The cat wakes me at 5am. He slept with the twins and is trapped upstairs. He is usually banished from the sleeping quarters at night, but Nicky begged to sleep with him. I tried to take the cat out of their room before I went to bed, but he was draped on Nicky’s chest, face comfortably tucked into my little boy’s neck. I couldn’t bring myself to separate them.

So I reluctantly pull myself out of my warm bed to free the yowling cat before he wakes the entire family. After his release, I stumble in darkness back to bed and hope for sleep to return.

But something is wrong. I feel the nagging seed of dread deep in my belly. It takes my tired brain a moment to pinpoint the source and then I remember…I am going away today. Apprehension washes over me and I am now completely awake.

An incredibly talented friend of mine is hosting a women’s crafting workshop on Cape Cod this weekend. She has been advertising it for months and has asked me if I wanted to attend many times, but I never had any interest. I can craft with the best of ’em, but the idea of spending a whole weekend doing it-especially with a bunch of people I don’t know very well- did not appeal to me one bit.

But two days before the workshop, something happened: the idea of going popped into my head and would not leave. Something deep inside me whispered, “Go.” Before I thought it through, I texted my friend and asked if there was still room. The next thing I knew, I was packing sheets and towels and preparing to sleep in a room with strangers. What the hell did I do? The sinking feeling in my gut tells me not to go, but I have committed. “How bad can it be?” my other voice asks. I am going to the ocean, for goodness sake! I take a moment to appreciate this privilege and remind myself to be open. I have to honor whatever impulse it was that called me to this workshop. I have to have some faith in that inner voice.

I arrive after dark and am a bit disoriented. FullSizeRender (6)






My GPS has lead me to my destination, so I haven’t even seen my surroundings. I haven’t even glimpsed the ocean. Disappointment creeps in. I walk into a warm, inviting house full of strangers. Everyone is friendly, but I am way out of my comfort zone. I am led up the creaky stairs to the campy room that I will share with three other women. I have never done this before. I like to go on weekend escapes, but I always, ALWAYS, have my own room. Shit. Shit. Shit. I should not have come. I want to flee, but I am four hours from home. I sit in the drafty (shared!) bathroom and take some deep breaths. I try again to remember the instinct that caused me to send that damn text inquiry in the first place, but whatever it was has been smothered by this ridiculous, disproportionate fear. The only thing that comes to me is the Eleanor Roosevelt quote: “You must do the thing you think you cannot do.”

And then I remember that I am at a crafting workshop and not preparing for battle.  

My “grow the hell up and get your ass downstairs” voice forces me out of the bathroom and into the mass of unfamiliar women. I get something to eat and drink and settle on the couch. I relax a teeny, tiny bit. But then the hosts introduce the next crafting project and everyone seems to be enthusiastic but me. 

photo by em

photo by em

The pit in my stomach grows. I am tired. The doubt tries to get hold again: “These are not my people.” “This is not my thing.” “What was I thinking?”  

As the others dive into their project, I quietly sneak away to my strange, cold bed. Before I crawl in, I consciously take a moment-just a moment- to abandon my self-pity. I close my eyes and appreciate the fact that I have a weekend to myself, away from the demands of my family, and that I am indeed at the ocean, even though there is no evidence of it yet.

When I open my eyes, I see that one of my roommates has entered the room. She has a soft, kind voice and lovely aquamarine eyes. I know in an instant that this is a beautiful soul. She quietly excuses herself and begins meditating in her corner of the room. I turn off my light and snuggle into my flannel covers. My belly finally relaxes as we breathe together in the dark. I close my eyes, but now I see some light.

I wake before the sun. I know the ocean is out there somewhere and I must find it. My meditation parter is in synch and quietly descends the stairs with me. We silently make tea in the kitchen as I prepare for the worst November can offer. With hat, gloves, down coat and a steaming mug of tea, I step alone into the darkness. I have no idea where the beach is, but the waning moon is out to guide me. I sip my tea and fill my lungs with the cold, November air. Before I even find the ocean, the realization comes to me:

Oh…this is why. This is why I am here.

FullSizeRender 2

I smell the ocean before I see it. I am unsure how to access the beach, but then I notice that the private beach association has kindly left their gate open for me. I walk out onto the deck and receive my gift.


I walk to the waves and sit in the company of both the moon and the sun. It is so beautiful, I am not sure where I should keep my gaze, so I close my eyes and breathe with the ocean.

thank you.

I sit and sit and sit. The sky changes to something more astounding each and every second. The offering is almost too much to take in. But my physical body limits me; I am getting cold. I pull myself away and head back to the house.

The house is now awake. Morning yoga is being offered. I roll out my mat and am met by it’s comforting, familiar scent. I move my body and feel my strength.

thank you.

Some angel has prepared breakfast and we eat together. The crafts begin again. They are not projects that I am drawn to, but I know I want to be in the room with these women. I decide to work on something for my children. I let my anxiety go and I talk and listen and create. There are 19 women at this retreat:  19 different styles, 19 different perspectives, 19 different lives. We all have something to offer. I listen. I share. I learn.

