I wrote a book. About my dog. Which I know that pretty much nobody is surprised about.  Because, while there are a lot of books I have thought about writing--A Divorce Mediator Shares How To Create A Mindful Divorcebook, a How To Stay Married By A Divorce Mediator book, a The Respectful Parent book, a Reflections Of An Aging Badass Mother (as in a mom, not “mother”) book, a book about my cat (which I am actually in the process of finishing up as we speak and which is called Where’s Phoenix?) to name a few—I have obviously been called to write about my dog first.  
 
I wrote this book before Nava died, almost three weeks ago now. How it is possible that it is already almost three weeks ago now? I wrote this book before she died.
 
This is that book. 
 
It’s a children’s book. With pretty awesome photographs that I took of my incredible and amazing and smart and God-is-she-just-the-most-beautiful-dog-you’ve-ever-seen dog. And a catchy rhyming story that shares how Nava spends her day, from morning till night.  
 
I actually wrote it a couple of years ago for my grandson who lives across the country from me. We would facetime and play ball with Nava together. And so I made him this book through Shutterfly which costs like a gazillion dollars for one copy but still, it is my grandson and so, so worth that price.  
 
And then I got to thinking that this is a really good book. This was right after my amazing daughter, Teagan, published a book called The Emotional Body and while I was creating a book for a local school in town, Ojai Valley School, and I got to thinking about taking this Nava book (and also my Where’s Phoenix? book that I mentioned above) and actually publishing it. Teagan’s publisher was interested, and the rest is Nava, A Bedtime Story history.
 
So here is my book. It’s a great book. 
 
You can purchase it on Amazon and Barnes & Nobles. Please and thank you :-)
 
And thank you for reading my writing today.

My dog died.
 
I, at first, was going to leave it at that.  My dog died. A Monday Morning Writing.
 
Then I was thinking I’d share this book I wrote about her. I wrote it a while ago, like a number of years ago, like 3 years ago. For my grandson back east who I did not see enough when he was just him before his brother was born and I wrote this book about Nava. And then, more recently, a publisher published it. I will write about it more on another Monday day. About my Nava book. For today, this Monday…this Monday is just about my Nava. 
 
My dog died.
 
This past Wednesday. At exactly (or pretty much exactly) 3:30 in the afternoon. I know this because I was finishing up a call while playing ball—because Nava and I are always playing ball—and waiting for a couple to come over for a mediation. I am helping them end their marriage. They are a beautiful and mindful couple and it is an honor to work with them as they navigate this end that is a new beginning really.  
 
They were due at my home at 3:30. And my dog died. And they arrived. And sat with me and my husband for just a time. And helped move my sweet and beautiful and now gone dog into my home to nestle in her bed that she always loved. They held sweet space while the husband of this couple held up half the weight of my dog.
 
My dog died. 
 
We were playing ball. And then, for a moment I was kicking at the ball alone and turned to see my dog. Something was wrong and I called her name and she tried to stand and couldn’t. But soon she calmed, and I thought that what it was had passed. And then she passed.
 
How do I write about my dog now that my dog died?
 
I thought I would just write that. My dog died. A Monday Morning Writing.
 
Then I thought I would share all the times, in all these times that I have been writing, all the times that I write about her. That I reference her. That her photograph accompanies my writing as her soul accompanies me. 
 
But, you see, almost every writing that I have written since my dog became my dog has some reference to my dog. Almost every writing includes my dog. How can I share every writing?
 
And so, instead, I read every writing. I read all my writings. Looking for her. And I found her everywhere. Often Nava writings. Often just pieces of bigger writings that I wrote, not, maybe not, necessarily about Nava. Just that she was there. In my writings. All the time. 
 
Just as she is here. In my heart. All the time.
 
My dog died. Her heart broke. My heart is broken.
 
~ Photograph taken at Ventura Dog Ranch on 9.6.2021. Nava would board here when we would go away. She loved this place. And they loved her. ~
 
~ What makes Nava so extraordinary is her soul. She is my soul dog. Truly. She is. She is my grounding rod. My stability. She is the place I rest my spirit, often as I lay myself on top of her. She is that big. And strong. And she can hold the weight of me, both my body and my heart. Held by her body and her soul. Excerpt from I Love My Dog—12.12.2022 ~

I recently stepped gently into a medicine journey. This was not a deep dive. 
 
