Snapshots from Lake Erie

I’ve been doing something unusual for me in my writing lately. It’s kind of half-journal, half poetry. I don’t claim to be a serious poet, it’s just another way for me to “lay track” for myself as a writer. It was fun to capture the moment with Sophia when we visited Lake Erie with my husband’s brother and his wife. This is the journal version before it gets edited for the poetry critique group I just joined!


The day we went to the beach
at Lake Erie
Jin-hui packed turkey sandwiches,
plump, dark purple cherries
and neon orange Cheetos.

We picnicked while Sophia
cried as though the sand
was an angry monster
ready to gobble her whole.

The waves were bigger than the ones I knew
from the cold North Sea of my childhood,
the surprise taste of fresh
instead of salt water on my tongue.
In the lake, I hold my daughter
tight against my chest and
unbearable possibilities.

But she flails and wails,
“I wanna do it
by my  Self!”
Reluctant, I let go
just enough to give equal parts
safety and
freedom.

Her small body
floats gently in my arms
and on the waves
as they roll under us
towards the future.


“Look, I’m swimming mama!”
Her head tilts towards the sun,
her laughter for a moment
drowning the sound of the sea.

A Flock of Hands …

The village of Yellow Springs, Ohio was founded in 1825 by a man called Robert Owen, who wanted to create a utopian community similar to one he’d helped build in previous years in a town called New Harmony, Indiana.

This was fascinating to me. I spent ten years of my own life studying with a spiritual teacher who shared a vision of a world where everyone could achieve physical and emotional health through his meditation and energy healing practices. In his ideal world, everyone would live to be of service. Their spiritual focus would make them fulfilled and at peace with themselves and others.

Unfortunately, it didn’t stop his followers from gossiping, back-biting and generally being unkind to each other, even during his lifetime. When our teacher died, the ‘spiritual’ group split into angry factions. There were bitter arguments about who the rightful leader should be. Just like the town of New Harmony and the utopian community at Yellow Springs, things fell apart. From the outside, it looked like a total failure of our teacher’s vision; proof that in the end, people just don’t get along.

I’m old enough to know that we’ll never live in a perfect world, but I’m young enough to be hopeful. The spiritual values of service I learned from my teacher continue to influence my life today. The quiet whispers of Robert Owen’s utopian dream lingered on in Yellow Springs too. It became one of the last stops on the Underground Railway; a place known for its racial tolerance. It’s a little town with a big heart and a thriving artistic community. It’s a place where people go to find inspiration for their creative lives and a sense of belonging.

In the end, I believe that nothing we do towards the common good is wasted. It seeps into the communal memory and carries on, even if only in small ways, for future generations, like a flock of hands, holding up the sky.

Olga Ziemska’s sculpture, “Flock of Hands”
Yellow Springs, OH

Antioch Writers’ Workshop

At the beginning of July, I attended the Antioch Writers’ Saturday Workshop in Yellow Springs, Ohio. It was the first time I’ve ever honored the writer inside me by going to such an event. In fact, I don’t even belong to a writers’ group here in St. Louis. Maybe there was something about it being far from home that made it feel safer for me …

Tim Waggoner (Nekropolis) was the keynote speaker. I studied the concept of “Voice” in the morning breakout session with narrative poet Chuck Freeland followed by “Creating Great Characters” with new young adult author Kristina McBride (The Tension of Opposites).  The afternoon session I went to was called “Unstuck and Undone” with Rebecca Morean/Abbey Pen Baker (In the Dead of Winter).

I didn’t think that it would take courage for me to attend the workshop but for many reasons, it did. Even though it’s a straight shot from St. Louis to Ohio I still managed to get myself lost along the way. The navigation on my phone conked out just as I was arriving in Xenia, Ohio where I’d booked my hotel. Stuck in the middle of what felt like a hundred miles straight of cornfields, I learned my first lesson: always bring a real map. It seemed like a good metaphor for my life as a writer. I’ve never had a map. I didn’t even know that maps existed in the creative world.

I’ve always wished for a safe place to call home; not only as a writer but in life too. I’ve never believed St. Louis was that place, and I’m used to being an outsider. Wherever I go, I never seem to quite fit in. In tiny Yellow Springs, Ohio though, I was really just a tourist, which I haven’t been for a long time. It brought up all my fears that I’m ‘just a tourist’ in the writing life too. But since I’ve come back from the workshop, I’ve been writing every day. I’m beginning to feel at home in this exact place and time; I’m beginning to feel at home with where I am as a writer. I’m not quite a tourist, not quite a resident, but at least I know there’s a map through the cornfields!