Navigate / search

  • Out of the Mouths of Babes

    This blog series on motherhood and creativity explores The Village: Who else is here while you mother? Join us Saturday, March 7, 2015 at Dewey Historic Hall in Sheffield, MA at 7PM. The Out Posts

  • Powder Keg Sessions

    Ignite your voice in the next Powder Keg Sessions: Writing Workshops for Mothers and Others. I lead two different Sessions in the Berkshires. Our first public reading is Feb. 22, 2015 at 2 PM at No. Six Depot in West Stockbridge, MA. Follow the fuse

  • Mapping Motherhood in Charlotte, NC!

    Come explore the territory of motherhood with writing and mixed media. Space is limited. April 18 10 AM- 4PM Right this way

  • Anthology of Babes is here.

    Do you feel alone in your mothering? An Anthology of Babes is the voice in the room who urges you to come play, pick up your knitting needles, a pen, a paintbrush, to answer your creative yearnings. Read on

The Village: My man is a handy man

Painting by Terry Wise
Painting by Terry Wise

There is something that hasn’t been said yet in this blog series on The Village: Who else is here while you mother?  When I sent out the submission guidelines for the Out of the Mouths of Babes blog series for 2015, I figured at least one writer would touch on partnership, having partnership or not having it, living with someone who shares parenting with you, living without that, about loosing a partner or gaining a partner, or finding something new and exciting about your partner after all these years.

No matter what the topic, in this vast territory of motherhood, which we explore with our pens and paintbrushes, there are canyons full of bad memories and hard feelings, posted with signs that say, “Let’s just not go there.”

And, it seems, that partnership might be one of those cordoned off, “No trespassing” places. Today, one of my Out sisters, Amanda Magee, sent me her post that she’d submitted to the Modern Love department of the New York Times. While I am sorry they turned her submission down, it does mean her post will run tomorrow, here on Laundry Line Divine.

Stuff I see online stirs me. Today is #TBT, throwback Thursday, when people across social media, especially on Instagram, post old photos. I never get it together to do this on Thursday. But Amanda’s post had me thinking about my husband, Jonathan, so I hauled out this photo of him, taken by our pal Keith, when our first child, Ben, was four days old. We are in our tiny little apartment. He, for one, had not shaven in days. There are hardly any photos viable for public sharing of me because, well, let’s just say I hadn’t shaved in days either.


A photo posted by Suzi Banks Baum (@suzibb) on

But seeing J’s hands on Ben’s bottom, the steadiness of his gaze, the set of his jaw, the calm in his body brought me right back to the founding days of our Village. It was here, with a new baby, that our friends gathered round, sent us gifts, called and showed up to hold Ben, coo and claim favorites, where the stakes were placed around our nubile family and we moved from a couple to a Village. These little clues got me writing.

Jonathan and I met when we were both emerging from very bumpy rides, lurching off the wobbly wooden roller coasters of bad relationships to the sidewalk of newfound serenity and burgeoning positive outlooks. We were both broke. We were both recovering from being badly rattled by those rides we’d taken with other people. We met and carefully, okay- we dove right in to each other like starving cats. I cannot lie. We pretended to go slowly for the sake of safety and decorum. But from the first we knew, or let’s say I knew, because this is my story and not his, I was sure that this man from a very different background than me, with a very different career path, who had nothing but an interest in theatre, was the man for me.

We did wait for lots of legal and reasonable time to pass before deciding to wed. Close friends knew things were changing for both of us. He had family stuff going on. I lived in a room in Queens filled to the ceiling with the contents of my life, since I’d never bothered to unpack. I’d landed off that bad rollercoaster ride and hunkered down like a Collier brother among boxes of books, making a neat path between my bed and the door. The windows were clear. There was light. But no room for another human.

Unless that human was very skinny and this guy fit.

We spent a few years getting clear of our entanglements. We got married and almost a year to the day after our wedding, Benjamin was born. And four days after that, this photo was taken.

Something foundationally important to our marriage happened on the first days of Ben’s life
. We lived in a tiny apartment. When we’d conglomerated our belongings, we stuck what fit in to the apartment and everything else waited in a storage unit for the day when we’d have space to spread out. Picture a one-room apartment with a postage stamp kitchen and a bathroom and hallway with a closet. The only place you could go to be alone was the bathroom, unless you fit in the closet.