I have done a deep dive before. Back in January 2017, I dove into a weekend of ceremony dressed in white with many others, in a canyon in the hills above Santa Barbara. That first night was too deep for me and it took many moments that were mere seconds to say out loud, help me, and then I was surrounded by these beautiful people who took me to a safe space and helped me re-regulate before coming back to my temporary community of medicine travelers. The  second night offered me a more respectful balance and I danced in this power of this feminine plant that still, to this day, sings songs I remember. When I remember.
 
There was a just the right depth of a psychedelics journey that joined me for one amazing night at Burning Man, with my daughter in 2019. Ah, the joy and laughter and art and sand as we adventured to the far reaches of the Playa.
 
Then there was a deep dive only a few weeks before this most recent one. In that one, the medicine was strong. The energy was masculine. And while this ‘get it done’ masculine motion serves me often, in this time of exploration that my life journey is taking me on, I am finding I need to ground into the feminine, and this medicine, it did not offer what I longed for. I wanted to get out. But out was not real because I was not in anything. Except myself. I was in myself and couldn’t get out. I was scared. The whole time.  
 
Yet this, this fearful journey into the chaos that is my mind, offered me lessons that re-activated for over a week after. The wind was softer against my skin. I could hear my steps against the gravel of my road. I was so tall, then short as I walked outside. My meditations fed me glimpses of moments of nothing. Beautiful nothing where I wanted to stay for a long time.
 
The newly connected synapses in my brain soon calmed and revisiting the journey stopped. I have the memory, parts of it scares me still. And I find I can no longer tap back into the peace that is the nothingness of just moments in the turmoil that is me.
 
And now here is this most recent, almost five-hour journey, again with wise grandmother plant wisdom mixed with fungi from the earth to propel me along. The dose was low and the dance was sweet and I felt, in this relationship I had with this medicine magic, that we were in collaboration.  A constant dialog of question and answer. Of I need to take a break to are you ready to come back in? And soon, Yes, I am ready to come back in.
 
I spent a great deal of time, on this journey of hours, lying on the dirt in the corner of the yard of the home of the healing woman that shared her potion with me. I lay on the dirt, my head on my sweater, rolled up to soften a flat concrete stone. The sun on my skin, the earth against my back. I went in and out and in again.
 
In this container of infinite feminine wisdom, my grief, it is blue. The color surrounded me. Sometimes dark, sometimes more dim but always blue. The tears nestled into a blue haze each time I dropped into my sorrow. And I did. A lot.
 
I cried. A lot. And fell into love. And where at the beginning there was mostly grief, by the time I lay outside, I saw that my grief was a habit. This did not mean I did not honor the emotion. My grief is a marker. 
 
And also my lover and it is hard to step away. And this wise medicine from the earth, she kept reminding me, honor the grief and come back to the light. Honor the grief and come back to the light.
 
Till finally, I could land in my sorrow dance and sway for a moment before quietly stepping away, so as not to miss the lesson the medicine wanted to share.

These woods I am talking about are the woods that surround my incredible apartment in Bedford, Massachusetts. I was here again, these last two weeks. I love this place. I walk these woods and each step sounds that crunch of snowy leaves and soil beneath my feet. The tall and abundant trees, some with evergreen, others sparce and bare in these wintery months, stand tall against an almost white sky. The cold air on my face, there is a smell to it, of moisture and moss. This is a good place. 
 
And then, on a walk that I took with my landlord’s son he walked me to see the Emu. I wanted to create the story that the facility that housed this bird was a secret, hidden place.  But it was just here. No apology at all. And here, behind a chain fence, stood the bird. 
 
He’s been here for as long as I can remember, said my woods walking companion.  
 
And in that instant, despair landed in the beauty of the trees. Because I immediately projected that this was not a good place, nestled in my good woods.
 
But it is. It is the Concord Field Station and supports the “physiological and biomechanical laboratory-based research of animal performance, seeking to understand how animals operate in their natural environment.” It is research, not testing. 
 
And then there is this bird. 
 
I had so many questions. Does someone love him? Is he out there all alone all the time? And so is he lonely? What do they do with him? Is he a him?  Or a her? 
 
She/he looks incredibly healthy. Did you know that an Emu in the wild may live only 10 years or so (though some will live to 20) but in captivity they can live up to 35 years! And an Emu in Eastern Victoria is almost 60! 
 
