The Day I Peed My Shoe. Yesterday, Actually. Yesterday, I Peed My Shoe.

June 20, 2016 in Beth, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Once upon a time, I wet my shoe.

Not the pretty kind of “wetting my shoe” that’s an adorable misleading statement where I say, “I wet my shoe,” but then I’m all, “J/K! I got my shoe wet with the garden hose while watering the garden. Gotcha!” You know what I mean? Like when you drop a pea on the floor and say, “I peed the floor,” and your nine-year-olds think you’re HILARIOUS and your teenage daughter rolls All the Eyes in All the World and goes, “Stop, Mom. Just stop.”

Nope, this is not that; in this situation, I wet my shoe with my very own urine because — and here’s where I offer as true an explanation as I know — at my core, I am a gigantic dork. A gigantic, shoe-wetting dork.
Now, to be fair to my sweet self, this incident wasn’t actually as bad as the time last fall when I wet my office, about which I haven’t written because I’m loathe to be the girl who pooped my closet AND the girl who peed my office. I mean, how much believable pottying-on-oneself can one actually do? At some point, people will necessarily question my credibility, right? In our current shame-based culture where we can’t even share our lovely lunch pictures on the Facebook (while being simultaneously chided to treasure the little things) without being accused of the overshare, I was afraid I Couldn’t Take It. Losing even more credibility AND being re-accused of over-sharing? HOW WILL I ENDURE THE SHAME?

So I didn’t.

I left the office-peeing story untold.

And it shall remain untold for now, because I have a more pressing matter to address, which is the wetting of my shoe, about which I felt a similar measure of shame to the wetting of my office, until I remembered this afternoon that I HAVE no shame. I lost it long ago, as well as my dignity. I also realized that being absent the credible makes one incredible, and I was all, “INCREDIBLE ME can SO TELL THIS STORY.”

Which is why I’m here to let you know that once upon a time, I wet my shoe.


Once upon a time yesterday, I wet my shoe.

While on my way home from the Grace in the Grime Spiritual Formation Retreat, I wet my shoe.

In a port-a-potty, I wet my shoe.

After bragging at the retreat how good I am at the “hover, aim and pee splash-free” maneuver — because this is the kind of thing one always discusses at a spiritual formation retreat, yes? — I wet my shoe.

I hovered, indeed, but then I missed, and it cascaded off the seat, creating a waterfall effect off the rim, which is how I wet my shoe. Which I failed to feel at first, so I REALLY wet my shoe.

The night after I told lovely retreat ladies in the hot tub overlooking the Pacific Ocean at sunset about Peeing My Office and about the shame which kept me from telling all of you, I wet my shoe.

Probably because Jesus was giving me more opportunities to be Authentically Me, I wet my shoe. We must, after all, credit Jesus with All the Gifts and Give Thanks in All Things, and I clearly have the spiritual gift of Soiling Myself, so Thank You, Jesus!

I wrote the ladies just now, in fact, and I shall share with you, too, for the sake of expedience and friendship and OBEDIENCE TO GOD, as you will see…

Ladies. Ladies. Ladies.

I need to tell you something.


I WET it. With PEE. I am writing about it currently, but I feel that Jesus, who is mean and vindictive (not really) (I think) FORCED ME TO PEE MY SHOE because I neglected to tell the story in the fall about peeing my office. Do we think it’s a COINCIDENCE that I confessed that story to you in the hot tub on SATURDAY and then on SUNDAY I peed my shoe? THAT IS NOT COINCIDENCE, friends; it’s obviously my spiritual gift to pee and poop All the Things — I mean, HOW MANY TIMES DOES JESUS NEED TO SHOW ME THIS BEFORE I ACCEPT IT AS TRUTH?? — and then write about those things. I REJECTED my spiritual gift last fall after the incident that combined tights with that lady-pee-device and my consistently poor judgement, and then I hid my light under a bushel AND TOLD NO ONE WHAT I HAD DONE. Except a few friends at work. And also some people on my back patio when we drank whiskey one night. And also the people at the writing retreat. And also all of you ladies in the hot tub. But, other than, like, a few dozen people, I TOLD NO ONE, so Jesus made me wet my shoe to get my attention. Because Jesus is WILY and PERSISTENTLY IN PURSUIT OF HELPING US FIND AND ACCEPT OURSELVES AND OUR SPIRITUAL GIFTS. (Psst… one part of that may actually be true.)