In order for me to continue what J knew to be my daily practice of writing in my journal for 45 minutes early in the morning, he had to mobilize- as in get out of the apartment. Since I have known him, he swims daily, so pre-baby, this was easy. But, with this little bundle of joy, complications arose. Diapering, nursing, packing Ben in to a sling on J’s chest, the hubbub of it was exhausting and who wants to write after all that? But we worked it out. He was vigilant. I was determined. Ben was content.

And so this man made it possible for me to carve out time to write. I was immersed in new motherhood. I was dripping with joy, literally. But, I had a long established habit of journal writing that was as much a part of my daily routine as, well, you know what you must do daily. As that. I had to write.

What some might call the restrictions of the daily office they find to be an opportunity to foster the inner life. The hours are appointed and named… Life’s fretfulness is transcended. The different and the novel are sweet, but regularity and repetition are also teachers… And if you have no ceremony, no habits, which may be opulent or may be simple but are exact and rigorous and familiar, how can you reach toward the actuality of faith, or even a moral life, except vaguely? The patterns of our lives reveal us. Our habits measure us. Our battles with our habits speak of dreams yet to become real.
-Mary Oliver from Long Life

J’s support of my habit allowed me to foster my inner life, which had just been uprooted and flung around in public by giving birth. As I poured my fretfulness on to my morning pages, our “new normal” became established. So, this guy took our vows to heart. He held me to the best version of myself and does everything in his power to support me in that. He has been a constant echo in the crazy chamber of parenting. I trace my ability to write from inside mothering to those early days when we’d both weather the agita of getting one, then two kids up and out, or down to the kitchen to start the day. Then I’d head back upstairs to a room where I’d close the door and open my journal. As Mary Oliver states so beautifully, the patterns of my life reveal me.

It has taken me many years of these mornings, strung together over time, him driving the kids to school every day, navigating the parking lot conversations and snow boot dramas, while I hover over three blank pages, to begin to sense what Mary suggests as an actuality of my faith. I have found, in my daily practice, a meeting place with spirit, the Divine. If I miss a day of writing because of more pressing needs, illness, upheaval, play performances, doctor visits, you know the list, my faith remains intact. But writing daily lets me rest in it, allows me room to explore, gives me permission to welcome new ideas and weave coherence for myself- making my own map of my motherhood.

Please share this image!
Please share this image!


This morning I read this in Eavan Boland’s A Journey with Two Maps about watching her mother contemplate the painting she had worked on each day:

I depended on that act. It was the first sign of expressive power I saw as a child. The first article of feminine faith.
-Eavan Boland

What I find in the man who founded our Village with me, is a person who supports me in my expressive power as a woman. He stands by the first article of my feminine faith by arranging his early morning so that I have clear time to write. All chaos can break loose after this, but for the most part, he is “Daddy on deck,” as we like to say.

I feel a tickle of argument here, the voices of “yeah, that’s what she has, but look at my life” and the condemnation of not having the courage or ability to discover this faith myself without the support of a partner. I am sticking to my theme here people. When I look around the Village that Hillary tells me that it takes to raise a child, there is my husband making me laugh til milk spurts out my nose, who holds me while I weep, who sat across from me as my mother died and sang the Weenie Man song over her last breaths, who is there at the other end of the phone with the good news and the bad news, and bakes the best lemon bars you ever want to eat.

Maybe you are thinking, well, she has no kids at home this winter. She is likely still in her jammies at noon. Today, you are correct. I have borrowed some of Jonathan’s loyal stand for my writing and given myself more time to work. I have created a business around this and sometimes my work outfit looks just like what I wear to bed.

Like Amanda says, on that early morning in July, Jonathan reminded me that “I am still inside”, no matter what is happening in our Village. He has stayed constant in that commitment and to say I am grateful touches the tip of a great big iceberg.

Look for Amanda’s full post here tomorrow morning.

How about you?
Dare you defy the signs and wander this territory with me?






You are welcome to share this post with your friends. If you are near Berkshire County in western Massachusetts, please join me on March 7 at 7 PM for Out of the Mouths of Babes: An Evening of Mothers Reading to Others. This live event features 9 women reading new work, the premiere of a new short film made by the women of Out titled, The Permission Slip, new work by Berkshire women artists, and some very delicious bedtime snacks. More details here.


Powder Keg Sessions create a Village!

This slideshow requires JavaScript.

