I spent two hours writing this blog post, and then it disappeared. That has never happened to me before. I am taking that to mean I didn’t get it right the first time. So here goes—I’m going to try again:

It’s hard to write about my experience with Burleigh and Portside Paddle without sounding like either a giant Hallmark Card or a hardcore salesperson.

I like it here with me and P.H., and I am grateful for all the wonderful ways there are in this world to make and break bread.

When they say Keep Santa Cruz Weird, they mean it.

A long time ago, back when writing seemed as dangerous as playing with knives, I went for a walk on the beach with Lidia.

I think it would be well, and proper, and obedient, and pure, to grasp your one necessity and not let it go, to dangle from it limp wherever it takes you. Then even death, where you're going no matter how you live, cannot you part.

I like writing my gratitude lists on black paper because I feel like I'm talking to the night or my subconscious or that I'm writing in a language that's visually special, a quiet prayer. Star scratch on the sky. 

Every evening before I turn off my life, I say good night to the listening woman Betsy gave me. I love my woman's soft face, her wild hair. 

I think the word "retreat" as in "writer's retreat" sounds defeatist. I'm thinking of calling it a "forward." 

Our teachers, they come to us, and if we are ready, if we listen, everything changes. 

A business based on customer satisfaction is a beautiful thing. Paying for quality is a privilege.

…I love flowers I’d love to have the whole place swimming in roses God of heaven there’s nothing like nature