Anyway — I’ll write more on the blog, but just wanted to let you know — NOT GONNA HIDE WHO GOD AUTHENTICALLY CALLED ME TO BE! HEART INTELLIGENCE! WORK OF THE HOLY SPIRIT!

Also, friendly word of advice… maybe aim REALLY GOOD in port-a-potties so your pee doesn’t cascade off the rim of the toilet, over which you’re hovering, and create a waterfall that gushes into your Dansko clog, which is uniquely shaped to capture every bit of the ever-flowing stream. I mean… up to you to accept or reject my advice, of course… you do you… but I thought I’d mention it in case it helps.

In conclusion, I once peed my shoe. Yesterday, actually. Thanks be to God.






P.S. I stole the Danskos pic from the Danksos site and am using it without permission. FREE ADVERTISING FOR DANSKO! I figure they won’t mind. I mean, who DOESN’T want to know Dansko clogs are easy to pee into? <<<SELLING POINT.

P.P.S. I’m finishing this (rudely) while at dinner with Greg and our friends, John and BJ, and I told them I can’t talk yet because I’m writing about peeing my shoe. Greg said, “Again?” And John said, “I peed both of mine today.” In extra conclusion, I like John better than Greg. The End.

But First, Tacos

June 2, 2016 in Beth by Beth Woolsey

Things you should know:

  1. I’m still alive, and
  2. I’m missing writing here,
  3. but one kid had surgery,
  4. and one kid has mono,
  5. and one kid, who’s in the special education class, told another kid in the special education class that she was taking out a hit on him because he didn’t let her help him with science, and everyone knows when someone doesn’t let you help with science the only reasonable solution is to threaten that person with death.
  6. Also, one kid has a tiny concussion. And maybe mono, too. But probably just the concussion. I told him if he has mono like his sister, I’ll spank him, so he decided not to have it, after all.
  7. I won’t actually spank him; partly because it turns out I’m not a spanker, and partly because he’s hard to catch, even with a concussion.
  8. Also-also, one kid is graduating high school Saturday, so we are preparing to Fake Having a Clean House for the party. The struggle is real.
  9. Also-also-also, my Coma Friend had a heart attack last week, which she did not technically do at me or to me, but it was still unacceptable and uncalled for. She has apologized, so we can forgive her, but we are writing it into the Friendship Contract that she shall not have another. On the bright side, I got a free night’s lodging at the hospital.
  10. This morning, I threw away my mostly-consumed tub of Pillsbury Creamy Supreme Chocolate Fudge frosting (aka, COPING MECHANISM) because I do NOT need to eat ANY MORE of that crap at night while reading Meljean Brooks’ steampunk romance novels,
  11. BUT DO NOT WORRY because this evening I dug that tub of processed sugar out of the bathroom garbage and am finishing it now.

All of these things are happening, and also more things — All of the Things, really — and we may get to them in the coming days, but first, tacos.

First, tacos, because I feel they are emblematic of All the Things and particularly emblematic of the last two weeks.

I saw this in my Facebook feed:


“Start typing @m [in the comments] and the first person that pops up has to buy you tacos (no cheating)”

I thought, “Ooooh. I love tacos. I could TOTALLY USE tacos right now. I could stuff, like, A DOZEN FEELINGS about illnesses and momming and busy-ness and heart attacks with a plate of tacos. I would EAT THE HECK out of those tacos!”