One of my dear friends arrives and I am thrilled to see her lovely face. She has come to offer bodywork to anyone in the group that is interested, so I don’t see her most of the day. She finally emerges from her room as the sun goes down in the sky. She catches my eye and nods her head to the outside. I get my coat.

Together we share the gift of the sunset.FullSizeRender (3) We talk. We dive deep.

thank you.

Back at the warm house, the crafting continues. I get it now, this creating in community thing. We are all given the same project, yet each woman has a different set of skills and expectations. The end result is always beautiful and uniquely her own. It is about creating an object, but it is also about conversation and connection and sharing. All of that will live within these creations.

I sleep later the next morning. I have tea on the deck of the house overlooking the marsh. The day is delightfully mild for November. I am joined by my lovely friend, a cardinal, a flock of geese and a great heron.

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thank you.

Then it is time to go. Our group does a closing circle where we all join hands and share a piece of gratitude for the weekend. Our connection grows stronger with each proclamation. When we are finished I am filled to overflowing.

thank you.

Before we all disperse, I seek out my meditation partner. She creates a line of greeting cards that I love. I ask her to choose some for me. She looks me in the eye, smiles and accepts the task. When she hands them to me she thanks me for letting her choose. “I enjoyed that,” she says warmly. I take my treasures back to my car and look at them in private. My eyes fill.

reflected in the cellophane are me and my lovely friend. I gifted this card to her because she, too, is brave.

reflected in the cellophane are me and my lovely friend. I gifted this card to her because she, too, is brave. card by Susa Talan


She is right.


This was happening at the Keene, NH Pumpkin festival, too…




Oh the water lilies. See how they seem
to open wider out of their own opening?

Let me unfold like that—without thinking,

without assuming I’m already open enough.

Do not let me close up, all stiff and stoic,

like a walnut that will not crack.

Don’t let me become the one who groans

when someone else starts to rhapsodize

about the fragrant wisteria in spring.

Why is being hardened a respectable, desirable thing?

Let me be soft. Let me always sigh as I bite

into ripe watermelon, juice spilling in runnels

of pink down my chin, down my neck.

Let someone else stand beside the waterfall

and explain how its negative ions work,

and let me be the one getting drenched

and falling in love with the sheen on the rocks.

Let me not leave my signature like the woodpecker,

but let me chant endlessly on summer nights

in the way that the whippoorwill does.

And why not? Why not praise the slender-bodied weasels

who turn white then honest brown?

Both colors are equally lovely. Why not enthuse

over the bulky walrus that has adapted to stay warm?

Oh let me be warm and give that warmth back to the world.

It’s so easy to turn cold, to poke fun, to accuse, to be cool.

Let me be a fool. Let my thoughts of how the world should be

jump away like a mob of wallabies. Let me not find pleasure

in making things small or putting others down

or rolling my eyes or criticizing. Let me be silly.

And gushing with praise for whatever

is the nearest thing I see—

a twig in the rain, a rock on the trail,

a red leaf that has already let go.

“Unapologetic” from  

~Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer

All about Me

Friday morning. The lunches are packed. The kids are getting to school at 7:59:59 am. I am ready.

I’m taking off for the weekend. I’m running away and not making another meal for anyone but myself for two solid days.

I need to breathe.

I need to think.

I need to sleep for as long as I please.

I have a glorious life, one that I wouldn’t change, but I need to step away from it every now and then-step away and step back into myself.

I have to take time out of life to reconnect, to hear my soul. If not, life can soon become drudgery and that is a terrible thing.

Oh, I take some time every day for me. I do my meditations and enjoy my walks and yoga.

But I still need to run away. I still need a big chunk of time every couple of months to make it all about me.

Most of the time, the needs of others fill my days. I’m okay with it-it’s my job and one that I love.

But all jobs have days off, except the job of MOM.

That’s why it needs to be created. It needs to be built in. And no one’s gonna do it but Mom herself. The recipients of all of Mom’s hard work are happy to have her keep working-they don’t want her to leave. They like being taken care of. So they may not even notice when Mom is wearing out. In the end, it’s gonna be up to Mom to take care of Mom. She needs to be on the list, too.

She has to be, or she may not make it.

Oh, it won’t be a dramatic exit. It will be an insidious chipping away of her spirit. Little by little, day by day, she will get worn down and, eventually, she will have nothing left to give. And since giving is what we Mom’s do best, the emptiness will feel bad. Really bad.

No one likes bad.

So off I go. After years of these excursions, my family understands. Of course, they would rather I stayed home, but somehow they get that this benefits everyone in the long run.

Or maybe they just know that this is no longer optional.

I am going. 

It’s time for it to be All about Me.

This is where I'll be sitting.

This is where I’ll be sitting.



Goodbye. I love you. See you Sunday. xo