Easter Sunday is over,
When the kids have been hugged and read to
Their foreheads kissed, their dreams blessed,
Their futures pondered from a mama who hopes she's giving
Them everything they need to feel big and small all at once
In this world that needs both Courage and Humility
Belongingness and Bravery.
A new poem that dear friend wrote...

One day
I heard god's voice.
It sounded like
the kindest,
most generously loving
of myself.

~annie flavin

Happy Easter, dear babies.
You are loved.

(..and thank you annie for reminding me
that stanzas are another perspective for looking at life.)

Friday, April 18, 2014

Daniel Blue

I first heard the name Daniel Blue after last year’s Write Doe Bay retreat. I knew he was an amazing musician, a creative force, an alluring combination of talent and story and rockstar. I found his Seattle-based band, Motopony, online, listened to his music before heading into our experience last week, and was equally captivated by his songs and intimidated that I was presenting directly after him.

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Photo by Jesse Michener


Daniel and a friend pick me and Heidi up from our Seattle hotel and drive us two hours to the ferry and into Orcas Island.

Enslaved to Comparison, I measure our differences immediately. Two of his nails are painted a deep metallic blue. He’s wearing a scarf. So am I. Mine’s from Target, and I’m pretty sure his isn’t. He speaks like a poem. He kicks doors open with his foot. He doesn’t seem to care about anything but the song that’s playing right now, and I, without even realizing it, make the choice to label him as mysterious and distant, too interested in being cool. He’s a rockstar.

He entertains a group of presenters and early arriving participants in our cabin that night. He tells stories that make us laugh and delivers them as soulfully as he sings his songs. He acts them out, owns every word, every flaw, every amazing thing, every awful thing. He hides nothing, submits to nothing. There’s a sort of freedom that he breathes as if the gates between his true creative self and what he expresses are not just open--they're non-existent, and I envy it. Someone asks him to sing a lullaby before we head to bed.

“This is the first song I ever wrote,” he says. He sings as if he’s telling a story, and I swear his voice is the only sound on the island at that moment. He sings about his mother, and I cry.

Daniel opens the workshop the next morning, and I no longer see mysterious and distant and cool, but kind and vulnerable and confident. He tells his story through his music and his writing and his gift of quickly drawing in every different person in the room with his preacher voice. He tells his story with his blue nails and his rockstar boots and the song he sings about his mother.

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Photo by Jesse Michener

“You know why people write?” he asks the group later.  “Why we sing, why we share, why we put ourselves out there?” People throw out answers. We want to help people. We want to connect. We want to get better at things. We want to entertain. We want to accept things.

“We want to be seen,”
Daniel answers.I want to be seen.”

Blue nails don’t bullshit.

He hides nothing, submits to nothing and in doing so, removes all barriers, all voices, all censors to his creative self—what he really wants to say.

I hug Daniel before we left. “You’re the real deal, dude. Thank you.”

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Photo by Jesse Michener

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Photo by Jesse Michener

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Photo by Jesse Michener

I knew I was going to share what Daniel brought to the workshop, and after hearing from the songwriters who participated, I have a much deeper appreciation for music and lyrics and the processes we share in transforming what’s inside to words and melodies and books and essays and songs. My Motopony album has been on replay since I’ve been home, and I’m eager to share it (Wait for Me—download it. Trust me.), but I wanted something more personal from our week to share with readers.

“Can I share the lullaby you sang?” I asked Daniel.

He had never recorded it, but within the four days I’ve been home, he made it happen, just for you.

We are not defined by our titles, by what we want people to see, by what we think people see. We are defined only by who we are inside. And if we can let that flow freely in our work, in our writing, in our songs, in our conversations and interactions, the way we love our children, our lovers, our friends, our communities—that would be awesome.

A lot of work goes into writing and producing songs—a lot of emotional work. I value that art so much more after last week and want to be better about sharing good music.  My creative world is better for having Daniel Blue's craft beside mine, and I hope you'll believe the same when you hear his song, his music. Luckily, a vehicle for support and connection to musicians exists in Ziibra--a way to sustain artists who change our worlds with their gifts alone. Dig deeper into Daniel's story and connect with him here.

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I’m thrilled to share the art of Daniel Blue with you and hope you enjoy.