So I did it, friends. I typed “@m” in the comments while I thought, “I wonder which of my friends will have to buy me tacos?! Maybe Melissa. Or Mindy. Or Monica. Or Mary Ellen. These are all friends I see regularly. These are all friends who have, in the past, bought me actual, literal tacos. These are all friends who, if I’m pathetic enough, will buy me tacos AND margaritas. This is a WIN!” Which is when I saw my results…


… and the Universe cackled at me because the Universe sucks sometimes. “You know who’s going to buy you tacos, Beth?” the Universe laughed, “NO ONE IS WHO. You are ALL ALONE and TACOLESS.”

I wish I had a happy ending to this post, but the Universe stole it.

Waving in the (tacoless) dark anyway,



P.S. One of the kids just stole the rest of my frosting.

P.P.S. I can’t get it back, though, because she’s been known to threaten to take hits out on people.

P.P.P.S. Actually, I think I will go get it back. If I have to die, doing it for chocolate frosting feels like a worthy way to go.

The Magical Cleaning Fairies Are Threatening to Sue

April 25, 2016 in Beth, Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Dear Friends,

Sad, disquieting news from the Cleaning Fairies ahead.

A couple days ago, I mentioned to you that the Magical Cleaning Fairies still haven’t cleaned the kitchen or the bathrooms or finished mining the myriad mountains of laundry because those damn fairies never ever show up even though I ask and ask, and I think we should talk to the Better Business Bureau about them because I hear I’m not the ONLY one with this problem and, frankly, I’m tired of their slacker ways.”

Unfortunately, the Cleaning Fairies (one of whom might be my father, who resided in our home with a few of our wily, wild children while we were on vacation) have officially, and in writing, objected to my statement.

Yesterday, I received the following Pre-Grievance Notification:

Fairies Brotherhood International
Oregon Local 97000
April 24, 2016

Ms. Beth Woolsey


Ms. Woolsey:

This shall serve to advise you that under the terms of the Collective Bargaining Agreement (CBA) dated October 13, 1973 (revised January 14, 1995) between the Fairies Brotherhood International (FBI) and Beth Woolsey (successor of Elizabeth McDonough) Section 4.B Professional Conduct our member(s) employed at Your House, Oregon allege defamation under the above referenced section, to wit:

You did knowingly, and with intent to defame, publish in a public media venue on or about April 23, 2016, the following:

 …still haven’t cleaned the kitchen or the bathrooms or finished mining the myriad mountains of laundry because those damn fairies never ever show up…

Our members, the Magical Cleaning Fairies, have provided sworn testimony that between the dates April 8, 2016 and April 18, 2016 (inclusive) two (2) bathrooms, one (1) bedroom, the laundry room, and the kitchen of their assigned place of employment, i.e. Your House, Oregon, were in fact clean, neatly arranged, and “mountain free.” Our members further testify that any degradation of these circumstances is entirely the due to the actions (or failure to act) on the part of the Employer, i.e. Beth Woolsey.

Under Section 23.C.4.c of the CBA Pre-grievances, you are afforded ten (10) business days to resolve the foregoing issues raised under Section 4.B Professional Conduct to the satisfaction of our member(s) or this violation will be formally filed with the System Board of Adjustment.


Thugly N. Forsser, Esq.
Contract Administrator and Legal Counsel
Fairies Brotherhood International
Oregon Local 97000

Here’s the thing, folks. The Magical Cleaning Fairies claim to have left several areas of my home “clean, neatly arranged, and ‘mountain free,'” and blame me — ME! —  for the “degradation of these circumstances.” As though *I* have failed to keep my house clean instead of relying, as I should be able to, on supernatural creatures to magically appear and enchant my house into the perpetual, preternatural state of cleanliness to which it and I am entitled. I know. I’m finding their missive hard to swallow, too.

