Ralph Waldo Emerson once wrote “The only person you are destined to become is the person you decide to be.”

Over three decades ago, I decided to become a writer after a back injury defeated my dancer dreams. I’ve plodded through more rejection, fear, and self-doubt than anticipated, but writing has been immensely satisfying and sustaining.

If you’re among the 132 people who subscribed to my newsletter this month, welcome! I’m glad you found me. I hope you’ll find inspiration and support in my posts. 
 
Most months, I receive around five new subscribers, at most ten. I’m not sure what’s changed, but I’m grateful.

​A cleaning service sent a new housekeeper to my home. I set her up at the kitchen counter, covered with tarnished platers, flatware, and serving bowls. I’d also procured a mound of soft rags and purchased a new bottle of silver polish. 
 

​I’m sure you’ve heard the expression Be careful what you wish for….
 
Four weeks ago, driving home from Camp Scripps, I thought, I need a three-week vacation. ​

​​Years ago, on a solo trip, reeling from rejections in my writing practice, I met a hunched, elderly shopkeeper at Taos Pueblo who winced with pain as she rubbed her neck. I offered her a massage. Her dark eyes twinkled as she nodded and led me to her small back room. The warm air smelled of earth and woodsmoke.

In response to my feedback this week, a gifted writing circle member listened carefully, furrowed her brow, and said she could boil my comments down to two words: “Less hiding.”

“Yes!” I told her. “Exactly. I want more of you in the story.”

She smiled and nodded. I could tell she understood.

Only some people comprehend this directive. Or they grasp it, but it makes them squeamish.

Today is my mother’s birthday. She’s been gone twelve years. In many ways, she was our family’s glue. I returned home for reunions regularly, but less so after she passed. The pandemic crimped that pattern further. It had been five years since I’d seen my nieces and nephews, and I hadn’t met their children. My husband and I finally went back East and made the rounds to four households in two states, plus squeezed in business in a third. Mom would have loved it.

​​Today, I’m facilitating my last Winter 2024 writing circle. Two groups ended last week. As usual, we performed our final day’s “appreciations,” which happens before we say goodbye. These expressions of gratitude are spontaneous and begin with offering comments about what I treasure in each person/writer. 

​My chest tightened as I listened to fellow cast members perform their stories two days before the show. What am I doing among award-winning storytellers? I wondered. Must I follow a Moth GrandSLAM Champion and share a stage with professional actors?

On January 1, Robyn Ryle’s Substack landed in my inbox. A sociologist and author, Robyn writes about culture, mindfulness, and writing. In her piece subtitled, “This is not a New Year’s Post,” Robyn says she dislikes the idea of linear time inherent in “the whole New Year’s mess,” which makes us “anxious about our impending deaths.”