Yesterday, the Powder Keg Sessions writing workshop women presented their first public reading at No. Six Depot in West Stockbridge, MA. We are part of the Berkshire Festival of Women Writers reading series. We had a blast. It was such a joy to share this new work, some of it rough, some of it published, but all of it new, original and brave. I am deeply grateful to Lisa Landry and Flavio Lichenthal for hosting us at No. Six.

This gallery of photos are all taken by Lynnette Lucy Najimy of Beansprout Productions. Lynnette and I work together to produce my March 7, Out of the Mouths of Babes: An Evening of Mothers Reading to Others. This year, we have a new element to our presentation- nine women writers and a new short movie titled The Permission Slip which features poet Ingrid Wendt reading her poem, “The Simple Truth.”  Oh please join us. $10. donation at the door, art by Berkshire women artists, socializing over bedtime snacks and more.

Happy Monday all! Brand new week!


The Village: Where do we gather?

Table at No. Six

Where do you meet your friends to talk?
Please don’t tell me “on my texting screen.”
Please tell me a café or for a regular walk or in the parking lot at drop-off or on the subway platform en route to work or at the gym.

Maybe my question needs to be refined:

Where do you meet your friends live and in-person to talk?

Every Village with vitality that I know of has a gathering place. I am sure there are thousands of villages where the inhabitants gather at the water well, but in my town, where our water is fed in to our homes by magical forces we rarely consider, we have to go to more public places to gather in community. Social gathering places are usually within walking distance for most people, or easy to get to, park near or bike to. They are a visible communal place where a variety of people stop at some point during busy days to buy a drink (since we cannot dip in to the well ourselves), sit and visit. Book groups, knitting groups, business meetings, romantic trysts, study dates, first dates, break-up dates, interviews, random visits and spontaneous genius pods all happen in gathering places. There are some people who sit with mobile devices to visit with people not in the room. Most cafes, notably, Starbucks, advertise free Wi-Fi as an attractive attribute. Good or bad is not the question here.

Berkshire Family
Family at the Housie Market

Lifting your head up though and looking at someone across the table from you is. Just this week a community in Davis, California mourns the closing of a coffee shop, which holds a long legacy of community and conversation, to make way for new development. The group pictured in front of the coffee shop attests to the slices of a population who frequent such places.

I am more and more convinced of the mental health value of a Village. I am sure Hillary Clinton thought this all through in her book, but I figure we are due for a deeper look at the who, what and where’s of our Villages. As we become more and more connected to the ethereal villages on Facebook and Twitter, the gritty, booger-in-your-nose-and-here-is-a-tissue sort of meet-up has huge sustaining value. I don’t deny the virtue of online socializing. But I am going to be the one hand waving for in-person visiting, for invigorating your Village and going out to meet them. (You could argue that sitting here in my writing room, alone, boogers or not, is going against my plea. But this is my work time. I had one meet-up already today and have another later.)

I have been thinking about the idea of village as I prepare for Out of the Mouths of Babes: An Evening of Mothers Reading to Others. This event that I produce for the Berkshire Festival of Women Writers features women writing from inside motherhood, inside the experience of woman as mother. This year we are exploring the question The Village: Who else is here while you mother? Opening this topic has provided a wide-range of responses, memories and desires about what constitutes a Village. Just yesterday, on my Village post, Vanessa commented about how she interacts with her Village through writing letters, sending packages and cards. She navigates being overwhelmed by in-person visits by slowing down to send mail. Not everyone is geared for gathering out in the world. (Somehow, this makes me think of being in church, where week after week, we’d sit together, separate a certain way and together in another way. Some people would stay for coffee hour, others would scoot out. Knowing your appetite is key.)

Gathering places are important. My stepfather, a man never drawn to fast-food establishments, went to a hamburger place for his weekly “bull sessions”. That particular restaurant served his favorite green tea, so he was a happy citizen, there with his seven other elder statesmen, sharing stories every week. My husband goes to coffee with his swimming buddies, guys who are out early in the morning at our local indoor pool, long before work hours begin. One could do an interesting study on the characteristic groups of people who move through cafes at various times of the day. Gathering places reflect an ethnography of a Village.

For many years, my knitting circle met in a local café. We got to be affectionate with the owners, showering them with hand-knit baby gifts for each of their daughters. We made a set of potholders celebrating that café in honor of the hours we spent there knitting and laughing, knitting and crying, knitting and holding among us this spirit of togetherness that can happen when you are present.