Now I know the internet is full of too much misplaced outrage these days, and I swear to you I’m not trying to add to it. Occasionally, though, there are some stands we must make and some banners we must take up to protect both ourselves and others who have been insidiously silenced, and, let’s be honest; there are many of us, numbering into the millions who have NOT had the kind of cleaning service from the fairies — or, hell, even Snow White’s or Cinderella’s woodland creatures — that we deserve. Which is why I didn’t bury the letter above and why I’m speaking out now.

So the question becomes, how do we move past our collective outrage, because obviously we’re all outraged, and move toward fundamental, necessary change? I mean, I could point out that the Magical Cleaning Fairies have no proof that they ever cleaned my house, particularly considering the state it’s in right now. And I could point out that, although they claimed in the subsequent phone call I made to discuss the Pre-Grievance Notification to have “witnesses,” said witnesses are historically unreliable. I could point out a number of things, but what I’d rather do is discuss Meaningful Change.

Thus I turn to you. If you have any ideas for how to handle this kind of unfair, baseless communique from the Magical Cleaning Fairies — any similar experiences you can share — please let me know. The time for change is now. And we will not be intimidated.

For us all,





P.S. For the few of you who may feel sympathetic to the Magical Cleaning Fairies’ missive, I offer these photographs, most of which were taken yesterday, and ask you whether it’s likely these areas were truly “clean, neatly arranged, and mountain free” a mere 6 days prior:


IMG_7741 - Copy

You can see more of our linen closet here.

IMG_7740 - Copy

And you can see more of our entry-way lockers here,
which, frankly, are supposed to work better than this.

IMG_7742 - Copy

You see my point.

AND — P.P.S. There are still a few spots left at TWO upcoming retreats in June. I would LOVE to hang out with you there. If you’ve been thinking about it, or if you have any questions, or if you want me to talk you into coming, email me at These retreats are my Favorite Things EVER because they breathe life into my weary, waiting soul, and I want to share that with you.

The Magic in the Mess Writing Retreat makes space for writers to explore their creative voices, discover a supportive writing community, and give shape to the messy but beautiful stories we each carry with us.


The Grace and the Grime Spiritual Formation Retreat exists to create space to deepen our experience with God in an authentic, encouraging environment. In addition to the grounded and the graceful, we welcome those who are weary, wary or unsure, and we believe we’re all wildly worthy of love and grace.

Your Help Requested: Burning Questions

March 30, 2016 in Family, Funny by Beth Woolsey

Some people’s kids ask them for glasses of water at night. Or to read one more book. Or to have an extra snack. Or they mention they’re scared or hot or cold or itchy or wet or sick or not tired at all and why do I have to go to bed right now and nobody in the WHOLE WORLD makes their kids go to bed as early as you do, Mom.

I’ve heard.

Our kids tried all those things which never worked because we were always consistent. By which I mean, they always worked and we were never consistent except at saying, OhMyGoshGoToBED and IWillGiveYouANYTHINGIfYouWillJustSLEEP.

Still, even though our kids had effective Stay Up Past Bedtime methods, they like to invent new ones from time to time. To keep us on our toes, I suppose. Or steeped in misery. Or to punish us for that lack of consistency.

Their latest method? I’m calling it: Ask All the Questions.

Yep. That’s what bedtime is these days. Telling them 45 times to brush their teeth. Reminding them to both pee and flush the toilet. Hollering at them that this is Bedtime, not TackleYourBrotherInTheHallwayTilHeCries-time. And threatening them with the dreaded Early Bedtime should they not heed my words.

We tuck them in bed.

We breathe the sigh of relief like we haven’t yet learned that it’s not over.

And then the Questions begin.

“Hey, Mom?”

“What?” ( <– This is where I always go wrong.)

“Why do people wear spandex?”

“Seriously? This is not the time. Go to bed.”

Ten seconds later…

“Hey, Mom?”


“How much are people paid in China?”

“Child! Go to bed.”

Twelve seconds later…

“Hey, Mom?”