I went back a second time. And then, again, a third. And this Emu, here in this place, behind this metal fencing, this bird that has been here for as long as my previous walking the woods companion can remember, each time I show up he/she runs to the fence, and then along the inside edge, lowering and raising their head up and down, up and down, as they looked at me. Do I make him nervous? Or is she happy to see that someone is here with them? I truly could not tell though worried I was kind of upsetting them and perhaps should not stay for too long.
 
I called the facility, while I was standing on the path with my bird, to ask, am I bothering him? Is she happy to see me? How old is my bird anyway?  And I learned he is 18 and loves company so feel free to step off the path and come in close to say hi.
 
Which I did. And while I did not stay for too long, it felt good to come in close to say hello out loud to this bird and not just to this bird. To the air out here. And the trees. To the path that I walk along to reach this place again. To say out loud, I see you and I know that you are here. 

My Monday Morning Writing May Not Be Every Monday
 
But on the other hand, it may. 
 
Some weeks, the writing may come weekly.  Other weeks maybe not. Because this is where I’m at these days. Because, as I sit to write this Monday morning writing that lands squarely on this Monday, I am reflecting on this thought I had a few days before, that not every writing wants to do that. That not every writing wants to come every week. 
 
And this revelation of when my writing should flow up out of me and be shared with you, it mirrors the trajectory of where my life is taking me now. There is a duality in this. In the structure of my commitment to my commitments against the commitment to honor what may unfold in every moment.  
 
I am trying to be in every moment as it is.  I am trying.
 
And so, these things that I do, especially the ones that are a scheduled commitment in my day, those need to be examined to see if there is flexibility that will allow for an alignment of these activities with the inner workings of me.
 
When I write allows for this alignment.  And so…
 
My Monday morning writing may not be every Monday.  It may be every other. Or two in a row and then a few weeks of no writing at all. It will be what it is in the moment I feel the creativity call me to share my words with you. And while this Monday morning writing may not be every Monday, I guarantee it will show up on a Monday.
 
Oh, and this pic of my sneaks….this has nothing to do with this writing at all. Just a cool pic. On this Monday day.
 
Thank you for reading my writing today.

It is a new year. A weird stepping in for me. I am not quite sure where I am in this new place that is this new year. It feels the same for me because the paths I am navigating these days I am still on, and they still look the same to me. I can see a glimpse in the distance but no clear new views yet. I can feel the possibility of growth, but the same weeds and thorns and roots trip me as I walk on my way. No fresh fauna or fern covers the dirt, no new birds sing. I am not accompanied by any new species of totem animal to light my path with wisdom blessed down upon me. Not yet. And so, this stepping into the new year, this is not a new year yet for me. My new year will be when I leave these woods. I am not sure when this will be. 
 
So let’s talk about the rain instead.
 
It rained this past week in Ojai. A bit of a downfall and a lot of sprinkling. For three of the five days. And more days of more rain are coming this week that is starting now. Which is a very good thing for us. Because we need it. We have not had much rain for a very long time.  And our land is hard and thirsty. Our trees dig roots deep to keep growing high and our oranges and lemons and oh our poor avocados, their harvest is not as abundant as we would like. And so this rain, it is very good for us.
 
And very hard for me. 
 
My other lives as a cat (I am sure there was at least two) or a Doberman (because my dog acts as if the raindrops are daggers piercing into her skin) cause me to avoid the rain at all costs.  I just don’t like it.  
 
Interesting for a Pisces to say. Because I do love the water. To be on it (rowing). In it (swimming but it has to be warm water). Having it fall on me within the contained space of my shower floor (anyone who knows me knows this is a safe place for me, along with my car). Interestingly, I do not like hot baths. Too sweaty. But I do love Jacuzzis (as long as they are very hot and, yes I know, hot baths, very hot Jacuzzis, why do I like one but not the other? This I do not know). Suffice it to say I do love hot Jacuzzis. But rain--
 
Not so much.
 
But let’s talk about my dog.  I wrote a piece about her and the rain a while back. How much she does not like it. Like hates it. Like, will not go outside and once I had to take her in a parking garage when I was out of town and it was raining and I could not get her to go out for a walk with me. It was quite a torrential rain, but still. I had to go down to the bottom level of an indoor parking garage, with a poop bag, some grass I pulled up from the ground, a bucket of warm water and some paper towel (because I am a responsible dog owner) and let my dog do her business on sub level 4! She was embarrassed. I could tell. But not so much that she would go outside. 
 
Her limits are crystal clear. My limits are, as yet, unknown.