Decafe No. Six

I like to write in cafes. I like to set up at a table with a view and keep my gaze to myself and write. Eavesdropping is a thrill. Chai calls me. That inevitable 4 PM slump can often be reversed by a stop at the coffee shop to fuel up. But for years, with little kids, stopping in cafes was something we only did on vacation or to pick-up lunch as a treat. We didn’t linger as a family in a café, because what kid likes to sit down for that long? My kids did learn to like reading in a café, mostly because of the varied snack options and the air of sophistication reading in a public place portrays. But during the years when they were small, food-getting places, like cafes, were mostly seen as practical and often extravagant indulgences.

Now that they are older, we love spend an hour or two reading and sipping a cup of tea in a café. My daughter has her own stories about the vagaries of being on the other side of the counter at a local coffee shop. But as a family, when we want to linger over coffee and talk, our favorite spot is No. Six Depot in West Stockbridge.

CBB at No. Six
Cat at No. Six Depot


Owners Lisa Landry and Flavio Lichtenthal have created a beautiful Village gathering place in West Stockbridge, MA. In this poignant and practically fragrant video made by Dylan Cole-Kink about No. Six, Flavio speaks about what he and Lisa set out to do with No. Six Depot. Flavio is devoted to roasting his own coffee beans which he calls a “humbling endeavor.” He embraces the social influences of the tradition of coffee as both symbol and commodity fully and illuminates the ritual of a village gathering over coffee in mid-afternoon. Lisa and Flavio offer their space, the food and drink, as “catalysts for gathering.”

No. Six Depot from Dylan Cole-Kink on Vimeo.

I am grateful that Lisa and Flavio are hosting the first public reading of the Powder Keg Sessions women writers this Sunday, Feb. 22 at 2 PM. The characteristic dignity and beauty they put forth in the café are reflected in the events they host. Our reading celebrates the common and complex act of writing and the brave step of sharing that work with an audience who gathers to honor the effort. No. Six is a great backdrop for this event.

You can read more about the event here. And, for another day, I will write about the exhibit of my hand-bound journals that I hung on the walls of No. Six just last night. The photos here tell some of that story. The show runs through March 31, so go up and experience some of the generous beauty available in West Stockbridge.

For more on Western Mass. cafes and coffee houses, go here.
For more information about the Powder Keg Sessions writing workshops for women, go here.

And until then, take a look at your Village.
Where does your Village gather?
Wrap a scarf around your noggin and brave the February chill and go get warm somewhere.
Meet a friend. Bring a tissue. Let me know what happens.


Erika Nelson

Everything Fits

(for Suzi)

All of life fits into a walnut-shell

that you found at the base of

the tree in your front yard

under a pile of miscellaneous sticks.

Before you slide the halves

back together,

you whisper all your secrets

in to the crack, filling it with words.

Then you seal it for good

and slip it into the pocket

of your apron for safekeeping.





photo by Lynnette Lucy Najimy
photo by Lynnette Lucy Najimy

Erika Nelson is one of the writers in the Powder Keg Ramsdell Sessions.

You can hear her and many other brave women read new work on February 22, 2015 at No. Six Depot in West Stockbridge, MA at 2 PM. This free event is open to the public. Come buy a cup of really good coffee and sup on the sweet deep rich words of these emerging writers.

Yearning: Tell Me Yours & I Will Tell You Mine

Cups up at Bascom Lodge, Mount Greylock, MA


Velvet magenta maple against a golden oak.

Rain soaked leaves around the compost bin.

Nuthatch upside down on the feeder.

The clink of my husband’s spoon on his mid-morning oatmeal.

My fingers are chilly. I keep it cold in my morning writing space.


I am in the center of something I started in 2009.

from one of my first Laundry Line Divine posts...setting forth on an adventure to parts unknown
from one of my first Laundry Line Divine posts…setting forth on an adventure to parts unknown


In the nearly six years I have been blogging here on Laundry Line Divine, I have developed something I had no idea I was heading in to. When I started this website, I was writing in the few free hours I had between my responsibilities as a mother at home, as a gardening teacher and all the other ways I spent my hours.

My mother was in the middle of her descent in to Alzheimer’s disease.

I had just had a complete hysterectomy and thankfully, did not have any complications from all the unknowable horribles that lurked around my life that year.