“Can I tell you the plan I have for our yard? We’ll need a lot of temporary fencing, some chicken wire, some plastic bags, a goat and a pair of scissors.”

“Oh geez. Go to bed.”

Twenty seconds later…

“Hey, Mom? … Mom. … Moooommmm!”


“I am! I just need to know; why do we have drink coasters?”

Guys. Seriously. These are actual questions I was asked just last night. And here’s my problem — it’s not the failure that is bedtime; it’s not the lack of consistency; it’s not that this takes forever and will never improve because we don’t have the chutzpah to crack the whip — it’s that I have promised them answers to these questions.

Yep — I have unwisely promised answers to questions. “In the morning,” I say. “STOP TALKING,” I say. And “GO. TO. BED!” And when they reply, “But Mom! I need to know,” I promise them answers. Answers I do not have.

So I’m just putting that out there. In case you have answers looking for a home, I will take them off your hands.

Here are some of the things we need to know. Again, just from last night. I’ll have a whole new list in the morning, which is why I need your help. STAT.

  1. “Why do people wear spandex?”
  2. “Is head lice the only kind of lice there is or is there also kinds of lice like foot lice and butt lice?”
  3. “Has Stephen Hawking ever been to space? And if not, because of his wheelchair, that is mean, and they should let him go to space, and how can we help make him go there?”
  4. “Is it bad for boy penises to get fiery and hot and red?”
  5. “How come you never buy us marmalade?”
  6. “What’s the difference between suspended and expelled?”
  7. “How come you always say mean things like, ‘Keep your hands to yourself?'”

Answers welcome.



The Real Problem with Parenting. Also with Marriage. Also with Being Ourselves.

March 25, 2016 in Beth by Beth Woolsey

The real problem with parenting, I’ve discovered, is that we have to do it every day. And the real problem with parents is that we’re made out of human. Also, kids. They’re made out of human, too, which, let’s be honest, doesn’t always go well.

Same goes for marriage. Every damn day, folks! That’s how often we’re expected to play this gig. And married people? Made out of human, too.

Also? ME. The problem with being myself is I never get a break. Not ever. In my whole, entire life, I’ve never had a day away from me to rest and recover and get a snack. A snack. Come on, Universe; a snack doesn’t feel like too much to ask. A 30 minute break, maybe, for a giant bag of consequence-free Doritos or a barrel of chemically-laden chocolate Ho-Hos. Instead, it turns out I have to be me all the time — no loopholes, no time off — which hardly seems fair given how I treat me some of the time.

Honest to God, I feel like someone should’ve thought this whole thing through a little more thoroughly before implementing the plan. Like maybe we didn’t have our best strategic thinkers on this. Or the project engineers used my high school and college work ethic, procrastinated like hell, pulled a last minute all-nighter, and turned in a half-assed, ill-considered product hoping the professor wouldn’t notice. Hey, Project Engineers — WE NOTICED. I mean, you have some serious potential here with the whole “human component” of your plan — there is magic there, for sure, and there’s genius and mystery and surprise and discovery — but there are some kinks, folks. Some messiness and murkiness and muddling and muck. Which we can deal with — we can — and even turn the mess into magic, conjurers of hope and harbingers of healing that we are. It’s the every damn day part that messes us up.

For example, I am spectacularly annoyed with my 16 year old man-child right now. You know why? BECAUSE HE IS SPECTACULARLY ANNOYING and just told me to chill — “Chill, Mom. Just chill, ok?” — and his said it in his “Geez, Mom” voice and added a precious “Whatever” and a darling eye roll even though I only said, in the most endearing way, that he should seriously get up off his lazy butt, right the hell NOW, because I am tired of asking him to do the chores he was supposed to do yesterday, or else he is going to lose ALL the privileges in the WHOLE world for the REST of his life which is going to be VERY SHORT if I, his loving and increasingly homicidal mother, have anything to say about it. 