I did a burning last week. In my caldron. I have a caldron. : ) Usually it is full up with dog toys and tennis balls because what better place to keep my soul dog’s things than in my witchy caldron. I talk about this before, in a writing I did back in September, 2016. Here is the link if you feel called to read it, because that writing, it compliments this writing. Down to my dog’s things.
 
So I did this burning back in 2016, with a plan to do more which I never did do.  And now it is now, and without much thought beforehand, I was called to burn again. 
 
This time my burning was writings. I had started to journal a bit a few months before this time.  A pen to paper writing release. Back towards the end of October after a session with a wise, spirit-calling sage who suggested that I needed to get my thoughts out of my head and onto a page rather than have them spill constantly out of my mouth and into the world. These thoughts were not world sharing thoughts. They were private and chaotic. Some were toxic. Most were way too emotional for anyplace other than the paper they fell on. 
 
I did this through three blank books over the course of less than two months. The first book was beautiful. Handmade paper that has that rough texture I love. Even the sound of the pen as it wrote across the page had depth. 
 
When I decided to start this pen paper writing, I remembered that I already owned this blank book. I am not sure where it first came from. I believe it was a gift. But I am not sure. I do know that I had it for a very long time, always loved it, and that I never ever had any desire to journal in it until just these few months ago. But I knew exactly where it was, on the shelf in my closet, and I knew it was to be the first container of this writing process that was beginning for me for how long I did not know. 
 
I also purchased a pack of 12 black disposable fountain pens. Because my handmade paper book needed a special pen. It needed to feel old. As in ancient. As in wise. And so I purchased a cheap alternative to a true fountain pen so I could feel the history of language as it flowed out of me. 
 
This first book was small, 3 x 4.5 and I filled it up fast. Words tumbled out daily. And by mid-November I needed more. I looked for another blank paged book like the one I just filled and there was nothing I could find. Not on Amazon, or Etsy—except for one seller whose books were leather bound, and while beautiful did not call to me in the way this first book held just the right space for my words to find ground—nor any of the local book and gift stores in my town, or Ventura or Santa Barbara.  If ever I was compelled to start a business perhaps it would be to source beautiful paper and handmade bindings and journals for writing that fit just right in your hand.  Because there was nothing I could find, anywhere, that matched my first filled book that I already owned.
 
And so I purchased two, generic but doable, 4.5 x 7-inch journals., They were not quite the same as writing on the beautiful paper that played the sound of my pen just so, but they held the thoughts that released from my brain good enough.
 
And then, on the day of this burning last week, I realized I was done. The words did not need to come out through my hand any longer.  But more, I realized that I didn’t need to even have these words around me any longer. I didn’t need to reread them.  I didn’t need to save them for a later visit. I didn’t need to hold on to them just for safe keeping.  
 
The purpose was to get the thoughts in my head out of me and onto a place where they could land. That was it. And then, on this day when I realized I was done, I knew the offering up of all I had written in a burning with sage was the closing act of this deliberate endeavor.
 
And so I did this burning. 
 
I took the dog toys and tennis balls out of their cast iron container, layered in many sheets of aluminum foil for easier cleanup as burning books mean mountains of ash, and I sat outside with the setting sun and lit my words on fire. 
 
One page at a time, ripped from first my handmade paper journal and then the two store bought ones. One page at a time to start and then sheets of two and three together.  Some ripped in half or thirds, others crumbled into balls for better  burning. 
 
The flame ebbed and flowed with each paper piece addition to the caldron. The smoky smell had age to it, and plastic too, as the two, newer journal books had covers that were coated and smooth. The smoke burned my throat and eyes while I sat beside the flames and threw a ball to my dog down the lawn. 
 
The sun set quicker than even I was aware and soon it was dark as I continued to feed my caldron with my words of woe.  I added sage, wrapped in a thick leather thread and thin gold wire and the smell turned just to sage for a few moments before settling back into just smoke again.  The leather thread burned quickly. The gold melted down before my eyes. And then it was done. The books were gone, even the covers burned and melted into the ash of reflection. The ambers twinkled in a good way, and I stirred them with these long grill tongs which allowed air to get in and spark the flame a few more times where still there was paper to burn.

I was in Massachusetts two weeks ago, in early December.  I started to write about this last week, just when I arrived back here, to my west coast home. I started to write about this visit and two things happened. One—my dog pulled me in and a writing about her was essential to that moment. And two—I found my thoughts were not quite clear. I found my thoughts were not quite clear which I know my dog knew, and so she saved me from myself by pulling me in to write about her until I was ready to write about me. 
 