Daniel's story of his lullaby:

This is one of the first songs that comes to me. I am in a warehouse I had rented in gritty Tacoma WA.  It's after midnight on June 30th, 2007 and I'm feeling totally alone and really lousy for having chosen to be a starving artist in such a seemingly pragmatic blue-collar city.  

Alongside the typical "fake-artist-loony-worthless" thought trap, I am simultaneously filled with grief for my mother who we lost to pancreatic cancer five years previous on that very night.   I'm not quite sure if it’s the anniversary that is triggering the loneliness or the loneliness that is making the anniversary unbearable, but either way I'm in for it.   What I like to call an "episode".  

At this phase in my life I see myself as a poet and a fashion designer, but for the moment I'm just a child who is faking manhood in a decaying brick husk of an industrial boom town. I'm truly alone and with no one to call and ask for encouragement or direction. 

Now comes fear. 

I'm starting to get the creeps and jumping at shadows and phantoms (there are a lot of dark corners in this old trash heap). This shadow theater winds up to a fever pitch while I'm throwing myself around the cavernous spaces, rearranging furniture and binge cleaning and running from my own thoughts. Suddenly I'm filled with a desperate sort of hope as I see an old dust-covered pleather guitar bag in the corner and pretty much rip it open to claw at the songs I can almost see glowing inside.   

I have no idea how to play the guitar but I know what music sounds like and so I turn the knobs on the cheap thing until it sounds good when all the strings play together. It’s missing some parts and I have no clue what I'm even singing about, but I've nothing else to combat the looming death in the empty places of that night and somehow filling my enclave with such simple sounds seems to transform the doom. 

The noises I'm singing start sounding like words, and the words start to shape themselves into a story, and the story starts to truly soothe me. I sing this lullaby to myself over and over again, really believing that I am not alone. I know that whomever is singing "I am here, my son" is using my own voice to sing it to me.  

I'm crying and asking whatever power is offering me this song to also allow me to remember this night and this song so that someday I'll be able to share it and the peace it brought me in that moment.  

Six months later I am recording a "demo" that I will never use, but I'm full-time learning to be a musician mode. I have decided to sing my own songs for a living, and I give away the contents of my warehouse. 

Two years after that I'm in NYC at an industry showcase having just signed my new band Motopony's first record. We are playing to a full house at a legendary (to me) rock club called the Mercury.  The lullaby didn't make the cut, but that’s okay with me since I want to be a rock and roll band. 

Several years later, I am nearing the finish line on the band's second album.  I've toured the country several times and had my songs on cable and network television and even in a few movies. When a friend asked me to come and teach a workshop on creativity for writers, I jumped at the chance.  I absolutely love talking about and teaching the creative process. 

This is where I meet Kelle and before we head to our cabins on the first evening of the retreat, someone asks me to sing a lullaby to cap the night. This song springs up at me from my heart, but I haven't sung it in years so I hem and haw about the lighting while I get ready to be so vulnerable with strangers. Someone turns all the lights in the room out....and I just sing. 

I know the words like they were written on the back of my eyes. "I am here my son", my mother and my maker sing to me from beyond the veil of death....with my own voice. It was a powerful kind of moment, when the lights go back on, there are quite a few tears graciously decorating the beautiful faces around us.   

A few days later Kelle and I are talking about the moment, and she says that she wants to share the song. I sheepishly realize I've never properly recorded it. Inspired by her desire to share it, I take the money that I earned from playing music at the retreat and book my friend Graig's studio for the next day.   

That was yesterday morning.   

When I sit down to record I take a sip of my tea and try to get my mind and body to cooperate with one another. Recording is kind of like coaxing a goat onto a bicycle. You take something wild and naturally ornery like a performance and try and get it to sit just so and balance just so and play nice with the microphones and the amplifiers. For whatever reason, I just don't feel right.   

I’m suddenly inspired to "go jog around the block" (which if you knew me would surprise you as much as it does Graig). I plod out of there thinking that I just need to get my blood going, and head directly down the street toward what I think is a park on the next block. The tall wire fence around the park seems a little fishy but for whatever reason there is a me-sized gap right where the road dead ends into the grass. I'm already through the fence and a few steps in before I realize I'm not in a park at all and my mind does that funny flip-flop feeling while it registers what it can’t seem to compute.  A huge headstone looms out from behind a tree with the word "MOTHER" blazing in granite from the top.   