And I honestly — honestly — feel like I would be very, extremely patient and kind if I did not have to parent him every day. Ev-er-y DAY. Like, I bet if I just had to parent him on Wednesday evenings and Saturday afternoons, I would ROCK it, you know? Rock it to the MOON.

In conclusion, I am considering starting a Change.Org petition so we can have more regular breaks from a) parenting, b) marriage, c) ourselves and d) being made out of human. Also, we’ll include snacks. I think it’ll be a hit. Who’s in?



In Conclusion, I’m Moving to Tahiti

March 13, 2016 in Beth by Beth Woolsey

I have one child hissing right now because she’s been asked to give someone else a computer turn this afternoon, two hollering up and down the stairs because — STOP EVERYTHING — the TV remote is MISSING (!), and one who’s stuck on the toilet waiting for her sibling to bring her toilet paper which I’m pretty sure he forgot because he’s at my shoulder railing against the injustice of living in a household that’s out of his favorite cereal. It’s full on melt-down in these parts, and I should be helping everyone calm the heck down (by yelling, “GOOD LORD! CALM. DOWN. Geez.“), except I’m too busy having this conversation with yet another child:

“Do I have to take a shower?” asked the kid who just had his hair cut.


“I DO? But WHY?”

“So you don’t itch and scratch and get teeny tiny hairs all over this house and make all the rest of us itch, too.”

“Do I have to take a shower, though? Why can’t I just wash my head in the sink?”

“You have little itch-giving hairs all over your body, kid. Go shower.”

“Well, two times ago when I got a hair cut, you let me wash my head in the sink.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Yes. You did.”





“You may THINK I let you wash your head in the sink, but I can assure you, I didn’t. I would not do that because that doesn’t work. Your imagination may be telling you I did, but read my lips. I. Did. Not.”

“Yes, you DID. And kids have better memories than grown-ups because grown-ups’ minds are packed with a bunch of stuff. Seriously, Mom. SERIOUSLY. Can I just get a wet towel and rub it on my head?”

“No. You can’t. You know what you can do? Shower! Now.”

“You said it yourself that kids have better memories than grown-ups, Mom. You did let me wash my head in the sink.”

“I did say kids have better memories than grown-ups, but I did NOT say a better memory means you don’t have to take a shower. So HA!”

“MOM. Pleeease.”

“Why does it matter so much to you?”

“Because it will be faster.”

“Oh. My. Gosh. If you had gotten in the shower at the beginning of this conversation, YOU WOULD BE DONE BY NOW, CHILD. Go. Take. A. Shower.”

“I know how to make you pass out.”


“I know how to make you pass out, Mom. Pressure points, you know. I saw it on a show.”

“Go take a shower.” And then, in low, possessed, dragon voice, “Goooo. Take. A. Showwwwwer. Right. Nowwww.”

He took a shower. I think the red laser beams coming out my eyes and the way my head rotated in a complete circle convinced him.

In conclusion, friends, I have spent the last hour researching islands we can move to, and I’ve picked Tahiti.

Upon arrival, we shall be greeted by our fellow momrades with bright smiles and laugh lines and soft, weathered skin and plumeria decorating wavy hair that falls freely down their backs.


And we will sit at the feet of the wise mamas who will hold our hands, and pat our heads, and say, “There. There.”


Our Village shall be made of lovely, rustic huts on pristine water, and we shall run to and from each other’s houses with coffee and tea and fresh squeezed juices in the morning, after we waken from peaceful nights of sleep, and we shall pass around daiquiris and gin fizzes at sunset, while we sit outside with our feet swinging off the dock and share bits of our souls.


We shall skinny dip and chunky dunk in the moonlight, and we shall recognize the deep and abiding beauty in each one of us while we laugh loudly and freely and long.

Attractions-Hotels-2We shall talk about how it feels to be underwater, and our momrades will remind us we sometimes walk on it, too, because we are messy, yes, and we drown all the time, but we’re also miraculous and magnificent and rise above, every day. Both/And, friends. Both/And.

