“I would rather lick a cactus.”  I actually said that to someone who I hired to be my coach. It was a small-group mentorship program to teach podcasters how to monetize their shows. I had already been feeling a bit of a mismatch in the program, but when I made my cactus pronouncement, I felt a sense of being trapped. From the front of the Zoom room I was being told that hustling was my only option. “Maybe part of my problem is that I also have a full time job,” I suggested al

My love language has always been artmaking. When I was 6, I drew pictures for my parents as gifts. Family members, teachers, friends, rabbis, and significant others have all received art made my these two hands. In the early days of my time with my ex-poet , I found I wanted something of his to wear or carry. Some small token of him I could touch and remind myself of our connection. I wanted him to have something of me, as well. I gave him a scrimshaw token I had made the yea

I sometimes tell myself stories from a biography of me entitled Very Good But Not Good Enough . This many-chaptered tome is filled with half-truths and lies. However, when I pull it off the shelf and let it fall open in my lap, they appear 100% accurate.  One 25-year-old chapter makes clear I am not worth a lot of effort, and purports to have been written by my grad school boyfriend. A convoluted yet boring chapter conveys the story of my being the only qualified candidate an

Since I have my own podcast — and have been cohost of two others — you might think I'd be over the rush of being a guest on a podcast. You would think wrong! I was recently a guest on Blueprint Breakers with Amy A Palmer , talking about my experience with polyamory and ethical non-monogamy. It was a chance for me to try out some of the insights I've been turning over in my mind. Things like, the fact that I have been doing a form of code switching to ensure I don't make peop

Listen to this essay, as read by the author. I cross paths with a poem. “Tree,” by Jane Hirschfield, ends with the line “Softly, calmly, immensity taps at your life.” This sentence catches in my throat. My shoulders hunch. I am not sure why I feel tears welling. I reread the words. “Immensity taps at your life.” Immensity is the universe. Tap tap. Immensity is God. Tap. Immensity is all the things I am supposed  to be doing with my life, this one life, that I’m not doing. Tap

I. Sex as verse What if sex  were poetry crafted from lust, love, flesh, and breath? Me, I’ve written my fair share.  In my twenties, beat poetry: staccato and strange. Aspiring for experimental and taking itself far too seriously.  (And perhaps too often, a limerick: smile-worthy, anonymous, forgettable.) For a long time, Hallmark poetry. Meaningful, sweet. Predictable.  And then (now), with you.  Both of us writers, stanzas  composed themselves. A couplet when  I called you

I doodled this in my sketchbook this week, and decided to try to recreate it digitally. I'll get better with more practice.

Listen to this post: I don’t remember doing it, but I chose the Wranglers. My mom told the story regularly: “You wanted Jordache jeans, but they were $30 a pair. Wranglers were only 10, so I told you you could have Jordache, but we could only afford one pair. But if you got the Wranglers, you could have three.”  The shopping trip was the new-clothes outing for second grade. It was 1983. The year before, my parents were still together, and Mom “didn’t worry about money as muc

I see you.  See how you try to keep everything  together.  Someone once told you only perfect would do. You believed them. But if you let it, perfect will kill you.  I see how sad you are, how tired. I see the invisible weight bowing your shoulders.  Sometimes the tired  is so heavy it becomes indistinguishable from sad.  But I also see your delight. Wonder Woman  liberated from the laundry room, Evenings spent however you choose. Mornings spent  with coffee and journal  or w