I was simply a mother writing my experience.

I was attempting to build my author platform.

I was putting wheels under my work in the world.

I began experimenting with speaking up and out.


Since that time, my life has changed dramatically.

I am still a Mom.

I still work from home.

I am still researching how to speak my own truth.


But so much looks different.

I have developed a body of work around mothering and creativity.

I produce events for a local writing festival and teach at conferences.

I teach two different writing workshops locally and have led over 60 art and writing workshops in the last three years.

I have published an anthology of 36 women’s voices about the creative lives of mothers.

I have one son in college.

I have on daughter in high school.

I have one German exchange daughter in my home right now, and two others in Munich who call me their US Mom.

My own mother has been dead for four years this past October 10.

I am 56 years old.


And I am still filled with the same yearning that made me start to write in the first place. I didn’t set out to become a writer. I didn’t set out to teach. I just began taking my own writing seriously enough to budget time in my week for a little solitude. As I warmed to this practice, I noticed a longing within me that had been masked by the chaos of mothering. I sensed a yearning that is taking me years to describe. I began to feed it by offering myself small windows of time within my days at home to make something for the simple pleasure of making. I began, slowly, to let what I longed for- which was some sort of affirmation that this mothering path was the right one, that this work is enough, this relentless, challenging and joyful work is where I am supposed to be-to let that direct me, like a rudder. Rather than finding distraction from my mothering life, I began to see what I was doing as important enough to consider it sacred. This most ancient of responsibilities, being a mother, could, despite what our culture has told us for generations, be important and valuable.

In those early days of writing, I told stories of how I lived my days here in the Berkshires. I live in a small town surrounded by woods and farmland, in a county peppered with other small towns and people who work to run this community and sustain the systems that make this sort of life possible. I had lived in Manhattan for many years. I knew what that life was like. And I knew, in my heart, that raising our children outside a metropolitan area would allow me to spread out a little, not spend every waking hour in busyness and give us all space to be outside and to live slowly.


Benjamin and Suzi 1997


Slow became my mantra. Slow is not always my reality. But by being as slow as toddlers studying ants on the sidewalk, as slow as candle flame at 2 AM when I am awake with worry and hot milk, I found a new way of being.

I began to hear what I longed for. I was happy with the decision I’d made to stay at home to mother. I thought we’d have four children. I lived through several very sad miscarriages and a few years of trying to get pregnant again and again, before I arrived at this size of our family being enough. I could make my way with this crew and meet a few community needs without too much frantic living. I gardened with kids for many years. I learned new skills, studied yoga and taught. I carved a life of doing around my children’s needs. I knit. I made jam. And I hung my wash outside on a cotton rope.


But I could not shake the calamity of my heart. There was a voice within me that said, “really? This is it?” My own mother had been bored with being home-bound with children. Out of necessity and self-preservation, she taught for nearly all the years of our growing up. I was not bored so much as deflated by the reality that motherhood merited no real value in our culture but for keeping the kids out of traffic and getting food on the table. I could see how advertising and merchandising were designed to supply our every need, every style shift and every worry. But I found little that spoke to the soul of a woman who mothers.

This afternoon I walked near a house where a young family lives. The sky was gray, a cold fall wind made me draw my sweater collar up around my ears. The wool could not muffle the piercing cries of an infant I heard as I walked quietly by this small house. Instantly propelled to a similar afternoon of my own, I was standing by the sink with a red-faced inconsolable baby in my arms. I knew the gut dropping feeling of the mother of this squalling child. I knew the inch-march of the clock through a relentlessly tedious afternoon, where a nap is fruitless, dinner a puzzle, and no end is in sight. I knew how much, in those moments, I wanted to be mothered or at least accompanied or witnessed. The isolation of those moments, the shame-tide that rises around your ankles for not being a better mother, a wiser mother or at least a mother with better snacks on hand soaks in through your grimy sweatpants. It took only a few moments of that baby’s cries to bring me back to a time when any sense of living a productive life had halted and I was lonely, but never truly alone. I thought that since I enjoyed the luxury of being a stay-at-home mom that I had nothing to complain about. It should not be so hard, right? I am not putting on hose and heels and getting out to an office, right? History has not helped to ease entry in to mothering, with damning portraits of women chopping up their children or driving them in to lakes only to be countered with the lambs and rosebuds we stencil over the cozy cribs in upstairs bedrooms.