And one day, after some sleep and some rest and some very trashy novels; after lounging and laughing and learning to breathe anew; after eating and drinking and feasting on friendship; we’ll wake up and realize we miss our other, pesky paradise, and we’ll pack our straw hats and flowing sarongs and head home.

Probably. 😉

In the meantime, friends, from my room in Oregon — the one with the chair full of laundry, and the unmade bed, and toy the dog dismantled, and the children fussing from All the Places — I bid you a lovely Tahitian holiday. If only in our minds.

Sending love and magic in the midst of the mess,






All pictures are via Tahiti Tourisme which allows photo downloads. Portrait credits: Grégoire Le Bacon. Tahitian Water Village credit: Philippe Bacchet.

A Letter to You

March 8, 2016 in Beth, But Seriously by Beth Woolsey

Dear the Mama,

And Dear the Papa,

And Dear YOU Who Lived Today at Half Mast Instead of Full Bore Like You’d Promised You Would,…


Dear You Who Woke Up Late This Morning and Who Hit the Snooze Alarm Anyway,

Dear You Who Never Managed to Thoroughly Comb Your Hair,

Dear You Whose Undies Are Frayed and Also Stuck in the Laundry Room Under Piles of Socks and Towels That You Thought Were Clean but Smell Somehow Like Old Cheese, …


Dear You Who Didn’t Accomplish the Things on Your List Because You Accomplished Other Things and Whose List Has Grown Longer as a Result,

And Dear You Who Spent Too Much Time on Facebook, Hitting Refresh and Hoping Someone Would Post Something New and Newsworthy or at Least Not Another Quiz About What Disney Character You Are, …


Dear You Who Called the School and Couldn’t Remember Your Child’s Teacher’s Name… or Your Child’s Name… or Why You Called in the First Place,

And Dear You Who Made Yourself a Cup of Coffee But Kept Forgetting to Drink It,…


Dear You Who Frets About the State of the World and Feels Angry at Everything Unjust and Without Mercy and, Well, Sucky,

And Dear You Who Believes Doggedly in Kindness Anyway,…


Dear You Who Feels Greasy and a Little Bit Dumpy and Would Like a Warm Tub and Cold Beverage and Good Book and Has Time for None of Those,

And Dear You Who Snapped at Your Partner Just Now but Doesn’t Feel Guilty Because He Was VERY Wrong and You Were VERY Right, so There,…


Dear You Who Goes, Goes, Goes and Doesn’t Stop — Like, Not EVER — Except When You Completely Quit All the Things and Land Face Down in the Mud Pit of Life Because You Just Can’t Take Another Step,

And Dear You Who Wishes You Knew How to Go or How to Quit Because You’re Pretty Sure You’re Bad at Both,…


Dear You Who Screwed up Some Things Today and Saved All the Others, Like Every Day,

And Dear You Who Are Steady and Unstable, and Prideful and Petty, and Wild and Weird and Wonderful All at Once,


Dear You Who Wonders at Your Worth, and Longs for Rest, and Wishes You Were Better and Wiser and Stronger, and Who Sometimes Hangs Your Head Because You Are so Fallible,


It’s important you know you’re fabulous.

Fabulous. Absolutely.

A muddler? Yes. That, too. You muddle through, and that’s OK, because you’re fabulous and human, and we humans are muddlers, it turns out. Muddlers and magnificent. Muddlers who make mistakes, and muddlers who correct them. Muddlers who live and love, and learn to live and love more with our muddling.

So in case you, like me, have spent today wondering, I wanted you to know for sure. You’re fabulous.

With love, your friend,





P.S. I might have written this to you AND to me. Because, you know.

P.P.S. Our June retreats are 1/2 full. Go here if you want more info on the writing retreat and here if you want more info on the spiritual formation retreat. I would love, love, love to hang out with you.