Because my reflection of this visit needed more time to simmer, to percolate, and then to solidify so that my sharing of this visit in this early December would capture not just the story of my visit but the essence of my visit, too. 
 
I will start with this photo. 
 
This photo is the Concord River. It is beautiful here on this river in the mornings on my runs two weeks ago in Massachusetts. It is beautiful here, along this river. My runs here, in the early mornings, are gifts to me. Each day. Each day that I run here, to this river, is a gift that I take in and hold tight and do not take for granted. Not even for an instant.
 
Because in this gift of these runs along this river in Massachusetts sits many important things that are unfolding for me in this moment of my life.
 
I was in Massachusetts in this early December to help my dad organize his move to live full-time in Florida. And to organize moving my mom to a care facility. Full-time in Florida. And to set up an apartment in Bedford, along the Concord River, that I am renting here. Part-time. A place to land when I land back here to see the people I love that live on this side of my world. 
 
It is less costly to rent a place that I have full-time and will only use part-time than it is to rent a hotel, or an Airbnb for only those times I am here. Of course I can stay with my son and my sister, but I find, as I set up this space, that I need a place to land that is mine. And this place is good. This small apartment in this amazing home on this beautiful land that abuts the Concord River that I am gifted to run along each morning that I am here. This place is very good.
 
My transition back and forth, and to and from, Massachusetts has been an evolution. We moved away because I was cold. The winters here, in my east coast home are cold. I am not a cold weather person by any stretch of the imagination and so, when it was that time in our lives where we could move without disrupting our children’s lives too much, we did. My plan was never to come back in the winter months, ever. Like ever. And that first year I was back pretty much every month.
 
It was a year of doctor appointments and memory studies and research and the hope for discovery around my mom’s deep dive into Primary Progressive Aphasia.  We, my dad and my sisters and me, we tried to deep dive along with her. She left us on the surface.
 
So this first year brought many east coast visits in the cold of winter. The snow and the ice. The wind and the chill. I was not happy coming back. For many reasons.
 
These visits extended through the sweet smell of spring, the warm winds of summer and those deep and golden autumn leaves. The best times of New England. And this went on for many years.
 
There was a wedding and babies were born. Winter babies (can we please have some summer babies?).
 
And in between there was a three-month stint at the western end of my Massachusetts home. I journeyed back here six years ago this past summer to set up shop for a short time. This visit now reminds me just a bit of that visit then. 
 
This is what I want to talk about.
 
Because I am in transition. Again. And these transitions, they happen during these times that Massachusetts pulls me back. The work gets started here. The triggers that spark the work show up here. The feelings of fragility are found here. The bareness of my vulnerability is barely bearable here. This is what Massachusetts seems to offer me. 
 
It is the denseness of the space back here. The trees are big and full and take up half the sky and I feel that my energy is contained in a smaller space with not much room to flow from me to spaces far away. My energy, it cannot flow outward from me and so I must flow through it. I must flow through this because there is no way around this. The space I am in here is small and contained.
 
Massachusetts is like this. The trees are full and the roads are narrow. The towns are piled next to each other, one after the other after the other again and I move through them, one after the other after the other again, as I drive to where I am going.  
 
I get to places fast when even the trip is long. Even a few hours’ drive feels faster here. Because I am passing through so many places in a moments time. It is all packed in. 
 
I am all packed in. 
 
On July 20th, 2016, I wrote a piece—Where Every Place Reminds Me—about my visit to Massachusetts to visit a farmhouse I would be renting that September 2016. For just a few short months. But still, a renting of a space that was my space then just as this, my new full-time apartment that I will use part-time, is my space now.
 
My visit these few weeks ago feels like that visit then. And while much is different—as this apartment is a long-term endeavor to create this bi-coastal life I crave for to see my children and grandchildren that live on each end of this vast land I fly across as often as I can—the process seems to be the same. I am setting up shop again. In this new space in the woods near the Concord River. A workshop. Of introspection and exploration. A small space in the woods, where I will sit in the music of my emotions as I run through the deepness of my soul.
 
~photo credit Madeleine Altmann

​I love my dog.
 
Anyone who knows me, knows this. Plus I have written about her many, many times on this—I’ve Just Gotta Say This—blog. Because she is just amazing. And smart. And oh my, so gorgeous and perfect. And amazing. Did I say amazing? She is.
 
