When I was a child, I was the artistic sort. I wrote my first short story—with illustrations, mind you—before I made it to second grade. At the time, because everyone should be making big life choices before second grade (naturally), I was torn as to whether I was more of a writer or more of an illustrator. In the end, writing stayed with me a bit longer…most likely because my writing became more sophisticated with age, but my sketching never did!

I still take to drawing occasionally. Well actually, I take to drawing more than just occasionally if you count all of the doodles I scribble on scrap paper while in phone conferences. Roll your eyes all you want…everyone is always surprised at all the information I retain without taking notes in those meetings! (It works!) The little doodle over to the right was Sophie-inspired, but with an extra-fluffy, excited-looking tail because that's how I like 'em.

I'm always a little surprised what I end up doodling when I dedicate my logic elsewhere.

Anyway, I always had fanciful stories in my head as a child. I wanted so badly to tell my mom all about the fantasies living in my mind, but I often felt frustrated because I didn't have the words to paint the stories well enough. I wanted everyone to see the faerie prince enchant all those flowers at dawn so that they would open and sing for the butterflies—but since I didn't have the words, I tried to recreate the image. I filled entire sketchbooks with my imagination.

I wonder, at what age do we stop seeing the unseen? If I still see, I've stopped acknowledging. The ability to run alongside your imagination is a gift that we have for such a short time, and I wish I still had those sketchbooks. I think they would be refreshing in contrast to my realistic, easily-described, all-business world. Hopefully I'll "wake up" from a phone conference one day and find that the faerie prince still lives in me after all.

Tomorrow morning, Nick and I are traveling to the Minneapolis-area where we will spend the weekend. I don't know why we can't seem to plan a trip to Minnesota in the summer, but it is what it is. When we firmed up plans, I knew there was one person who I had to see: my sweet and talented friend, Anna.

When I first met Anna, I remember being a scared college freshmen who had to move into the empty dorms early because I had training to attend (I was a consultant in the campus computer labs). She was that tall girl who lived across the hall (of course everyone seems tall to me). She had to move in early too, and hers was one of the first new faces that I remember seeing.

Once everyone moved in, the occupants of our two rooms (Anna, Amy, Sarah, and me) became great friends. We used to keep our doors open so we could call across to each other, and I remember how much we laughed. We were the only "blue" rooms in our wing who were pulling for Gore to win—if anyone starts talking about hanging chads, I'm going to get all twitchy, so just stop right there. Surely the solidarity of our political beliefs alone would have bonded us, but we actually had a general affection for each other.

At some point during that year, Anna gave me the address to her blog. A public diary. Silly Anna…diaries aren't public; diaries are sold with locks and keys. While the concept was foreign to me, Anna is an entertaining writer and quite humorous in her storytelling—I started and never stopped reading…even after my life went in a different direction than hers.

She is the one who gave me the idea to keep one of these blog…things. When I was trying to figure out a way to keep my family in my life from a thousand miles away, this was the first thing that came to mind. After all, I felt like I was still living across the hall from Anna because I knew what was going on in her life. This blog bridged many miles and helped me feel like I wasn't quite so far away from everyone I knew and cared for.

And here we are today, still writing. I have seen Anna exactly once since 2002, but it feels like she lives just across the road. Sharing your life: it can be intimidating. It's sometimes exposing and always personal…but it doesn't make you vulnerable.

Sharing your life opens you to love. See you soon, Anna!

Thanksgiving has always been my favorite holiday. It makes me step back and see all that I have; it opens my eyes to the fortune in my life. It has nothing to do with the meals of epic (literally) proportions. (But on the subject of the food, I am still humored by my turkey: oh, the days when I was a creative person with a creative job. I shall be telling this with a sigh, somewhere ages and ages hence…)

Also, I have little interest in the history of the holiday or the debate of what that first Thanksgiving was really like. Instead, I like the modern translation—what Thanksgiving means to me. The day gives us the opportunity to see the simple gifts in our lives that we so often overlook. It's one day not ruled my commercialism because it centers on what we have instead of what we want.

I am thankful for my family: often dysfunctional but always loving. I am thankful to have Nick in my life because of his overwhelming kindness. I am thankful to have my health and access to pain management resources. I am thankful to have a job when so many others have lost theirs. I am thankful that I have a roof over my head and food on my table. I am thankful that I am happy…I am thankful that life looks beautiful to me.

Have a very happy Thanksgiving and take a moment to remember who and what in your life matters most…our time here is never long enough.

Before heading home from our trip to Minocqua last Sunday, there was one last thing we had to see…I had to see. There is this little spot on the Bearskin State Trail where we stop every year. It's not obviously spectacular, but it dazzles me. The spot is hidden almost exactly in the middle of the 18-mile trail.



The nine miles there were a blur. Fresh legs, declines, and excitement make time pass in a blink. The wind whooshed in my ears and kissed my cheeks…then we were there. Quiet. Peaceful. Still. We heard the distant echo of a bubbling water, the gentle rustle of leaves, and our own thoughts. I sought out my tree.

I don't know when it became my tree, but it fascinates me. I seem to spend a lot of time staring at it, touching it, photographing it…every year.

The tree died a long time ago.

I was having a lot of profound thoughts that morning. Looking at the cascade of crimson across the ground a bit earlier, I wondered at the beauty of fallen leaves. Is it that life is just more beautiful…more precious…at the end, or that our perspective is finally where it should be? I turned my attention back to my tree.

I crouched near the long-dead stump and mused.



It never changes. I thought it was somehow stately the first time I saw it, and it remains so regardless of the time or conditions. The tree endures.

I just finished reading a book about a haunted house. (I don't typically go for ghost stories, but I did not know what the book was about until I was very involved with the plot.) Most of the characters in the book felt the presence of the ghosts. One scientist did not. The scientist desperately wanted to feel and hear what the others felt and heard, but she experienced nothing out of the ordinary. She was so invested in fact and proof that she could not open herself up to experiencing something she could not explain.

I think my days of proof-driven thought died with Mom. I don't ask many questions—I think that "why?" should be removed from our repertoire: a useless question with a dissatisfying answer. I don't know what it is about that elegant, twisted tree. I don't know why I'm drawn to it so, or why I need to swallow to keep from crying as I approach. But there in the calm clearing in the woods where the water kisses the shore, I feel an overwhelming sense of comfort…and it feels like a warm embrace.

It feels like home.

It's that time again!

Not to be predictable or anything, but I think Nick and I can ink in plans for the last weekend of the rest of our Septembers. We first went to Minocqua, Wisconsin together in 2007. We were going solely for the purpose of hitting the bike trails…but the weekend we scheduled just happened to be this local festival: Beef-A-Rama.

The festival weekend kicks off with a Rump Roast Run. The top three finishers actually win a rump roast. This is funny to me on a lot of levels, but mainly because I'm not fond of beef…so it's as good of a reason as any why I won't ever place in the run. That's right, folks: I throw the run because I don't know what the heck I would do with an 18 pound roast.

Anyway, that first trip during Beef-A-Rama was a fluke, but it started a tradition.

Don't get me wrong: we would still have a nice time without the festival. I think Bearskin must be my favorite biking trail…and Wisconsin's north woods in autumn are breathtaking:



But somehow the weekend feels much more special with all the merrymaking. People are in the streets…happy, friendly, and in the mood to celebrate with perfect strangers. It's a beef festival and all, but they're really not celebrating beef (perish the thought). They're celebrating a day of lightness, a day to feel good for no reason at all.

I can't wait!