I kind of just stop there.   
Stop jogging.   
Stop posturing.  
Stop trying to "get my blood going".   
This isn't about my blood.   
It’s about my heart.   

I'm a child again, pretending to be a man.  

I sluff about the graves for a bit like a wet muppet. I'm seeing the "mother" word over and over. Instead of asking myself how there could be a whole graveyard of mothers down the street from Graig's house, I find a bench to sit and consider the magic that has lead me to this moment.   

They aren't all mothers you know, sometimes you just see what you want to see.  I totally believe in this kind of magic; in fact it happens to me like this all the time. I take it in. The death, the memories of being alone in Tacoma, the tears I saw when I remembered the song.   

I let myself be grateful for the past seven years, and realize that this day is sort of an answer to a prayer I prayed when the first song came. I head back to the studio in a kind of daze and spend the rest of the day really letting myself feel this song for you. Letting myself believe that I have the right to share it with you.  

It has taken me seven years to record this and I now understand why.  

That night seven years ago I felt so much peace from the song, and I instinctively hoped and asked that I could be the kind of person who was able to share the same peace with people.   

It may seem obvious that the way one would share that peace is by singing the song, but I guess it took me a while to see myself as a singer who has the power to channel something that wonderful, even though I had just been the singer that channeled it for myself.  

How do I get to be the person that is willing to believe that much in myself?  How do I stand in the shoes of the man who brings peace and healing and hope into the world?  

So much of this industry is built on sexy rock-star dreams. There is this pervasive idea all around me that I am a machine to make money. Fans are for using and taking fame from and songs are for selling automobiles and cellphone carriers.  

But that’s not how it started for me. I wanted to HEAL! Just like the music was healing me. I guess I'll have to listen to the voice in me that says I am not alone, the voice that says I was loved before I was even realized.  

I'm so grateful for the opportunity to share this song with you and for Kelle seeing it for what it was. The reminder of who I am at my core is precious and I will thank her for it for the rest of my career.  Please enjoy and share it with anyone you know who needs to be reminded they are not alone.   

"A wizard is never late. He arrives precisely when he means to."  -Gandalf the Grey

Hero's Lullaby:

I found a quote on Motopony’s site that ironically pulls it all together. It’s about the music, but it also explains our experience—last week, today, tomorrow: “A lot of the harmony I see in nature is that strange juxtaposition of worlds that don’t seem like they should collide, that effortlessly seem to be happening in tandem and you can’t take out one piece. You can’t run from it.”

Wednesday, April 16, 2014

Finding Your Voice: Write Doe Bay

“We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.”
—    Anais Nin

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Well, hell. I guess it’s time to write a post.

There’re 3,400 miles between where I’m sitting right now and where I spent the bulk of last week. That’s a lot of space, and I’m swimming in it—treading water somewhere between a living room on Orcas Island where I shared an incredible experience with 36 people, and the living room of my own home where two kids are currently being pushed in a laundry basket, their laughter a different kind of music than what accompanied us last week.

Write Doe Bay was an experience. I don’t think anyone really knew what to expect walking in, even though we wrote our intentions on that first day—intentions like “find my voice” and “remove my creative block”—but I do know I personally didn’t expect to be so stirred by the weekend and the people who shared it with us.

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Photo Credit: Jesse Michener

I’ve tried to put my finger on what it was exactly that has left so many of us in this “Wow” haze. I mean, I dropped Nella off at preschool yesterday, noticed Dash was asleep in the back seat, and I drove. For an hour. To nowhere in particular--north four miles, east three more--listening to music, honoring the space of peaceful thought in my head.

Of all the memorable elements of Doe Bay—the landscape, the vulnerability, the stories, the meals, the music, the deep discussions on art and sharing and the creative process, the notebooks that opened blank and closed full of stories—I keep coming back to connection. We want to connect. We want to see and be seen.

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Detached from the noise of the outside world, surrounded by cliffs and ocean, bonded by music and shared meals, confined to cabin space that held both hilarious stories and secret insecurities, we connected last week. And that felt really good. When we missed our kids, when we questioned what we wore, when we evaluated what we write and why we write it, when we took a different look at the life we left at home to travel far, when we scanned the room and searched for shreds of "you're just like me", when we asked questions, searching for answers that would line up our differences, when we felt out of place and uncomfortable, those connections we made felt good. Assuring, forgiving, uplifting, honest, relatable, insightful, hopeful--all of the things I want my writing to be.

