“ “I’m sorry there are no make-up days available.” The text from my friend referred to a specific event that had to be cancelled with no chance of rescheduling, but the phrase resonated with something much deeper. It was two weeks after my 50th birthday, and it seemed “there are no make up days,” was a motto for my second half century. “That’s it exactly,” I texted back, “Life is short and there are no make-up days.” Over the coming days and weeks, I became a broken record,

This week, I felt a bit weighed down. I was carrying grief and anxiety and physical pain. I was managing; bowed but not broken. And then the ants arrived. They marched their tiny feet right under the back door and across my kitchen floor. Armed with glass cleaner I fought valiantly, winning many skirmishes. But they were unstoppable. And as my glass cleaner spray bottle got closer and closer to empty, I broke down in tears, seated on the same kitchen floor that was the site o

My dog Sadie rested on the floor while I read. I looked down at her when she audibly farted. Startled, she eyed her own rear with some consternation. I chuckled and went back to my reading. A few minutes later, it happened again, with the same startled reaction from the dog. When it happened a third time, Sadie stood, walked to a different spot in the room, and re-settled herself there, as if her dog bed were the cause of her surprising tushy noises. I laughed out loud and te

The idea for this image has been living rent-free in my brain for about 2 weeks. Now it's also in my sketchbook. I might need to do it again. I can do better on those hands. Also, I forgot her cuffs.

“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