What makes her so is not the fact that she is probably one of the most beautiful dogs. She has this truly lovely face. And she is lean. And her coat is so shiny. She was pick of litter. Her collar was pink. She was called Miss Pink until I named her Nava. Which means beautiful in Hebrew. She is beautiful. And very fancy. Very well bred and very well kept. So she is fancy. And just so beautiful.
 
And it’s not the fact that she is smart. So smart. She can learn anything. She knows so many things. She hasn’t learned more things because we haven’t learned how to teach them to her. I say we, but I really mean he. As in my husband. He is the teacher of new Nava tricks and tasks. He loves to work her. She loves when he works her. He needs to learn new tricks and new tasks so he can teach her new tricks and new tasks. She learns them in like two tries. This is how smart she is.
 
But it’s not these things.
 
What makes her so extraordinary is her soul. She is my soul dog. Truly. She is. She is my grounding rod. My stability. She is the place I rest my spirit, often as I lay myself on top of her. She is that big. And strong. And she can hold the weight of me, both my body and my heart. Held by her body and her soul.
 
Nava reads my mind. And I read hers. We both have a bit of anxiety and I wonder, sometimes, if she has mine or if I have hers. A whole separate writing I will reflect on another time. For now, I will simply say that our minds are attached. I will think a thought and she is there, ready for what escapes from my head and into hers. She will think a thought and an image will come to my mind. And I know exactly what she needs. We are connected in this quite incredible way.
 
She knows I am writing about her, right now. 

I rowed in a race yesterday. Two actually. Two rowing races. Down in Long Beach at this really cool place called Marine Stadium.
 
This was quite the experience for me as a new/novice rowing person.
 
And here’s the thing. While I am an internally competitive person and expect a level of excellence in what I put my mind to doing, I do not think of myself as an outwardly competitive person. My running and biking and triathlon races were internal. In my preparation before I began. And in my process within each race. How well can I do. Against me. How far can I push. Myself. How fast can I run against the clock in my head.
 
But this, racing in a boat with others who want to race to win. To place. To beat another team. This has not been my headspace as an athlete. And so this was new yesterday.
 
And I think I like it. 
 
I think I like it because this being in a boat as part of a team and doing my best as a piece of the whole feels good. I like being in this place of being in community with this greater team of not just my boat(s) but all the other boats and rowers. The Masters Rowers and the Junior Athletes. The young 17-year-old who gave me advice because this was my first race day and he’s been doing this since junior high. The teammate who checked that my shoes were secure. This. I really like this. 
 
And with this, within the beauty of these relationships that I am growing into within this community of rowers, I find that I can still settle into my internal reflection that is essential in every challenge I step into. 
 
I was not sure the environment would lend itself to this. 
 
I was worried this regatta would be too frenetic. It wasn’t. Even with the bustle of so many people and so many boats and getting your shoes attached and the right oars in place and your feet positioned and … go!... There was still a sweet calm before the race. I need this. 
 
I need to go to introspection. I need to sit in my mind and play my plan for my race. In a quiet space. 
 
This reminds me of when I was acting. A lot. For a period of time I was acting a lot. On the stage, and in independent films. Commercials and industrials, too. And this acting, I would stand in the wings and wait for my cue before that sweet moment of drama began and I would be sitting in my mind. I would be in the darkness of the wings of the stage, quiet and alone and sweet and calm. With that bit of adrenalin that comes from knowing you are about to step into creativity in a big way. This bit of adrenalin that propels you along the route from the wings to the stage.
 
And I got to do this here, too. To sit on the sand with a small bit of sun on my face between the clouds and light rain. I got to step into my head preparation that I long for before any outward manifestation of my creative and productive energy come forth. 
 
The environment that contained this rowing race regatta offered this. 
 
I have always been swayed by my environment. It is why it is so important that I live down dirt roads or long driveways. And that my home sits against the nature of a hillside or the edge of a forest or the sea. I need my feet on dirt and my eye to extend out further than the street. It is a blessing that I have been able to find homes like this. Places that contain me. A container of safety. It is external and it is important. 
 
So this race day regatta—It offered this. And I believe I will do more of this. Because of this.
 
When I woke up yesterday morning, before this race was rowed, I assumed that I would not. Like this. That I would not like this, racing like this. I prepared myself that I wouldn’t like this. 
 
Yesterday was a lovely surprise. A community of rowers that embraced each other, created space for interaction with each other and supported the space for introspection with ourselves.
​ 
The day could truly not have been any better.