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Photo Credit: Jesse Michener 

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Connection is where writing begins. Maybe not writing, but story-telling.  Anyone can write—study great sentence structure, learn about perspective and tense and details, say something interesting—but story-telling begins with connection and telling one's truth. If we can do that in our writing—connect to a person, an experience, an emotion, a new perspective— we possess the ability to affect someone else's story. Writing connects people.

We shared stories last week.
Words and music.
Pain and mundane.
Sorrow and celebration.
All of it was important.

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Photo Credit: Jesse Michener

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Photo Credit: Jesse Michener
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Thank you so much to my friends at Blue Q who stand by this whole "what I really want to say..." bit. They sent socks for every Write Doe Bay participant, so that whenever we feel creatively blocked, our feet can speak for us.

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More on Daniel Blue tomorrow. I learned so much from this artist and song writer.

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Realizing I was hanging on to some memories from the weekend that heightened this idea of our experience as "another world", I remembered my skydiving experience from my twenties today. Surprisingly, I was one of the only dive rookies on the plane, surrounded by die-hard free fallers.

Sky diving was their life—waking up every morning, checking the weather, calling friends to confirm that flights were still a go, packing chutes for the two hundred forty-seventh time.  They lived to dive and dived to live. Some of them even worked the food stand outside the skydive center in exchange for free flights. The thing is, they found something in that experience—something they didn’t find in real life—or at least not to the extreme they felt while skydiving. Combined—the sense of family created between friends, the thrill of overcoming fear, the freedom of sky and space and a limitless view of the world beneath them, the clarity that came in those clouds, the wind prevailing over all the confusing noise of the world—it was so good, they decided this is what they wanted to do in life. Dive out of planes every day to feel brave and free and aware of their place in the world. After my dive—the one I was terrified to make in the first place—it all made sense. The freedom I felt was addicting, and for a split second I thought that maybe I too could take a year off and work the food stand. Become friends with Ace and T.J. and all the other dive guys who ditched their real names when they traded a career and family for the repeated experience of free fall every day.

I felt that a little bit coming home. I wanted to dive again. Head back to Doe Bay with my family. Return to the security of those walls, that island, that space--the perfect subculture of vulnerability and exhilaration, freedom and friendship. But real life is here, and everything we experienced fully concentrated and at our finger tips on Doe Bay can also be found right where we are. We just have to be willing to see it. So we bring our truth, our voice, our vulnerability and our trust to the people around us. I'm looking forward to weaving everything I learned last week into new experiences right here.

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Photo Credit: Jesse Michener

Fifteen minutes before our plane landed back in Naples (after a red-eye, 8-hour, 2-flight experience), I told Heidi, "We never wrote intentions for how we're going to go home--what we learned. Quick--get a piece of paper." Grabbing pencils, we both dug through our purses for paper scraps. On the back of my boarding pass, I wrote the following intentions:

I intend to be more present with my family and make conscious efforts to say "no" to noise.

I intend to confidently stand by my work, my beliefs and who I am.

I intend to stretch beyond my stereotypes of others, who I think they are and work hard to understand their underlining story. I intend to recognize that when I perceive people are very different from me, it's often based on my own insecurities.

I intend to make more time for my own free writing. No excuses: "Bitches get shit done," as a lovely participant put it.

I intend to find more ways to implement what I love to do--the specific gifts and talents God gave me--into my life and work.

I intend to create more opportunities to quietly and attentively focus on my own needs for creative space.

I intend to fully accept myself and my own story; when we truly do that, the less we need love and the more we can efficiently give love.

What does this have to do with writing and creating? For me, everything.

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Of course, I give myself room to be human. But it felt good to write them down.

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Hats off to every story-teller who showed up to Doe Bay last week. You traveled far, you showed up, you listened, you shared, you trusted, you each brought something different, something needed to the experience. I'm still unwrapping the gifts your stories brought--your serious, your funny, your kindness, your strength, your questions, your quiet--you've all left your mark. Every one of you.

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Photo Credit: Jesse Michener

We write, we create, we tell stories to leave a mark.
What will your mark be?


Last week's contributions about leaving my kids for this trip:

Quieting the Things to Do List over at BabyZone


Leaving Kids Without Guilt over at eHow