The conversation about parenting is changing. There is more writing and art in the world made by women who are comfortable stating that they are mothers. There are many more ways today, that mothering is seen as a choice, as a lifestyle and as something to be planned for and perhaps even supported by our corporate structures.

Reality is life-blown-open-and-apart, no matter what your situation- whether you have a natural childbirth or a C-section, whether you grind your baby’s food, nurse on the subway or let the nanny make those decisions- your life is unalterably altered when you become a mother. I wanted to know if it was possible to express this, to talk about what gives me comfort, what inspires me and what leads me. I found myself rather alone in this quest. I didn’t feel endorsed to talk about myself. There was lots of discussion and whining on the web, there still is, about the drudgery of teething or the 10 best things your child has taught you. This is good, it is a start, but it does not satisfy my soul.

One of my mentors told me to write what I most wanted to read. What I needed to read. Mary Oliver wrote in Wild Geese, “tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.” Your sorrow and your joys, what sustains you and what clears your mind, I want to know those things. And I think that writing about mine may give you some comfort. Having a small bead on creating this small person, this house for a soul, I wondered if there was something more than practical about the ordinary acts of mothering. I wanted to know I was not alone in yearning for something more, for a deeper connection with Spirit/God/the Universe and with other women. Feeling isolated and ashamed while living in a community kept me alert to what was missing in my life. How could I be lonely? I was always in the company of at least 3 other people and many times, more.

Catherine and Suzi 1999

I have always lived with my creativity active. It is my natural state. My life force is as a maker and I fit my making to the times. Whether I am baking intricate birthday cakes or running the Parent’s Association, knitting for babies in need or building books, I find a way to make and engage through that making. This life force has buoyed me through the worst of times. It has also given me a strength and ability to do things I never dreamed of doing. And I am convinced that supporting women in engaging their creative voices will allow them to discover tools to improve their own lives and the lives of their families.

So my original yearning to find the sacred in mothering and the dovetailing desire to express from inside mothering has provided me with work that keeps me very busy. But it also has pressed me to be accurate in how I behave, to hold my integrity foremost and to be honest about where my priorities are. My children are now 16 and 20. The demands on my time are different now and I have an opportunity to complete sentences, thoughts and projects. I am more able to find ways for my work to be in the world.

This, for me, is a revolution, a huge change from the way things have been for me. Prior to becoming a mother, I pursued a career in theatre, never quite making it, always the one not cast, called back again and again, but not cast. My creativity was fully served by my career as a seamstress, which developed in to couture work, thus my making muscles were engaged, although my heart wasn’t.

And it was my heart that demanded attention.

Engaging my creativity in the service on my own voice was something that I had never done. In the midst of mothering, I discovered I had something to say.

Now, I teach others to do the same thing. I see the ways joy enters lives that were cluttered with sorrow and shame. I see the ways creativity enlivens and expands the horizons of women who thought they’d have to wait decades before they had a chance to speak or work on their own.

Since 2009, “seeing and celebrating the sacred in daily life” has been my mission.

Finding the divine in my ordinary existence- the church of now, discovering a sense of belonging within myself and with other women who express from inside mothering, of discovering my effort is important and worthwhile for the world and not just three people, these are the riches I have gained by pressing in to my creative expression.

Taped to the cover of the spiral bound notebook that was my journal in the months of March to May 2003, is a copy of Judyth Hill’s Wage Peace. Written in response to 9/11, her poem set something in motion with in me. Judyth presented the possibility that a way of being could promote peace. I was home with two young children when the World Trade Center bombings occurred. I did not feel capable of joining teams of volunteers cleaning up rubble or comforting the grieving. I had my hands full. The loss was so great and I felt so small. I carried her poem around with me as a talisman of hope.


Wage peace with your listening:

hearing sirens, pray loud.

Remember your tools:

flower seeds, clothes pins, clean rivers.



Flower seeds?

Clean rivers?

Surely, she had written this poem for me.

I was sure she was telling me that being a mother is enough.

I know she was right. I just had to wake up to that myself.


Next week, I will be away at a writing retreat. I see myself posting from there. As I prepare to leave, I will be dwelling in the heart of my yearning. I would love to hear about yours.


Please comment here or send me an email.

I love hearing from you.

Even if you differ from my point of view, hearing yours is a joy to me.

I appreciate your time reading me here.



With love, S



%d bloggers like this: