Days of monsoon-like rain. Nights of howling wind and crashing trees. A brown torrent of water coursing down the driveway, washing away all the gravel. The ravine below our house, which normally sits dry, is a raging current alive with voices as water hurls down the mountain. A bit lower on the slopes, a house
I’ve been out walking the dogs to clear my head, stretch my legs, revitalize my core energy, and find a bit of inspiration. After two days of storms here on Maui, it’s a sunny day on the mountain. The wind still rockets about the mountainside with unrestrained glee but the clouds and rain have dispersed.
I’m struggling lately, wrestling with a deep blue sadness in the depths of my soul. I feel the somatic urge to pull inwards into an invisible shell, a subtle rounding of shoulders as my chest collapses and breath grows shallow. Instead, rather than caving in, I am standing barefoot on the earth, breathing deep into
Tweet, tweet, tweet… choke. Last October, when I finally and OH so reluctantly joined the ranks on Facebook and Twitter, I wrote a post titled ‘Evolution of a Twit’. There I outlined that my capitulation was entirely due to the need to create an author’s platform for my forthcoming book. These days, publishers want an