I Want to Tell You

I want to tell you how much I love writing, the way my fingers love the feel of the keys as they type a rhythm of words that match the way I feel. It’s the same way I feel playing piano. The poetry of writing a river and playing the keys makes my soul dance and my heart sing.

I want to tell you that my Almanac is coming together and how much I love creating curriculum around something that truly moves me.  After fifteen years of teaching young learners, it feels quite dreamy to make something for adults. I want to tell you how delighted I feel each time a subscriber takes a chance on this offering. I want to tell you how much it matters to have that external feedback, how it helps me know that I am following the right thread. I want to tell you how much lighter I feel to be following my heart-gut. It feels like a giant leap towards liberation.

I want to tell you about this morning’s early sky. It was the quietest shade of pink against a milky-blue with wisps of white and a tinge of tangerine. It felt soft against my eyes, dreamy-like and easy. I want to tell you how much I needed a soft morning.

I want to tell you about my neighbor, Isabella. She was a hip, classy lady with wicked wit and a collection of music spanning decades of greats. She loved Frida Khalo, documentaries and Indian food. She loved connecting at the driveway and the daily view of our cats. She loved her own cat Stella and treated her like a queen. I want to tell you how Isabella was the first neighbor I befriended and even through her dark struggles, she was a light on our street. She didn’t trust much, but she learned to trust us. She trusted us with her key in case she locked herself out. She trusted us with her stories of past lives and deep loss. During two weeks when she was hospitalized, we cared for her cat and when Isabella returned, we cared for her too. I want to tell you how she was in the middle of moving, her 65th move in her 70 year life, when she suddenly fell and didn’t revive. I want to tell you how my heart sank as we learned of this tragedy and my heart still weeps for the loss of our friend. I want to tell you how we took in her sweet Stella girl because no-one else could and we knew we must try. Even though it is temporary, she deserves to be loved the way Isabella loved her and bringing her into our home eases the loss. I want to tell you how much genuine kindness matters, how every wave and hello can make aloneness less lonely. I’m so grateful I took the time to know Isabella and hope that I lifted some of her own loneliness. I’m so grateful for the ways her life touched mine. I hope she felt seen and loved by us.


I want to tell you how much I love February with its 28 days and invitations to love. I could tell you about the years I couldn’t feel anything and how Valentine’s Day felt like a punch in the heart. Instead, I want to tell you how I learned about love in mid-life, how it started with learning how to love myself. I want to tell you how much I value knowing that choosing to love is a daily practice. For me, it’s about small celebrations— every handwritten note or card, every hug and kiss, every act of kindness, every bouquet of roses and hand picked daisy, every welcome home greeting, every moment of hand-holding, every moment of feeling heard and understood, every word of encouragement, every tender look goes a long way in cultivating deeper love and connection. With or without a sweetheart, I welcome every reason to grow and share more love.

I want to tell you about my favorite love token. It’s a small folded matchbook without any matches. Inside are pages folded and stitched. Each page has a handwritten reminder from my beloved about what I can count on in relationship to him. The cover has a drawing of a cupcake with wings— a reference to vulnerability from our first weekend away. This tiny matchbook of sweet reminders still guides me during moments of self-doubt. I want to tell you how much I value this gift, this small handmade offering about how I am held.