I’m a writer and movement facilitator whose work explores themes of life, death and the infinite expanse in between. I search for (and often find) connection and inspiration in my interactive process, especially as I find the courage to share more of my story with the world.
I graduated from MSU, Mankato in 1991 with a BA in Creative Writing, but didn’t do anything with my degree until my husband’s cancer diagnosis in 2009. Then, I began a blog to keep loved ones informed about Bob’s heath. As his condition turned critical, the blog became a lifeline that kept me anchored to the familiar as we plunged into the terrifying, alien world of “fight cancer.” My writing, more than anything, linked me to profound sources of support and healing, and kept me grounded while everything else was falling apart. Bob died on May 3, 2011 and it’s taken many years to transcend from that great loss. I lived in a traumatized state for many years without even realizing it. I find the resilience of the human spirit a blessed miracle—that we can keep on keeping on, and do astonishing things while dying a slow death inside. I also find it rather heartbreaking that we so grossly normalize such slow deaths in our modern hustle culture of quick fixes, numbing agents and behaviors, and other bypassing means.
The past decade since my husband’s death has been a slow, but steady path from death toward recovery, of letting go of what I thought was right, and finding my way back to myself. To recover the whole, holy divine spirit that always has, is and always will be, me, that is each of our birthright, but often become buried by external forces along the way.
I write about dichotomies—in a body, in community, in the world at large. I write of loss/recovery, movement/stillness, grief/joy, and the impact these have on one’s life and creative practice, whether in crisis or engaging with the world on a daily basis (sometimes, indistinguishable). To paraphrase John Muir, when I try to pick apart a single thing, I find overwhelming evidence that everything is indeed inextricably connected. Much of my “shitty first drafts,” as Ann Lamott calls them, are in the blog I wrote so long ago, At the time, I wouldn’t have called that “real” writing; today, I know, unequivocally, that my blog is necessary and sacred as anything, the genesis of much in my life.
I also came into movement teaching after Bob’s death. As grief and trauma-riddled as I was, my soul seems to know inherently that I desperately needed a means to metabolize the deeply disregulating “fight cancer” experience that had embedded itself into my heart, mind and soul. What I didn’t realize at the time, is that I was also desperately searching for evidence: to support my suspicions that the devastating consequences of cancer and its treatments don’t solely impact the patient (rather, everyone close to a cancer patient is permanently marked by the experience). And, to support my inherent belief that what I witnessed my husband endure was not natural or right, but frankly, pretty fucked up. We are so much more than a diagnosis. We are so much more than a tumor, or a heart attack or a GI bleed, or our pain. Both practices—writing and moving—entwined and fused together, to the point that they now feel inextricable in my life. Writing (or, in a broader sense, art) is healing, movement is healing.
While movement and writing have been enormously beneficial to move some of the electrifying energy through me, I recently have found the ancient teachings of yoga to be a profoundly soothing and calming path. Better late than never seems to be a repeating theme in my life.
Whether in sickness or in health, or any state in between, each of us are perfect, whole, divine spirits. Each of us deserve a truly holistic approach to health and wellness that deeply cares for this blessedly whole essence—our mind, body and spirit. We will suffer profoundly, for the lack of it. I strive to keep this thought at the center of every session or class or workshop that I facilitate, in every essay or article that I write.
Movement inspires my writing as much as writing inspires me to move, strong evidence that the world is abundant in nourishing movement opportunities that go beyond a typical gym experience. My desire is to provide a safe space for everyone who comes to my studio, to explore and experience movement in an open, curious, nonjudgmental and supportive atmosphere. In every session or class, I take great care to honor and respect each person I work with, wherever they are on their movement journey. We are all strong in so many ways, but strength without softness becomes brittle in time. That’s where my super power lies—helping others discover, recover and sustain strength and suppleness of mind, body and spirit—one cannot exist without the other.
I’d be honored to help you on this path of recovery, with grace, curiosity and wisdom that you already have inside of you: to help tend to the parts of you that are already strong and supple, to uncover your hidden strengths and softness, and offer ways to bestow loving kindness and respite for the parts that are working overtime. As Ayurveda and yoga therapist, Indu Aroro so wisely said, such deep work is more of a work-in, than a work-out. The most difficult, but most sacred, kind of work.
